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Oliver Rathbone was in court when it reconvened. The benches for the crowd were almost empty. The newspapers were blaring headlines that Caleb Stone had tried to commit another murder, this time of the man who had been a father and a benefactor to him, and a greater justice had prevailed—he himself had become the victim. The matter was ended.
The judge looked for Ebenezer Goode, saw his absence, and raised his eyebrows at Rathbone.
“There is no one to defend, my lord,” Rathbone said with a shrug. He did not know where Goode was, and was privately a little disconcerted that he was not present. He had counted on his support.
“Indeed,” the judge said dryly. “Not an entirely satisfactory explanation, but I suppose it will have to suffice.” He turned to the jury and in formal manner told them what they all already knew. Caleb Stone was dead. There was no possibility of proceeding with the trial, since he could not now give evidence or speak in his own defense. Therefore there could be no verdict. A mistrial was declared, the jury thanked and dismissed.
Rathbone saw the judge afterwards in his oak-paneled chambers, the early March sunlight shone pale through the high windows.
“What is it?” the judge asked with some surprise. “You have no more interest in this, Rathbone. Whatever we may believe of him, we cannot pursue Caleb Stone any further. He has made the only escape which is beyond us to retrieve.”
“I know that, my lord.” Rathbone stood in front of him looking down to where the judge sat in his leather chair, a small man with lines under his eyes. “All I want is to be sure that his escape was either an accident or of his own planning.”
“I don’t understand you.” The judge frowned. “Ravensbrook said it was an accident, but if it was suicide, are you really so passionate in prosecution you want it proved?” His mouth tightened. “Why, man? You want him buried in unconsecrated ground? It is unlike you to be so vindictive. It has nothing to do with providing for the widow, or allowing her to marry again, in due time, if she so wishes.”
“I don’t believe it was suicide,” Rathbone answered.
“Murder?” The judge’s rather tattered eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Did you not hear what happened? Lord Ravensbrook went in to see—”
“I know what he said,” Rathbone cut across him. “I was there within a few minutes of it. I saw Ravensbrook and saw the body. I think there is a possibility Ravensbrook murdered him.”
“Lord Ravensbrook?” The judge was not shocked, he simply did not believe it. “Do you realize what you are saying, Rathbone? Why on earth would Lord Ravensbrook murder anyone, let alone his own ward, appalling as the man was? And before the defense, which could conceivably have made a case for an accident.”
“That is something I intend to find out,” Rathbone said through his teeth. “I have Monk on the case now.”
“You’ve taken leave of your senses,” the judge said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair as if he needed the softness of its leather padding to cushion his bones. “The idea has no foundation whatever.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless there is something quite extraordinary which you are concealing from the court. If there is, you place yourself in considerable jeopardy.”
“There isn’t,” Rathbone replied with feeling. “I know nothing beyond what has already been revealed, but I believe that something exists. I would like the coroner to open the inquest, and then adjourn it so we may find the evidence to prove it.”
“And you expect me to tell him this?” The judge’s pale blue eyes were wide with incredulity. “I’m sorry, Rathbone, but even if I did, without some evidence to support you, he would think me as mad as I think you. You’ll have three days at the most.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Maybe that’s as well. Now if that is all I can do for you, allow me to prepare for my next case. Good day to you.”
Hester also rose early, and took a hansom to Genevieve’s house. She had reason to believe she would be at home, since she was no longer required to help Enid, and there was no further business to be hoped for at the Old Bailey. In the prevailing tragic circumstances, she would hardly be either receiving social calls or making any. The business of Angus’s death would have to wait upon legal procedure.
She was not disappointed. Genevieve looked pale and exhausted, but reasonably composed.
“How are you?” Hester said as she was led into the kitchen, the only room in the house with any warmth. It was spacious and full of agreeable smells of baking bread and fresh linen drying on the large airing rack across the ceiling, let up and down on a rope pulley fastened to the wall. There was no one else present. Presumably the cook had been allowed to go, in the interests of the increasingly stringent economy. A housemaid had answered the door, and perhaps there could be a woman come in to do the heavy work once or twice a week. No doubt the nursery-maid would be the last to be let go. A manservant would have been too expensive even to consider.
Genevieve smiled briefly, but there was an honesty in it.
“We shall manage. Once they grant that Angus is dead, we shall be able to appoint someone to manage the business and proceed with decisions. I daresay it will be difficult for a little while, but that will not matter.” She met Hester’s eyes with candor. “I have certainly been colder and hungrier before. The children do not find it easy to understand, but I shall explain it to them as well as I can.”
“Will it be Mr. Niven you ask to manage the business?” It was really none of her affair, but Hester inquired because she hoped it was.
Genevieve colored very faintly, but there was no awkwardness in her answer. Without excusing herself, or explaining the necessity, she went over to the sink and started to peel potatoes. They were old, black in spots, and with too many eyes. There were also carrots and turnips on the bench.
“Yes. I have known him for a long time, and he is the most honorable of men,” she answered frankly. “I think Angus would have approved.”
“I’m glad.” Hester tried to smile, to soften what she had to say next, even though Genevieve had her back to her where she sat at the scrubbed wooden table.
Genevieve turned around, the knife in her hand. “What is it? What else can have happened?”
“Nothing. It is simply that it is not yet over. We do not know the truth, not all of it.…”
“We never will,” Genevieve said bleakly, glancing at the kettle on the range, then resuming her peeling. “But even with Caleb alive, I don’t think we would have. All I hoped for was to have the authorities accept that Angus was dead. I could have borne it if Caleb had not been proved guilty, unjust though that would be.”
