William Monk 06 - Cain His Brother

Jimson, we both went to the door, immediate like. Jimson unlocked it, an’ I stood ready, not knowin’ what ter expec’.”
    “And what did you find?”
    He looked over towards the cell door about ten feet away, and still very slightly ajar.
    “ ’Is lordship staggerin’ an’ beatin’ on the doors wi’ ’is fists,” he answered, his voice strained. “An’ ’e were all covered in blood, like ’e is now.” He glanced at Ravensbrook, then away again. “The prisoner were in an ’eap on the floor, wi’ even more blood on ’im. I can’t remember wot I said, nor wot Jimson said neither. ’E ’elped ’is lordship out, an’ I went ter the prisoner.” He kept his eyes fixed on Monk’s face, as if to block out what was in his mind. “I knelt down by ’im an’ reached for ’is ’and, like, ter see if ’e were alive. I couldn’t feel nothin’. Although ter be ’onest wif yer, sir, I dunno as ’ow I weren’t shakin’ so much I wouldn’t a’ knowed anyway. But I think ’e were dead already. I never seen so much blood in me life.”
    “I see.” Monk’s eye strayed involuntarily towards the half-open cell door. He forced his attention back to the man in front of him. “And then what?”
    The gaoler looked at Ravensbrook, but Ravensbrook gave him no prompt whatsoever; in fact, from the fixed expression on his face, he might not even have heard what they said.
    “We asked ’is lordship what ’ad ’appened,” the gaoler said unhappily. “Although anyone could see as there’d bin a terrible fight, an’ some’ow the prisoner’d got the worst o’ it.”
    “And when you asked Lord Ravensbrook, what did he say?”
    “ ’E said as the prisoner’d leaped on ’im and attacked ’im when ’e ’ad the penknife out ter recut the nib, and ’though ’e’d done ’is best ter fight ’im off, in the struggle, ’e’d got ’isself stabbed, an’ it were all over in a matter o’ seconds. Caught the vein in ’is throat and whoosh! Gorn.” He swallowed hard, his concentration on Monk intense. “Don’ get me wrong, sir, I wouldn’t never ’ave had it ’appen, but maybe there’s some justice in it. Don’t deserve ter get away wi’ murderin’ ’is bruvver, like. No one do. But I ’ates an ’anging. Jimson says as I’m soft, but it in’t the way for no man ter go.”
    “Thank you.” Monk did not volunteer an opinion, but a certain sense of his agreement was in his silence, and the absence of censure in his voice.
    At last Monk turned to Ravensbrook and spoke clearly and with emphasis.
    “Lord Ravensbrook, will you please tell us exactly what happened? It is most important, sir.”
    Ravensbrook looked up very slowly, focusing on Monk with difficulty, like a man wakening from a deep sleep.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    Monk repeated his words.
    “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He drew in his breath and let it out silently. “I’m sorry.” For several more seconds he said nothing, until Rathbone was about to prompt him. Then at last he spoke. “He was in a very strange mood,” he said slowly, speaking as if his lips were stiff, his tongue unwillingto obey him. His voice was curiously flat. Rathbone had seen it before in people suffering shock. “At first he seemed pleased to see me,” Ravensbrook went on. “Almost relieved. We spoke about trivialities for a few minutes. I asked him if he needed anything, if there was anything I could do for him.” He swallowed, and Rathbone could see his throat tighten.
    “Straightaway he said that there was.” Ravensbrook was speaking to Monk, ignoring Rathbone. “He wanted to write a statement. I thought perhaps he was going to make a clean breast of it, some kind of confession, for Genevieve’s sake. Tell her where Angus’s body was.” He was not looking directly at Monk, but at some distance of the mind, some region of thought or hope.
    “And was that what he wanted?” Rathbone asked, although he held no belief that it could have been. It was only a last, wild chance that he might have said something. But what could it matter, except that Genevieve would have some clearer idea. And was that good or bad? Perhaps ignorance was more merciful.
    Ravensbrook looked at him for the first time.
    “No …” he said thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think he even intended to write anything. But I believed him. I came out and asked for the materials, which were brought me. I took them back in. He grasped the pen from me, put it in the