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He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Whereas poor Caleb, for whatever reasons, has none of these things. He has no wife, and no children. He sleeps wherever he can find shelter from the cold and the rain. He eats irregularly. He owns little beyond the clothes in which he stands. He earns his living as and where he can, too often by means other men would despise. And indeed he is rejected and despised among men, feared by some, I’ll grant, as perhaps are many whose circumstances drove them to despair.” He smiled at the jury. “I shall not try to depict him as an admirable man, only as one who may justly be pitied, and perhaps one whose occasional anger and resentment of his more fortunate brother is not beyond our limit to understand.”
He had turned a little to face the crowd. Now he spun around to stare at Genevieve again.
“But Mrs. Stonefield, you say that in these visits of your husband’s to the East End, perhaps to Limehouse, or the Isle of Dogs, that he returned home battered and bruised, and sometimes even injured! You did say that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She was puzzled, guarded.
“As if he had been in a fight, perhaps quite a serious one? That was what I understood you to mean. Was I correct?”
“Yes.” Her glance strayed almost to Caleb, then jerked away again.
“Did he say, specifically, that it was Caleb who had injured him, Mrs. Stonefield?” Goode pressed. “Please think carefully, and be precise.”
She swallowed, turned to Rathbone, who deliberately looked away. He must not be seen to have any communication with her. She must be alone, utterly alone, if her evidence were to carry its fullest might.
“Mrs. Stonefield?” Goode was impatient.
“It was Caleb he went to see!” she protested.
“Of course it was. I had not considered other possibilities,” Goode conceded, thereby making sure the jury were aware that there were other possibilities. “We do not even need to consider them, at least for the time being. But did he say it was Caleb who had injured him, Mrs. Stonefield? That is the crux. Is it not possible that Caleb was in some struggle, and your husband, as a loyal brother, went to his assistance? Come, ma’am, is that impossible?”
“No—not—not impossible, I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “But …”
“But what?” He was immeasurably polite. “But Angus was not a brawler?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not a man to get into a scrap? Not as you know him, I’m sure, but have you ever seen him in a public house in the Isle of Dogs? Sometimes it takes a very peaceable man, or even a coward, to avoid a fight there. Is Caleb a fighter, ma’am? Could he have
instigated these brawls, or have been the focus of them?”
Rathbone rose to his feet. “Really, my lord, how can the witness possibly know such a thing? As my learned friend has pointed out, she was never there!”
Goode smiled at Rathbone with exaggerated courtesy, and not without humor.
“Alas, hoist with my own petard. I concede.” He turned back to Genevieve. “I withdraw the question, ma’am. It was absurd. May I ask, from what your husband said to you, is it possible that he was injured in a fight, or a series of scraps, in Caleb’s company, or even on his way to or from visiting him, but not actually by Caleb? Or is that impossible?”
“It is possible,” she conceded, but everything in her face and the stance of her body denied it.
“And the regrettable blood upon these clothes,” Goode said, his face twisted with distress, “which I willingly accept are his. May I be optimistic, even filled with hope, that it is not in fact his blood at all, but that of some other poor soul, and that he shed them simply because they became spoiled in this manner?”
“Then where is he?” she leaned forward over the railing, her face pleading. “Where is Angus?”
“Alas, I have no idea.” Goode’s expression was one of genuine sorrow, even apology. “But when they were found he was not in them, harmed or unharmed, ma’am. I agree, it does not look fortunate for him, but there is no need to despair, and certainly no proof of any tragedy. Let us keep courage and hope.” He inclined his head slightly, and with something of a flourish returned to his seat.
The judge looked at Rathbone. There was the merest hint of weary humor in his eyes. “Mr. Rathbone, is there anything further you can usefully ask of your witness before I adjourn the court for luncheon?”
“Thank you, no, my lord. I believe she has told her story plainly enough for all to understand.” There was nothing he could do but make her repeat what she had already said. It was a matter of judgment as to what would swing the jury one way or the other. He believed restraint was the better part. He had studied their faces, their reactions to Genevieve. He should not overdo it. Let them form their own opinions of her, paint her as they wished to see her. Her spirit to defend the interests of her children might be misperceived and mar the image.
The court rose. Caleb was taken down, the crowd spilled out to purchase whatever refreshment it wished, and Rathbone, Goode and the judge partook of an excellent meal, all separately, at a nearby tavern. They returned early in the afternoon.
“Proceed with your next witness, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge directed. “Let us get to some meat in this matter.”
Rathbone spent the rest of the day calling the Stonefield servants to corroborate what Genevieve had said regarding Angus’s absences from home, which were considerable, although only when returning from seeing Caleb was he ever injured. On two of these occasions the wounds had necessitated considerable treatment. He had refused to call a doctor, in spite of the apparent seriousness, and Mrs. Stonefield had attended to him herself. She had some skill in that area.
Had Mr. Stonefield been long in recovering?
On one occasion he had been obliged to take to his bed for over a week. It seemed he had lost a great deal of blood.
Had he given any cause for his injury?
No. But the butler had overheard Mr. Stonefield speak of his brother, and Mrs. Stonefield had made no secret of her assumption that Caleb was the assailant.
