doors swinging open wide on their hinges.
Ebenezer Goode swept in, coattails flying, arms full of papers, and strode up to the front. He bestowed a dazzling smile upon the coroner, apologized profusely and took his seat, managing to disturb everyone within a ten- foot radius.
“Are you ready, Mr. Goode?” the coroner asked with heavy sarcasm. “May we proceed?”
“Of course!” Goode said, still with the same smile. “Very civil of you to have waited for me.”
“We did not wait for you!” the coroner snapped. “Do you have questions for this witness, sir?”
“Yes indeed, thank you.” Goode rose to his feet, upset his papers and picked them up, then proceeded to ask a lot of questions which merely reaffirmed what Jimson had already said. No one learned anything new, but it wasted considerable time, which was Goode's purpose. And Rathbone's. The coroner kept his temper with difficulty.
Bailey, the second gaoler, was called next, and the coroner elicited from him confirmation of everything Jimson had said, but briefly. There were no contradictions to explore.
It took all Goode's ingenuity to think of sufficient questions to stretch it out a further half hour, and Rathbone found it hard to add anything at all. He redescribed Caleb's words, his gestures, his tone of voice, his behavior earlier during the trial. He even asked Bailey what he thought Ca- leb felt and expected of the outcome, until the coroner stopped him and told him he was asking the witness to speculate beyond his ability to know.
“But sir, Mr. Bailey is an expert witness on the mood and expectations of prisoners charged with capital crimes,” Rathbone protested. “It is his daily occupation. Surely he, of all men, may know whether a prisoner has hope of being acquitted or not? It is of the utmost importance in learning the truth that we know whether Caleb Stone was in despair, or still nurtured some hope of life.”
“Of course it is, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner conceded. “But you have already drawn from Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Jimson, everything that they know.
It is up to me to reach conclusions, not the witnesses, however experienced.”
“Yes sir,” Rathbone said reluctantly. It was only one o'clock.
The coroner looked at the clock and adjourned for luncheon.
“Have you heard from Monk?” Goode demanded when he and Rathbone were seated in an excellent tavern nearby and enjoying a meal of roast beef and vegetables, ale, apple and blackberry pie, ripe Stilton cheese, and biscuits. “Has he learned anything?”
“No, I haven't,” Rathbone said grimly. “I know he went to Chilverley, but I haven't heard a thing after that.”
Goode helped himself to a large portion of cheese.
“And what about the nurse, what's her name? Latterly?” he asked. “Did she learn anything of use? I see her in court. Shouldn't she be in the East End? We could have put off calling her today. She might have given us something!”
“She's already learned all she can,” Rathbone said defensively. “She said there's nothing there we don't already know.”
“What about Caleb, damn it!” Goode said angrily. “If this isn't an accident, then either it's suicide-and we've already decided that is unlikely-or it's murder. In the interests of human decency, never mind abstract concepts like truth, we need to know.”
“Then we'll have to go further back than Caleb's life in Limehouse,”
Rathbone replied, taking another biscuit. “It lies in the relationship between Ravensbrook, Angus and him. That is in Chilverley. All we can do is stretch this out until Monk himself returns, or at least sends us a witness!” Goode sighed. “And God knows what we'll learn then!” “Or what we'll be able to prove,” Rathbone added, finishing his ale.
The afternoon proceedings began with the coroner calling Milo Ravensbrook to the stand. There was instant silence around the room. Even the barest rustling of movement ceased and every eye was on him. His skin was sickly pale but his clothes were immaculate and his bearing upright. He looked neither right nor left as he took his place behind the rail and swore in a precise, slightly hoarse voice as to his name. His jacket was open and hung a little loosely, to accommodate the bandages where he had been injured.
His jaw was tight, but whether it was clenched in physical pain or emotional distress no one could say.
There was a murmur of both awe and sympathy even before the coroner spoke.
Rathbone glanced at the crowd. Enid looked at her husband, and her eyes were shadowed with unhappiness and pity. Almost absently her hand strayed to Genevieve beside her.
“Lord Ravensbrook,” the coroner began, “will you please tell us what happened on the day of Caleb Stone's death? You do not need to repeat anything before you actually went into his cell, unless you wish to do so.
I have no desire to harrow your feelings more than is my duty and cannot be avoided.”
“Thank you,” Ravensbrook acknowledged without turning his head. He stared at the wall opposite him, and spoke as if in a trance. He seemed to be reliving the events in his mind, more real to him than the paneled room, the mild face of the coroner, or the crowd listening to his every word. All eyes were upon his face, which was racked with emotions, and yet curiously immobile, as if it were all held inside him with unyielding self-control.
“The gaoler opened the door and stood back for me to go in,” he began in a level, careful voice. “I had sought permission to speak to Caleb alone. I knew it might very well be the last time I had such an opportunity. The trial was not going in his favor.” His hesitation was barely perceptible. “I… I had certain things I wanted to say to him which were of a personal nature. Probably it was foolish of me, but I hoped that for Angus's widow's sake, he might tell me what had happened between Angus and himself, and she could know that Angus was…
at peace, if you will.” The coroner nodded. There was a sigh around the room.
Genevieve caught her breath in a gasp, but made no other sound. She closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to see.
Rathbone glanced at Goode and saw a flicker of question in his eyes. “Of course it was futile,” Ravensbrook resumed. “Nothing I could say had any effect upon him, or softened the anger inside him.”
“Was he in a rage when you first went in, Lord Ravensbrook?” the coroner asked, his eyes wide and gentle. “The gaoler seems not to know.”
“He was… sullen,” Ravensbrook replied, frowning slightly. If he were aware of Selina Herries staring at him as if she would imprint his features in her mind, he gave no sign of it at all. “I asked him, for Genevieve's sake, to tell me what had happened in that last meeting,” he continued.
“But he would not. I assured him I would not repeat it to the authorities.
It was only for the family I wished to know. But he was adamant.” His voice was level, but seemed tight in his throat, as though he had to force it out, and several times he licked his lips.
Rathbone glanced around the room again. Enid sat stiffbacked, leaning a trifle forward, as if she would be closer to him. Genevieve looked from the witness stand to Enid, and back. Selina Herries clenched her knuckles in front of her, and her bold face was filled with pain, but her eyes did not waver.
“He asked me for pen and paper,” Ravensbrook said, resuming his account.
“He said he wanted to write a last testament…”
“Did he mean a will, or a statement, do you know?” the coroner inquired.
“He did not say, and I did not ask,” Ravensbrook answered. “I assumed it was some statement, perhaps a form of last words. I hoped it would be his confession or contrition, for his own soul's sake.”
In the audience Selina let out a little cry, then immediately stifled it.
Another woman gave a stifled sob, but whether of personal grief or simply the emotion of the scene, it was impossible to say.
Titus Niven put his hand on Genevieve's, discreetly, very gently, and the tightness in her shoulders eased a fraction.
“So you asked the gaoler for a pen, ink and paper,” the coroner prompted.
“Yes,” Ravensbrook agreed. The emotion in the room did not seem to touch him; perhaps his own turmoil was too great. “When they came, I returned to the cell and gave them to Caleb. He tried to use the pen, but said it was scratchy. The nib needed recutting. I took out my penknife to do it for him…”
“You did not offer him the knife?” the coroner asked, leaning forward earnestly.
Ravensbrook's mouth tightened and his brows furrowed. “No, of course not!”
