William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

birth, have you not?”
    “Not since birth,” Ravensbrook corrected. “Since their parents died. They were then a little over five years old.”
    “I beg your pardon.” Rathbone rephrased the question. “You have known of them. They are related to you, are they not?”
    “Yes.” Ravensbrook swallowed hard. Even from where Rathbone stood, he could see his throat tighten and the difficulty with which he answered. For a man of his nature—proud, intensely private, drilled to keep his feelings under control and seldom to express them in words, even when appropriate—this must be an experience close to torture.
    “When they were left orphans …” Rathbone continued, loathing having to do this, but compelled. Without this background there was no case. Perhaps even with it there was none. Was he putting this man through such a refinement of public pain for nothing? “You took them into your home and cared for them as if they were your own, is that not so?”
    “Yes,” Ravensbrook said grimly. His eyes did not move from Rathbone’s face, as though he were trying to blot out the rest of the room and convince himself they were alone, two men having an acutely personal conversation in the privacy of some club. “It seemed the obvious thing to do.”
    “To a benevolent man,” Rathbone agreed. “So from the age of five years, Angus and Caleb Stonefield lived in your home and were raised as your sons?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you married at that time, my lord?”
    “I was a widower. My first wife died very young.” There was barely a flicker of expression on his face, just a shadow of grief, then it was gone again. It was not done to display one’s vulnerability before others. “I married my present wife several years after that. Angus and Caleb hadalready grown to adulthood and left home.” Still he did not look towards Enid, as if to do so would somehow draw her into his tangle of pain, or leave him more exposed.
    “So you were all the family they knew?” Rathbone persisted.
    Ebenezer Goode moved restlessly in his seat.
    Caleb stretched his hand away from the gaoler beside him, and his manacles clanked against the railing.
    The judge leaned forward. “Is this leading somewhere, Mr. Rathbone? So far your questions have seemed to elicit only the obvious.”
    “Yes, my lord. I am about to ask Lord Ravensbrook about the relationship between the two brothers, as he observed it from childhood. I am merely seeking to establish that he is an expert in this field.”
    “You have done so. Please proceed.”
    Rathbone bowed, and turned back to Ravensbrook.
    “When you first knew them, my lord, were they fond of each other?”
    Ravensbrook hesitated only a moment. His face held a curious look of puzzlement and distaste, as if he found it distressing to answer the question.
    “Yes, they were extremely … close. At that time there was no division between them.”
    “When did you first notice a division?”
    Ravensbrook did not reply. His face reflected a pain and a distaste which was hardly surprising. To remember that time when Angus and Caleb had loved one another was a peculiarly bitter contrast with the present. The sympathy for him was palpable in the room.
    “My lord,” Rathbone pressed, “when did you first notice the beginnings of a division between the two brothers? We need to know, and you are the only one who can tell us.”
    “Of course,” Ravensbrook said grimly. “It was almost three years after their arrival. Angus was always a … a quiet child, studious, obedient. Caleb appeared to resent it.He was far less easy to discipline. He would take correction very poorly. He had an unfortunate temper.”
    In the dock, Caleb jerked his head up, and the movement caught the eye of several of the jurors. They looked at him with a new interest.
    “Was this division between them on both sides?” Rathbone inquired.
    Again Ravensbrook hesitated for so long Rathbone was obliged to repeat the question.
    “It did not appear so,” Ravensbrook answered at last. “Certainly as time passed, Angus became more … diligent in his studies, more of an agreeable companion—”
    Caleb let out a snort which was almost a cry. There was rage in it, but an undertone of pain as well, and Rathbone suddenly felt the weight of rejection in it, even all those years after, the confusion and realization of the less favored son. He thought of his own father, and the bond between them. He could not recall ever