William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

feeling it threatened. Jealousy was unknown to him.
    “And Caleb was not?” he prompted.
    Ravensbrook’s jaw tightened and his face was very pale.
    “No,” he said flatly. “He was rebellious, argumentative, a perverse child.”
    “Did you love him?” It was not a question he had intended to ask. It served no purpose to his case. He spoke without forethought, only a sudden overwhelming emotion, which was inexcusable, totally unprofessional.
    “Of course,” Ravensbrook answered, his dark eyebrows raised very slightly. “One does not withdraw one’s loyalty or regard from a member of one’s family simply because they are of a difficult nature. One hopes that with care they will grow out of it.”
    “And did Caleb grow out of it?”
    Ravensbrook did not reply.
    “Did he grow out of the envy of his brother?” Rathbone persisted. “Did they regain their earlier closeness?”
    Ravensbrook’s face was tight, bitterly inward, as if he exercised an iron control.
    “It did not appear so to me.”
    In the dock Caleb let out a short bark of derisive laughter and the judge swiveled around to glare at him, breath drawn in to reprove him if he should make another sound.
    Among the jurors a man frowned, another shook his head and pursed his lips.
    Ebenezer Goode stiffened. It was the first negative sign to his case, although he must surely have known that Caleb’s manner, the very expression on his face, was the greatest single factor against him. There was no evidence, at least so far; it was a matter of emotion and belief, a question of interpretation.
    Rathbone pursued the line of inquiry.
    “Lord Ravensbrook, will you draw for the court the pattern of the relationship between these two brothers as they grew up in your house. Were they educated similarly, for example?”
    A bitter smile touched Ravensbrook’s chiseled mouth, then vanished instantly.
    “Exactly the same,” he replied. “There was one tutor who taught one set of lessons. It was only their response which was different. In every regard I treated them equally, as did all the rest of the staff.”
    “Everyone?” Rathbone affected surprise. “Surely there would have been those who had favorites? As you say, the boys became increasingly dissimilar.”
    Caleb leaned forward in the dock, his face eager, listening intently.
    Ravensbrook must have been aware of it, but he stood without the slightest movement. He could have been carved in bone. He was a man wading through a nightmare, and it showed in every line and angle of his body.
    Enid’s eyes seemed never to leave his face.
    “Lord Ravensbrook!” Rathbone felt he needed to attracthis attention before there was any purpose in repeating his question.
    Ravensbrook looked at him slowly.
    “Lord Ravensbrook, you have told us how unlike these two boys became. Surely others who know them must have felt differently towards them? Angus had every virtue: honesty, humility, gratitude, generosity; while Caleb was aggressive, lazy and ungrateful. If that is so, can people truly have regarded them with equal affection?”
    “Perhaps I was speaking more for myself than for others,” Ravensbrook conceded grudgingly, his face stiff. “I did my best not to permit it, but it may have existed in the village. I had no control over that.”
    “The village?” Rathbone had omitted to ask Ravensbrook where the brothers had spent their childhood. He should have realized it would not have been in London.
    “My country home in Berkshire,” Ravensbrook explained, his face suddenly white. “It was a better atmosphere for them than the city. Learned to ride, hunt, fish.” He took a deep breath. “Manly pursuits. Learned a bit about the land, and a man’s responsibilities towards his fellows.”
    There was a murmur of assent from one or two people in the room. Enid looked puzzled, Caleb bitter.
    “A very privileged childhood, by the sound of it.” Rathbone smiled.
    “I gave them all I could,” Ravensbrook said without expression, except perhaps for a certain gravity which might have been sadness, or merely an effect of the light in his impassive face, with its patrician features and dark, very level eyes under their short brows.
    “You speak of a jealousy growing between them,” Rathbone continued. He was battling with a witness who was all but hostile, and it was like drawing teeth. He could understand it. Having to expose his most private family life to the gaze of the public in general, and the