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There was total silence in the court. For once even Caleb
had his head bent forward so his face was hidden. In the crowd there were only a few sighs of pent-up breath being let go, emotions tight.
Enid looked as if she might weep, and her hand clung to Hester’s.
“I appreciate that this can only be painful for you,” Rathbone resumed after a moment, allowing Genevieve time to master herself. “But there are questions I must ask. When your husband did not return, what steps did you take?”
“The following day I went into his place of business and asked Mr. Arbuthnot, the senior clerk, if perhaps Angus had been called away on business, and somehow the message to me had been lost. He said that had not happened. He—” She stopped.
“Yes, please do not tell us what Mr. Arbuthnot said.” Rathbone smiled at her very slightly. “We shall ask him in due course. Tell us merely what you did yourself, as a result of his information.”
“I waited two more days, then I called upon an agent of inquiry who had been recommended, a Mr. William Monk.”
“I shall be calling both Mr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Monk, my lord,” Rathbone said, then turned back to Genevieve. “What did you say to Mr. Monk?”
“I told him I feared my husband had gone to see his brother, and that Caleb had murdered him.” She hesitated only a moment, gripping the edge of the railing hard, straining the fabric of her navy gloves. “I instructed him to do all he could to find proof of what had occurred. He promised to do so.”
“And as a result of his efforts in this cause, Mrs. Stonefield, did he bring you certain articles of clothing?”
Her face grew even paler and this time her voice was beyond her ability to control. She gulped, and when she spoke it was huskily.
“Yes …”
Rathbone turned to the judge. “May it please your lordship, the prosecution exhibits one and two.”
“Proceed.” The judge nodded in assent.
The clerk produced the coat and trousers Monk had brought back from the Isle of Dogs. They were just as he had presented them to the police, soiled, bloodstained and badly torn.
“Are these the clothes he brought you, Mrs. Stonefield?” Rathbone asked, holding them up so not only she must see, but the whole room. There was a gasp of indrawn breath. He glimpsed Titus Niven, white as a sheet, his eyes blazing with anger, sitting two rows behind Enid Ravensbrook. He saw Hester wince, but knew she at least understood.
Genevieve swayed and for an instant he thought she was going to faint. He stepped forward, although with the height of the witness stand above the floor, he could not practically have assisted her.
One of the jurors groaned audibly. If the verdict had depended upon sympathy rather than fact, and Ebenezer Goode were not to speak, Rathbone could have won at that moment.
The only person in the room who seemed unmoved was Caleb. He seemed merely curious and slightly surprised.
“Would you look at these clothes, Mrs. Stonefield, and tell the court if you recognize them?” Rathbone said very gently, but so his voice carried to every last person in the room. There was not a breath or a rustle to detract from him.
She looked at them for no more than an instant.
“They are the clothes my husband was wearing the last time I saw him,” she said with her eyes on his face. “Please don’t make me touch them. They are covered in his blood!”
Ebenezer Goode opened his mouth and closed it again. No one had proved it was Angus’s blood, but he knew better than to argue the point now. He shot Rathbone a bright, warning glance. Battle would commence at the due time, but he had never doubted that. And Genevieve would not be spared, only treated with the caution necessary not to injure his own cause.
“Of course,” Rathbone murmured. “As long as you have no doubt they are his?”
“None.” Her voice was husky, but quite clear. “I have already read the tailor’s label on the inside, when Mr. Monk first brought them to me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stonefield. I have no need to distress you further, but please remain where you are, in case my learned friend for the defense wishes to speak to you.” He smiled at her, meeting her eyes for a moment and seeing them remarkably steady, before returning to his seat.
Ebenezer Goode rose to his feet, smiling with dazzling benevolence. He approached the witness stand almost deferentially. There was a rustle of interest around the room. Only Caleb seemed not to care. He avoided looking at him.
“Mrs. Stonefield,” Goode began, his voice resonant, caressing the ear, “I am truly so sorry to have to put you through this ordeal, but you do understand that grieved as we all are for your tragedy, it is my duty, specifically mine, to see we do not compound it by blaming someone who is not truly guilty. You see that, I’m sure.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Yes, I understand,” she answered him.
“Of course you do. You are a generous woman.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, staring up at her. He was still smiling. “I do not doubt that the relationship between your husband and his brother was a troubled one, and that they quarreled occasionally. It could hardly be otherwise, when their paths had become so very different.” He freed his hands, and gestured with them. “Your husband had everything life can afford: a beautiful and virtuous wife, five healthy children, a well-cared-for, comfortable home to return to every evening, a profitable business and the regard and esteem—indeed, the friendship—of the world, both socially and professionally.”
