That is a very complicated sentence. Perhaps I had better rephrase it-' “No!” the coroner shouted. Then he drew a deep breath. “That is not necessary, Miss Latterly. Your meaning is perfectly plain, even if not your reasons for believing so.”
She launched into her reasons for believing so, impervious to his attempted interruptions. She seemed to be hard of hearing, verging upon outright deafness. She described in detail exactly how Lord Ravensbrook had appeared to her, describing every sign with clinical thoroughness, and drawing upon her experience of soldiers in shock in the Crimea to illustrate that her opinion was an expert one. Then she described his wounds, their appearance, her treatment of them, how she had been obliged to make use of Rathbone's shirt, and why the gaolers' shirts would not do, her apologies to Rathbone for the inconvenience and her belief that Ravensbrook would make good his loss. When she had finished that, without drawing breath, she went on to describe Ravensbrook's response to the treatment. By half past twelve she still had not reached the point where she had opened the cell door and seen the body of Caleb Stone.
The coroner adjourned the sitting for luncheon, and retired exhausted.
“Brilliant, if somewhat farcical,” Goode said dourly, in the same tavern as the day before. “But unless Monk turns up with something this afternoon, it will achieve nothing. I think one of us should go to Chilverley and get him!”
“He would come if he had anything!” Rathbone said.
When the court reconvened, it was packed to standing room. No one offered an explanation as to why. Perhaps it was because it had not gone as expected, perhaps it was the hope of some revelation, possibly it was Hester's performance, and the sense of the absurd. Suddenly it had all be- come interesting.
The coroner had dined well. He was in a better mood for battle and he met Hester's resumption of evidence with a stern eye and a voice which was perfectly willing and capable of shouting her down.
“Would you please tell me if Caleb Stone was dead when you looked into the cell, Miss Latterly. `Yes' or 'No' will suffice.”
“Yes,” she said with a smile of agreeability.
“He was dead?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
At some length she told him, explaining all the ways by which one might know that life is extinct.
“I am a physician and a lawyer, ma'am!” he shouted above her. “I am perfectly aware of the difference between life and death.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said pleasantly.
He repeated what he had said.
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean I am sorry for having told you what you already know, sir. Of course, I knew you must be a lawyer. I did not appreciate you were a physician also. If I have slighted you, I am very sorry.”
“Not at all,” he said graciously. “Thank you. I have nothing further to ask you.” He looked at Rathbone and Goode meaningfully. “Your evidence has been most complete!” he added.
Nevertheless Goode rose to his feet and asked her to clarify as much as he could possibly misunderstand. He was drawing to the end of his wit and invention when an elderly gentleman in clerical garb made his way, with difficulty, to the front of the room and handed a letter to Rathbone.
Rathbone tore it open and read it, and let out an audible sigh of relief.
Goode turned to look at him, and saw the rescue in his eyes. He allowed Hester to draw to a close at last and be released with a sigh of gratitude from the coroner, and some disappointment from that part of the crowd who had known neither Caleb nor Angus, and had no emotional involvement in the outcome.
The doctor who had examined the body was called. The coroner dealt with his evidence and dispatched him in less than a quarter of an hour. Neither Goode nor Rathbone could think of anything further to ask him. He had said that the cause of death was a slashing wound from the penknife which had caught the jugular vein, and the deceased had then bled to death. It was quite consistent with him having held the weapon in his other hand, and its being forced back into his throat in a fall or during a struggle. There was nothing more to add.
Rathbone rose to his feet. Where on earth was Monk? If he did not appear in the next few minutes they would lose by default. He could not spin this out any longer. The coroner's patience was stretched to breaking. “With respect, sir, while all this is both true and relevant, it still does not tell us whether his death was accidental or not.”
“In the absence of proof that it was suicide, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner said patiently, “we shall have to assume that he attacked Lord Ravensbrook in the same jealousy and hatred which apparently possessed him with regard to his brother, only in this case his weapon was turned upon himself, and he became the victim.”
Rathbone took a deep breath and laid his reputation in the balance. “Or there is the third possibility, sir; that it was not Caleb who attacked Lord Ravensbrook, but that the outcome was exactly what was meant from the beginning.”
There was utter silence, not even an indrawn breath of disbelief. It was as if life in the room were suspended. Enid was ashen-faced, Genevieve paralyzed.
Finally the coroner spoke.
“Mr. Rathbone, are you suggesting that Lord Ravensbrook intentionally killed Caleb Stone?”
“I am suggesting that it is a possibility, sir.”
Goode closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, anguish written all over his face.
Two spots of color touched Milo Ravensbrook's cheeks, but he neither moved nor spoke.
Selina Herries bit her knuckles and stared at Rathbone. “In God's name, man, for what conceivable reason?” the coroner asked.
The door opened at the back of the court and Monk came in, drenched with rain, tousled and exhausted for lack of sleep, but accompanied by an elderly man and a stout woman in black.
Rathbone felt weak with relief. His voice trembled as he answered the coroner.
“I will call witnesses to answer that question, sir. I shall begin with the Reverend Horatio Nicolson, of Chilverley, with your permission.”
The coroner hesitated. He looked around the room, saw the wide-eyed faces, the anticipation, the journalists who were still present sitting with pencil in hand, faces bright with eagerness. He could not disallow it. “I shall stop you if for one instant there is irrelevance, or any attempt at unsubstantiated attack!” he warned. “Be very careful, Mr. Rathbone, very careful indeed! I will have no one's good name taken lightly.”
Rathbone bowed his head in acknowledgment and called Horatio Nicolson to the witness stand.
Slowly, with deep regret and obvious embarrassment, the Reverend Nicolson mounted the witness stand and took the oath.
Rathbone began by establishing precisely who he was so that the court might understand his importance.
“So you knew Lord Ravensbrook and his family quite well at the time Angus Stonefield came to Chilverley?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” Nicolson answered, his face grave.
“Did you come to know Angus?”
“Yes. I tutored him in Latin, beginning when he was about eight, I believe. He was an excellent student, intelli gent, willing and quick to learn. A most agreeable boy, so thoughtful and well mannered.” He smiled at the memory, in spite of himself.
“My wife was especially fond of him. She worried about him. He was quite often ill, you know, and at times seemed very withdrawn.” His voice dropped a little. “There was a sadness in him, especially when he was very young.
Most rational, I suppose, having lost both his parents at such an early age.”
“Did he continue to be such an excellent student, Mr. Nicolson?” Rathbone asked.
Nicolson's face pinched with grief.
“No. I am afraid he became very erratic. At times he was excellent, his old self. And then there would be occasions when I would hardly see him for several weeks.”
