“Not at all, but probably unnecessarily worried,” she replied with a generous smile. “Since Caleb is dead, no one is going to feel the same urgency to defend him now, or fear the reprisals for betraying him by the truth.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. “I think a good night’s sleep is called for, before we begin. Let us meet here again in three days’ time and discuss what we have learned.”
“Agreed.” Goode rose also. “Miss Latterly, may I find you a hansom and escort you as far as your home?”
“Thank you,” she accepted graciously. “That would be most agreeable. It has been a somewhat exhausting day.”
12
EBENEZER GOODE WOKE very early the following morning, unable to sleep any longer because his mind was churning over the extraordinary events of the preceding day. He had not liked Caleb Stone; indeed, privately he had had little doubt that Stone was guilty of the murder of his brother exactly as he was charged. But there had been an extraordinary vitality in the man, a core of passion which made his death unexpectedly hard to accept.
He lay with the blankets up to his chin, turning over and over in his mind what Rathbone had said, and that odd fellow Monk. Did the nurse really know what she was talking about? Was it conceivable that Milo Ravensbrook could either have willed Caleb’s death, or worse still, have brought it about?
The thought was especially hideous when he remembered the remarkable face of Lady Ravensbrook, the strength in it, the power of feeling and imagination, even ravaged by rece
nt disease as it was. There was something in her which awoke an extraordinary interest in him. He found even while he was thinking of ways and means of discerning the truth, and the near impossibility of proving it, it was her features impressed on his closed eyelids, her expression, her mouth, even her voice in his ears. She had said barely a dozen words to him, and every inflection remained.
He rose at half past six, while it was still dark, sent for water from a very surprised housemaid, then shaved, washed, dressed and requested breakfast by quarter past seven. His cook was not in the least amused, and allowed it to be known. He did not care in the slightest, although good cooks were not easy to obtain.
He left the house at eight and walked briskly, swinging his rather handsome stick, and so deep in thought he passed a dozen acquaintances without seeing them, and addressed two more by their fathers’ names.
By five minutes past nine he was outside Ravensbrook House, and saw his lordship leave in his own carriage. Goode mounted the steps and pulled the brass bell knob.
“Good morning, sir,” the footman said with only the merest surprise.
“Good morning,” Goode replied with a charming smile. “I am sorry to disturb the family so early, but there are matters which cannot wait. Will you ask Lady Ravensbrook if I may speak with her? I shall await her convenience, naturally.” He passed over his card.
“Lady Ravensbrook, sir?” The footman was uncertain he had heard correctly. It seemed absurd. What could the lawyer have to say to Lady Ravensbrook?
“If you please.” Goode stepped inside and took off his coat and gave the man his hat. He had no intention of being turned away, and he was used to pressing his cause. He had not become one of London’s leading barristers by being easily refused or overridden. “Thank you. So good of you. Should I wait in the morning room? Yes?” He had been here only once before, but he recalled it was the second door to the left. He assumed consent, and strode across the hall, leaving the footman holding his clothes, and with little choice but to accede.
He was obliged to wait nearly three quarters of an hour in the calm, ornate room with its heavy curtains and shelves of books, but when at last the door opened, it was Enid Ravensbrook who stood there. Instantly he felt guilty. She looked desperately afraid. Her lavender-colored gown hung on her, in spite of the fact her maid had taken it in as much as was possible without recutting it altogether. Her hair had lost its luster and even the cleverest dressing could not conceal how much of it had come out in her illness. Her skin had no color at all, but nothing could dim the intelligence in her eyes or the underlying strength in the lines of her cheekbones and jutting nose and jaw. She looked at him with unwavering courage.
“Good morning, Mr. Goode. My footman tells me you wish to speak with me.” She closed the door and walked quite slowly, as if she were afraid of losing her balance.
He made half a gesture towards helping her, and knew instantly that he should not. He ached to reach out and give her his strength, but it would be an intrusion. He did not need to meet her eyes to know it.
She reached the nearest chair and sat down, smiling at last.
“Thank you, Mr. Goode. I am obliged to you. I hate being an invalid. Now, what is it you wish to say to me? I presume it is to do with poor Caleb. I knew him very little, and yet I cannot help grieving that he should die so. Although, God knows, perhaps the alternative was worse.”
“But you knew Angus,” he said quickly. “With Lord Ravensbrook’s regard for him, and his own gratitude and affection, he must have come here often.”
It had been a statement, as if he did not doubt it, yet the look on her face was one of uncertainty and denial.
“No.” She shook her head fractionally. “He came, of course, but not so very often, and he seldom stayed long. I am not sure if it was because Genevieve felt a certain … uncomfortableness here? I think my husband overawed her to a degree. He can be …” Again she hesitated, and he had a sudden sharp perception that it was not the words she was struggling with, nor even if she should express the thought to him, but the thought itself. It was something she had long avoided facing, because of its pain. He was stunned by how much it distressed him.
He hesitated. Perhaps it was not worth pursuing at such cost. It could all be left to the coroner to cover with polite decencies.
But the doubt lasted only a moment. He could not live with such cowardice, and it was not worthy of her.
He smiled, “Please, ma’am, tell me the truth as you feel it, as you saw it. It is not a time for lies, however gently meant, or seemingly kind.”
“Isn’t it?” She frowned. “Both Angus and Caleb are dead, poor creatures, and their hatred with them, whatever it was for. It is gone now … finished.”
“I wish it were.” He meant it profoundly. “But there will have to be an inquest into Caleb’s death. We need to know why suddenly he launched himself into such a violent and hopeless act.”
“Do we?” Her face was calm, her inner decision made. “What does it matter now, Mr. Goode? It seems he never lived in peace. Cannot he now at least be buried and left to rest in whatever ease his soul can find? And we with him. My husband has known little but grief of one sort or another since he first took them into his home.”