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Ravensbrook stared at him, his face white.
“Of course I knew that,” he said, his jaw clenched, the muscles visible even from where Rathbone sat.
“And yet you did not cry out,” Goode persisted. “Why not?”
Ravensbrook looked at him with loathing.
“I doubt you would understand, sir, or you would not ask. For all his sins and ingratitude, his disloyalty, Caleb Stonefield had been a son to me. I hoped I might deal with the matter without the authorities ever needing to know of it. It was the most tragic accident that it ended as it did. I could have hidden my own wounds until I was clear of the courthouse. He was, until the end, unhurt.”
“I see,” Goode replied expressionlessly.
He went on to ask all manner of further questions, sought explanations of the finest points. Rathbone did the same after him, until it was apparent he had lost all sympathy from the crowd and worn the coroner’s patience threadbare. He conceded at quarter past four in the afternoon, and was called by the coroner to take the stand himself. The coroner elicited his evidence and dispatched him within twelve minutes.
Goode racked his brains, and could think of nothing further to ask him.
At twenty-nine minutes to five Monk was called, and found to be absent. Rathbone protested that he should be located. The coroner pointed out that since Rathbone himself had been in Monk’s presence every moment of the relevant time, there was nothing useful that Monk could add.
Goode rose to his feet, and was also overruled.
The coroner adjourned the sitting until the following day.
Rathbone and Goode left the court together, deep in anxiety. There was no word from Monk.
The first witness of the morning was Hester Latterly.
“Miss Latterly.” The coroner smiled at her benignly. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear. Simply answer the questions to the best of your ability. If you do not know the answer, then say so.”
“Yes sir.” She nodded and smiled back at him innocently.
“You were leaving the courtroom after attending the trial, when you were informed by the gaoler Bailey that someone was injured and needed medical assistance, is that correct?” He was not going to allow her to ramble by telling the story in her own words. He had summarized it for her most precisely.
Rathbone swore under his breath.
“If Monk doesn’t come within an hour, it is all going to be over,” Goode said. “Where in God’s name is he? Is there an early train from Chilverley this morning? Should I go and look for him?”
Rathbone glanced around desperately. “I’ll send a clerk,” he said.
“Mr. Rathbone?” the coroner said with a frown.
“I beg your pardon,” Rathbone apologized grimly.
The coroner turned to Hester. “Miss Latterly?”
“Yes?”
“Would you please answer the question?”
“I beg your pardon, sir. What was it?”
Very carefully the coroner repeated himself.
“Yes sir,” she replied. “I had attended the trial with Lady Ravensbrook.” She then repeated the entire procedure of her departure, Bailey’s arrival, Enid’s reaction, her own reaction, the instructions she had given to the coachman and her reasons for doing so, all the alternatives and why they were unacceptable, Enid’s assurance that she would be perfectly able to manage and that she would indeed go home, and then her return with Bailey through the courtroom buildings and her arrival at the cells. Nothing the coroner could say—and he tried several times—would stop her. She seemed not to hear him.
Rathbone shot a sideways glance at Goode, and saw his incredulity, and the beginning of a bleak amusement.
“Yes,” the coroner said grimly. “Thank you. What did you see when you arrived at the cells, Miss Latterly? Please confine yourself to what is relevant.”
“I beg your pardon?”
