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The jurors’ faces made the belief plain, and their contempt for Caleb, who ignored them almost as if they were irrelevant.
The butler was very straightforward. He offered Goode no opportunity to trip him, and Goode was far too wise to be seen to embarrass such a plain man. He was courteous and complimentary. All he could achieve was another reminder to the jury that the precise dealing of the wounds was still all surmise. Angus had never said in so many words that Caleb had stabbed him. And he did not labor that. Every man and woman in the room believed it was Caleb; it was in their faces when they looked at the dock, and at Caleb’s jeering, insolent stare back at them.
The first day of the trial closed with a conviction of the mind, but no evidence which the judge could direct as law, only massive supposition and a crowd filled with a frustration of loathing.
Rathbone left and almost immediately found a hansom. Without thinking he directed the driver to Primrose Hill. That was where his father, a quiet, studious man with a gentle manner and an alarmingly sharp perception, lived.
His father was sitting by a large log fire with his feet on the fender and a glass of red wine by his side when Oliver arrived and was shown in by the manservant. Henry Rathbone looked up with surprise and then a shadow both of pleasure and concern.
“Sit down,” he offered, indicating the chair opposite. “Wine?”
“What is it?” Oliver sat down, feeling the warmth of the fire creep over him with intense satisfaction. “I don’t like that burgundy you have.”
“It’s a claret,” Henry replied.
“I’ll have a glass.”
Henry nodded at the manservant, who departed to bring the wine.
“You’ll burn your feet,” Oliver said critically.
“Scorch the soles of my slippers, perhaps,” Henry argued. He did not ask why Oliver had come. He knew he would be told in time.
Oliver slid a little farther down in the armchair and accepted the claret from the manservant, who went out and closed the door with a quiet snick.
The ash settled in the fire and Henry reached forward and put on another log. There was no sound in the room but the flickering of the fire, no light but the flames and one gas lamp on the far wall. The wind outside was inaudible, as was the first beginning of the rain.
“I’m thinking of getting a new dog,” Henry remarked. “Old Edgemor has some retriever pups. One I like in particular.”
“Good idea,” Oliver said. He was going to have to open the subject himself. “This trial is troubling me.”
“So I gathered.” Henry reached for his pipe and put it in his mouth, but did not bother to light it. He seldom did. “Why? What is not as you expected?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
“Then what is there to be distressed about?” Henry looked at him with his clear, light-blue eyes, so unlike Oliver’s own, which were very dark, in spite of his fairish hair. “You are off balance. Is it your mind, or your emotions? Are you going to lose when you should win, or win when you should lose?”
Oliver smiled in spite of himself. “Lose when I should win, I think.”
“Summarize the case for me.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at Oliver absentmindedly. “And don’t address me as if I were the jury! Just tell me the truth.”
Oliver gave a jerky little laugh, and listed the bare, literal facts as far as he knew them, adding his feelings only as he believed they were relevant to some interpretation and not furnished by evidence. When he had finished he stared at his father waiting for his response.
“This is another one of Monk’s,” Henry observed. “Have you seen Hester again? How is she?”
Oliver found himself uncomfortable. It was not a subject he wished to contemplate, much less discuss.
“It is exceedingly difficult to get a jury to convict for murder without a body,” he said irritably. “But if ever a man did deserve to hang, it is Caleb Stone. The more I hear of Angus, the more I admire him, and the worse Caleb appears. The man is violent, destructive, sadistic, an ingrate.”
“But …” Henry raised his eyebrows, looking at Oliver with piercing gentleness.
“He seems to have not a shred of remorse,” Oliver went on. “Even looking at his brother’s widow, and knowing there are five children, and what will happen to them now—” He stopped.
“Do you doubt his guilt?” Henry asked, sipping his claret.
Oliver picked up his own glass. The firelight shone ruby in it, and the clean, slightly sharp aroma of it filled his head.
“No. He is just so vividly alive. Even when I am not looking at him, which is almost all the time, I am aware of his emotions, his rage … and his pain. And I am aware of his intelligence.”
