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Monk opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind. He shrugged, and drank the rest of his port, looking at neither Rathbone nor Hester.
Rathbone rang the bell and the butler appeared within seconds.
“I want you to take a note to Ebenezer Goode, straightaway,” Rathbone ordered. “It is vital we meet with him before court sits again tomorrow. I expect he will be at his home, but if he is not, it is worth pursuing him to wherever he is. Get your coat, and I’ll have the note ready. Take a hansom.”
The butler did not move a muscle; his face remained as impassive as if Rathbone had merely asked him to bring another bottle of port.
“Yes sir. Would that be the address in Westbourne Place, sir?”
“Yes.” Rathbone stood up. “And make all haste.”
It was over an hour and a half later when Ebenezer Goode strode in, his coattails flapping behind him, a broad-brimmed hat jammed on his head and a look of glittering expectation in his eyes.
“Well?” he said as soon as he was in the door. He swept a bow to Hester, then ignored her, staring at Rathbone and Monk. “What is it that possibly matters now, that it cannot wait until tomorrow morning and allow me a decent dinner? Have you found a body?”
“Yes, and no.” Rathbone indicated an easy chair. They had retired to the withdrawing room and were relaxed in front of a brisk fire. “Do you know Miss Hester Latterly? She, of course, knows you.”
“Miss Latterly. How do you do.” Goode bowed perfunctorily. “What the devil do you mean, Rathbone? Have you found Angus Stonefield’s body, or not?”
“No, we have not. But Caleb’s death may not be nearly as simple as we had supposed.”
Goode froze, still halfway to the chair.
“How? In what way? Is Ravensbrook more severely injured than they said?”
Goode sank into the chair.
“No,” Hester ans
wered him. “A few very minor cuts on his upper arms and shoulders. They will stay for a while, but none of them is serious.”
Goode looked at her sharply.
“Miss Latterly is a nurse,” Monk said rather quickly. “She was in the Crimea, and has tended more wounded men than you have had cases. She was close to the court, fortunately, and came to Lord Ravensbrook’s assistance.”
“I see.” A flash of interest lit Goode’s expression. “Do I take it from your tone of voice, and your curious choice of words, Miss Latterly, that there is something more to your opinion than you have said?”
“It is simply this, Mr. Goode,” Monk explained. “We can think of no explanation which fits all the facts, therefore we feel that there must be some profoundly significant fact which we do not know.”
Goode’s eyebrows shot up. “And you think I do?” he said incredulously. “I have no idea at all why Caleb should attack Lord Ravensbrook. He may well have hated him, because he so obviously preferred Angus, and perhaps always had done, but that is all rather obvious. By the way, what facts does that not fit?” He looked again at Hester.
“The fact that Lord Ravensbrook did not cry out until after he had sustained six very minor wounds,” she answered him. “And Caleb had sustained one fatal slash across the jugular vein and was already dead.”
He leaned forward, staring at her intently.
“Are you suggesting, ma’am, that Lord Ravensbrook was a willing actor in Caleb’s death, either by suicide or by murder?”
“Not quite. We do not believe it likely Caleb would have killed himself. Why should he? His defense had not even begun.” She looked at him intently. “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—“I 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?”
