Monk guided her towards the doorway out. “I'm sorry to have brought you here,” he said bitterly. “I would have spared you this, could I have known.” He nodded to the morgue attendant and the constable followed them out.
“I know you would, Mr. Monk,” she answered with a little cough. She put her hand over her face and swayed. He steadied her and the constable came quickly to the other side. He guided her to the entrance and the sharp night air.
“Thank you.” Monk looked at the constable. “I'll see Mrs. Stonefield home.”
“Yes sir. Good night sir. Ma'am.”
When the trial of Caleb Stone recommenced the following day, Rathbone was aware of the preceding night's events. He regretted profoundly both Genevieve's ordeal and the fact that it had not been Angus's body. He was also moved by it. She could so easily have claimed him. It was extremely unlikely anyone would have challenged her, and the poor man, whoever he was, would almost certainly not be identified by anyone else.
“Surely the temptation crossed her mind?” he said to Monk as they walked in the rain up the steps into the Central Criminal Court. “She could hardly have been prosecuted for such an error, even if it were ever proved. It could have answered all her immediate needs.”
“And ours,” Monk agreed grimly, following Rathbone in through the massive doors and shaking his umbrella before he folded it. “But no. She looked just once and pronounced it not him. She had no doubts. What she thought about in the journey there, or for the few moments before she looked at him, we shall probably never know. If she was tempted, she had overcome it by then.”
“Remarkable woman,” Rathbone said quietly, taking off his hat. “I wish I could feel more certain of an outcome for her.”
“Little hope?” Monk asked.
“Not as it is,” Rathbone replied. “But I shall do my best. We are certainly not beaten yet.”
The first witness of the day was Monk himself. He testified of his search for Angus, which had taken him eventually to finding Angus's clothes on the beggar in the East India Dock Road, and his exchange of his own in order to obtain them.
Then he told of his pursuit of Caleb, with the police, and the arrest in the marshes. Rathbone did not mention their earlier encounter, since all that Caleb had said was inadmissible, being hearsay, and unwitnessed.
Archie McLeish had been out of earshot beyond the other makeshift door.
When Rathbone had finished, Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet. He looked at Monk carefully, meeting his gaze. He recognized a professional. His eyes gleamed and his lips parted in a wolfish smile, brilliant, all teeth, but he was far too wily to attack where he could not win.
“Do you know where Angus Stonefield is now, Mr. Monk?” he asked very gently, as if they had struck up a casual conversation in some tavern over a pint of ale.
“No,” Monk replied.
“Do you know, for certain, Mr. Monk, irrefutably, whether he is alive or dead?”
No.
Goode's smile grew, if possible, even broader.
“No,” he agreed. “Neither do any of us! Thank you, that is all.”
Rathbone rose and called Lord Ravensbrook. There was a stir of interest, but only slight. The case was slipping away, and Rathbone knew it.
Ravensbrook took the stand with outward calm, but his body was rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead. He might have faced a firing squad with the same tight, unhappy courage. Enid was there in the crowd again, with Hester beside her, but he did not appear even to be aware of her, much less to seek her.
When he had been sworn, Rathbone approached him and began.
“My lord, you have known both brothers since their birth, have you not?”
“Not since birth,” Ravensbrook corrected. “Since their parents died. They were then a little over five years old.”
“I beg your pardon.” Rathbone rephrased the question. “You have known of them. They are related to you, are they not?”
“Yes.” Ravensbrook swallowed hard. Even from where Rathbone stood, he could see his throat tighten and the difficulty with which he answered. For a man of his natureproud, intensely private, drilled to keep his feelings under control and seldom to express them in words, even when appropriate-this must be an experience close to torture.
“When they were left orphans…” Rathbone continued, loathing having to do this, but compelled. Without this background there was no case. Perhaps even with it there was none. Was he putting this man through such a refine- ment of public pain for nothing? “You took them into your home and cared for them as if they were your own, is that not so?”
“Yes,” Ravensbrook said grimly. His eyes did not move from Rathbone's face, as though he were trying to blot out the rest of the room and convince himself they were alone, two men having an acutely personal conversation in the privacy of some club. “It seemed the obvious thing to do.”
“To a benevolent man,” Rathbone agreed. “So from the age of five years, Angus and Caleb Stonefield lived in your home and were raised as your sons?”
“Yes.”
“Were you married at that time, my lord?”
“I was a widower. My first wife died very young.” There was barely a flicker of expression on his face, just a shadow of grief, then it was gone again. It was not done to display one's vulnerability before others. “I married my present wife several years after that. Angus and Caleb had already grown to adulthood and left home.” Still he did not look towards Enid, as if to do so would somehow draw her into his tangle of pain, or leave him more exposed.
“So you were all the family they knew?” Rathbone persisted.
Ebenezer Goode moved restlessly in his seat.
Caleb stretched his hand away from the gaoler beside him, and his manacles clanked against the railing.
The judge leaned forward. “Is this leading somewhere, Mr. Rathbone? So far your questions have seemed to elicit only the obvious.”
“Yes, my lord. I am about to ask Lord Ravensbrook about the relationship between the two brothers, as he observed it from childhood. I am merely seeking to establish that he is an expert in this field.”
“You have done so. Please proceed.”
Rathbone bowed, and turned back to Ravensbrook.
“When you first knew them, my lord, were they fond of each other?”
Ravensbrook hesitated only a moment. His face held a curious look of puzzlement and distaste, as if he found it distressing to answer the question.
“Yes, they were extremely… close. At that time there was no division between them.”
“When did you first notice a division?”
Ravensbrook did not reply. His face reflected a pain and a distaste which was hardly surprising. To remember that time when Angus and Caleb had loved one another was a peculiarly bitter contrast with the present. The sympathy for him was palpable in the room.
“My lord,” Rathbone pressed, “when did you first notice the beginnings of a division between the two brothers? We need to know, and you are the only one who can tell us.”
“Of course,” Ravensbrook said grin-fly. “It was almost three years after their arrival. Angus was always a… a quiet child, studious, obedient.
Caleb appeared to resent it. He was far less easy to discipline. He would take correction very poorly. He had an unfortunate temper.”
In the dock, Caleb jerked his head up, and the movement caught the eye of several of the jurors. They looked at him with a new interest.
“Was this division between them on both sides?” Rathbone inquired. Again Ravensbrook hesitated for so long Rathbone was obliged to repeat the question.
“It did not appear so,” Ravensbrook answered at last. “Certainly as time passed, Angus became more… diligent
