“Had he not some realistic chance of escaping conviction, or at least conviction of anything worse than not reporting a fatal accident? If I were defending him”-she ignored Goode's sharp start of amazement-”l should plead a fight in which Angus had accidentally been killed, perhaps fallen into the river, hit his head, and Caleb had been afraid to report it, since he could not prove what had happened, and knowing the quarrel between them, and his own reputation, expected no one would believe him. After all, there is no witness to say anything differently.”
Goode leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs.
“Would you indeed?”
“Yes,” she said decisively. “Wouldn't you?”
A sudden, dazzling smile broke across his face. “Yes, ma'am, indeed I would, especially after the weight of evidence produced by the prosecution.
I think trying to rebut it simply as not proven would be insufficient. The jury do not like Caleb Stone, and Mrs. Stonefield has aroused a considerable sympathy.”
“Was that what you intended?” Rathbone demanded. “Were you going to call Caleb tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Goode answered. “I have no one else. Why? What light can that throw upon his death?”
“None, unless we knew what he was going to say.” Monk spoke for the first time. “Plainly, was he going to say something about Angus which it would have been worth killing him to keep secret?”
“Ravensbrook?” Goode's voice rose almost to falsetto. “You think Lord Ravensbrook murdered Caleb in his cell to keep him silent?”
“Obviously you don't,” Rathbone said dryly. “So you cannot know of anything such as we suggest.”
“Or else he does not know its effect.” Monk could not let go so easily.
“Perhaps he knows what it is, but not its meaning, or what it could lead to.” He swiveled around to face Goode. “What was he going to say?” Goode bit his lip. “Well, with a normal client, I would know the answer, or I would not ask the question. But with Stone all I could do was guess.
Certainly he told me he would say it was an accident, that the hatred was mutual and he had no more destroyed Angus than Angus had wished to destroy him.” He crossed his legs and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. “You must understand he spoke elliptically and in paradoxes, and half the time he just laughed. If I thought it would have helped him, I would have pleaded the man mad.” He regarded them each in turn, his face full of pity and question. “But who wants to spend his life in Bedlam? I think I'd rather be hanged. He was at times eminently sane. He was certainly highly intelligent and obviously well educated. When he chose to, he spoke beautifully. At other times he sounded like any other ruffian from the Isle of Dogs.”
“So you don't really know what he would say?” Rathbone concluded.
“Would you? I only know what I intended to ask him.”
“What was that?” Rathbone and Monk said together.
“About his quarrel with Angus, of course, and what led up to it,” Goode replied.
“About Angus!” Monk clapped his hands on his knee. He twisted around to look at Hester. “Then we must find out what it was he was going to say, what their quarrel really was, if we want to know if it was worth killing him for. Do we?”
“I do,” Goode said instantly. “Guilty or innocent, he was my client. If he was murdered, for whatever reason, I not only want to know, I want to prove it.”
“To whom?” Rathbone asked. “The court isn't going to sit while we search for Angus Stonefield's youth.”
“It's an unnatural death,” Goode pointed out. “There'll be a coroner's inquest.”
“A formality,” Rathbone answered. “Ravensbrook will give his account. The gaolers will confirm it. The doctor will confirm the cause of death and it will be pronounced an unfortunate accident. Everyone will say `What a shame,' and think `What a relief.' The matter will be closed, and they will proceed to the next case.”
“It will take us days, perhaps weeks, to find the answer to whatever Caleb was going to say which mattered so much,” Monk said angrily. “Can't you delay it?”
“A while, perhaps.” Rathbone looked across at Goode. “What do you think?”
“We can try.” Goode's voice lifted a little. “Yes, dammit, we can certainly try!” He swung around. “Miss Latterly?”
“Yes?”
“Are you with us? Will you be as obstructive as possible as a witness to the events, as vague and as contradictory as you may? Give them cause to think, to question, to wonder and to doubt.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “But who will help Monk to trace Angus's life? He cannot do it all alone.”
“We'll all do it, until the inquest begins,” Goode said simply. “By then, surely we will have some idea of what it is we are seeking, and from whom.”
“We must make the coroner believe there is a question of murder,” Rathbone went on with rising eagerness. “If he thinks it is accident or suicide he will simply close the matter. And darrunit, that is going to be hard. The only possible guilty party is Ravensbrook, and that won't sit easily with any coroner I know.”
“So we had better begin now,” Monk said decisively. He looked at Goode. “I assume you will demand a full coroner's inquest for your client, and time to gather evidence?” He turned to Rathbone. “And you will ask to represent the Crown, since you are the prosecutor?” He turned lastly to Hester, assuming her agreement without it crossing his mind to ask her.
“You and I will begin to delve into Angus's past. We shall have to do it separately, because there is no time to do it together. You already know far more about Genevieve than I do.” Humor and self-mockery flickered across his face. “And you seem to be a far better judge of her character. Find out all you can of Angus from her, including where, when and how they first met, and all she knows of his relationship with Caleb, and Ravensbrook. This time, the truth. I shall go to Ravensbrook's country home and see what I can learn there. That is apparently where the brothers grew up.”
“What about the Isle of Dogs, and Limehouse?” Rathbone asked.
“I'll go there,” Hester said immediately. “After I have seen Genevieve, and perhaps Titus Niven.”
Goode was aghast. “You cannot go to Limehouse, Miss Latterly! You have not the faintest idea what it is like, or you would not entertain such a thought. A gentlewoman like yourself would be-”
“I have been nursing the typhoid victims there for more than a month, Mr.
Goode,” she said patiently. “I am in an excellent position to investigate in that quarter. I daresay I know more of the individual residents than anyone else. I could name you at least two hundred, and tell you their families and their ancestors. And I could tell you who they have lost recently. They will talk to me as they would not to any of you. That I can swear.”
Goode looked taken aback, and considerably impressed.
“I see. Perhaps I had better stick to my own last. Would I be presumptuous to be concerned for your safety?”
“Not at all, but probably unnecessarily worried,” she replied with a generous smile. “Since Caleb is dead, no one is going to feel the same urgency t? defend him now, or fear the reprisals for betraying him by the truth.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. “I think a good night's sleep is called for, before we begin. Let us meet here again in three days' time and discuss what we have learned.”
“Agreed.” Goode rose also. “Miss Latterly, may I find you a hansom and escort you as far as your home?”
“Thank you,” she accepted graciously. “That would be most agreeable. It has been a somewhat exhausting day.”
Chapter 12
Ebenezer Goode woke very early the following morning, unable to sleep any longer because his mind was churning over the extraordinary events of the preceding day. He had not liked Caleb Stone; indeed, privately he had had little doubt that Stone was guilty of the murder of his brother exactly as he was charged. But there had been an extraordinary vitality in the man, a core of passion which made his death unexpectedly hard to accept.
He lay with the blankets up to his chin, turning over and over in his mind what Rathbone had said, and that odd fellow Monk. Did the nurse really know what she was talking about? Was it conceivable that Milo Ravensbrook could either have willed Caleb's death, or worse still, have brought it about?
