“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 attract his 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 seekers of sensation in particular, was something no decent man would wish, and to one like Milo Ravensbrook it was like facing enemy fire. But if there was to be justice it was unavoidable, not only punishment for Caleb, but a decent acknowledgment for Genevieve and her children. “Would you give the court an example of any evidences of these you can recall? Instances of behavior, resentments, quarrels…”

Ravensbrook looked somewhere over the heads of the crowd.

“I should prefer not to.”

“Naturally,” Rathbone commiserated. “No one wishes to recall such events, but I am afraid it is necessary if we are to discover what is the truth of this present tragedy. I am sure you wish that.” He was not perfectly sure.

Perhaps Ravensbrook would rather it went unknown, and could fade from memory as a mystery. But he could not say so.

There were several minutes of silence. One of the jurors coughed and produced a large handkerchief. Another shifted his weight as though embarrassed. The judge stared at Ravensbrook. Ebenezer Goode looked first at Ravensbrook, then at Rathbone, his face expectant.

But it was Caleb who broke the tension.

“Forgotten, have you?” he called down, his lips drawn back in something close to a snarl. “Forgotten how Angus was afraid of that damn black horse of yours-but I rode it! Forgotten how angry you were-”

“Silence!” The judge banged his gavel, but Caleb ignored him, leaning forward over the railing of the dock, his beautiful, manacled hands gripping the railing. His eyes glaring. His expression was one of such blazing hatred it struck a note of fear, even though he was imprisoned by the height of the dock above the floor of the court and had warders on either side of him. There was a power and a rage in him which could be felt across the space as though it might actually touch and darken the mind.

“… because I could make it behave, and you couldn't?” Caleb finished, ignoring the judge. It was as if no one existed in the room but himself and Ravensbrook. _“Remember how you beat me because I took the peaches from the conservatory?”

Goode was on his feet, but powerless.

“That was seven years earlier,” Ravensbrook replied, not looking at Caleb, but staring straight ahead of him still. “You took every peach. You deserved punishment.”

The judge banged his gavel again.

“Mr. Goode, either keep your client's behavior appropriate to this court or I shall have him removed and continue the case in his absence. Make that plain to him, sir.”

Caleb swung around, his face twisted with fury. “Don't talk to me through a third party, as if I weren't here, damn you! I can hear what you're saying and I can understand you. What bloody difference does it make whether I'm here or not anyway? You say what you want about me. Believe what you want. You'll believe what suits your idea of the way you want things to be!” His voice rose even more. “What does the truth matter? What do you care who killed whom, as long as your world stays the same, with the same comfortable, reassuring lies? Cover it all up! Bury it! Put a white cross over it and say a prayer to your God that he'll forgive you, then go away and forget. I'll see you all in hell, be sure of it! I'll be there and waiting for you!”

The judge looked tired and sad. “Take the prisoner down,” he instructed the warders.

Caleb sank down suddenly, his head in his hands.

Ebenezer Goode rose and walked at least halfway towards the bench. “My lord, may we have a brief adjournment so I may advise my client? I believe I can persuade him to keep silence.”