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“Please confine yourself to what is relevant, Miss Latterly.”
“To what, sir?”
“To what is relevant, Miss Latterly!” the coroner said extremely loudly.
“Relevant to what, sir?”
The coroner controlled himself with some effort.
“To the matter of Caleb Stone’s death, madam.”
“I am afraid I don’t know what is relevant,” she replied without a flicker of expression in her face. “It would seem, from what I observed, that he was possessed by such a frantic hatred of his erstwhile guardian, Lord Ravensbrook, that he was prepared, at any cost whatever, even the certain sacrifice of his own life by hanging … surely a most damnable way to die, to inflict upon him some injury, even to wish his death. I am sorry. 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 become 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.”
