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“Rathbone will destroy him!” Ravensbrook accused in a sudden flair of temper. “He will lose control of himself again if he is pressed, and he is frightened. Then he’ll say anything, simply to shock.”
“I will make the judgment when I have spoken with him,” Goode promised. “Although I am inclined to agree with you.”
“Thank God!”
“Of course it is his decision,” Goode added. “The man is being tried for his life. If he wishes to speak, then he must be allowed.”
“Cannot you, as his legal adviser, protect him from himself?” Ravensbrook demanded.
“I can advise him, that is all. I cannot deny him the opportunity to speak in his own defense.”
“I see.” Ravensbrook glanced at Rathbone’s profile. “Then I think he has very little chance. Since I am his only living relative, and once he is convicted I may have no further opportunity to speak with him, I would like to see him, alone. Today, at least, he is still an innocent man.”
“Of course,” Goode agreed quickly. “Would you like me to arrange it for you?”
“I shall seek your help if it is necessary,” Ravensbrook answered. “I am obliged for your offer.” He glanced at Rathbone, then at Enid on her chair.
She looked at him in a long, curious, pleading gaze, as if there were a question she did not know how to frame.
If he understood, there was no reflection of it in his expression or in his bearing. He did not offer any further explanation.
“Wait for me in the carriage,” he told her. “You will be more comfortable there. Miss Latterly will be back in a few moments.” And without anything further, he took his leave, walking rapidly towards the stairs down to the cells.
Some twenty minutes later Rathbone was outside on the entrance steps to the street, talking to Monk, who had just arrived. Ebenezer Goode came striding down, his hair flying, his face ashen. He pushed past a clerk, almost knocking the man off his feet.
“What is it?” Rathbone said with a sudden upsurge of fear. “What’s happened, man? You look terrible!”
Goode seized him by the arm, half turning him around.
“He’s dead! It’s all over. He’s dead!”
“Who’s dead?” Monk demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Caleb,” his voice was hoarse. “Caleb is dead.”
“He can’t be!” Rathbone knew even as he said it that it was stupid. He was trying to deny reality, because it was ugly and he did not want to believe it.
“How?” Monk asked, cutting across Rathbone. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” He swore viciously, clenching his fist in the air. “How could they be so damnably stupid? Although I don’t know why I care! Better the poor devil does it himself than drag it out to the long torture of a judicial hanging. I should be glad.” He said the words between his teeth, hard and guttural. “Why can’t I be?”
Rathbone looked from Monk to Goode. The same conflicting emotions tore inside him. He should have been grateful. Caleb had in effect confessed. Rathbone had succeeded. The Duke of Wellington’s words rang in his ears about the next most terrible thing to a battle lost being a battle won. There was no taste of victory whatever.
“It wasn’t suicide,” Goode said shakily. “Ravensbrook went in to see him, as he asked. Apparently Caleb was concerned he was going to be found guilty. He said he wanted to write a statement. Perhaps it was a confession, or an indication of something, who knows? Ravensbrook came out for a quill and a paper for him. He took them back in. Apparently the quill was poor. He found his penknife to recut it …”
Rathbone felt sick, as if he knew the words before they came.
“Caleb suddenly lurched forward, seized the knife, and attacked Ravensbrook,” Goode said, his eyes going from Rathbone to Monk, and back again.
Rathbone was startled. It was not what he had thought after all.
“They fought,” Goode went on. “Poor Ravensbrook is cut quite badly.”
“God help him,” Rathbone said quietly. “That was not the ending I wanted, but perhaps it is not the worst. Thank you, Goode. Thank you for telling me.”
11
RATHBONE WAS STUNNED by the news. It was preposterous, even if not all the elements were tragic. He had never known such a thing to happen before, certainly not in this manner.
Monk was standing stock-still, his face dark.
