Was he still in this rage you described earlier? How did he greet Lord Ravensbrook?”

Jimson looked confused.

“Did you see him, Mr. Jimson?” the coroner pressed. “It is necessary that you answer truthfully. This matter concerns the death of a man in your custody.”

“Yes sir.” Jimson swallowed convulsively, only too desperately aware of his responsibility. “No sir, I didn't go in with 'is lordship. I… I didn't like ter, 'im bein' family like, an' knowin' from the guard as 'ad 'im in court 'ow 'ard it were goin', an' as 'e were like ter be 'anged. I let 'is lordship in, w'en 'e said as 'e preferred ter be alone-”

“Lord Ravensbrook said he wished to see the prisoner alone?”

“Yes sir, 'e did.”

“I see. Then what happened?”

“Arter a few moments, 'is lordship came out an' asked fer a pen an' ink an' paper, 'cos the prisoner wanted ter write a statement o' some sort, I forget exactly what.” He fidgeted with his collar. It appeared to be too tight for him. “I sent Bailey fer 'em, an' w'en 'e brought 'em back, I gave 'em ter 'is lordship, an' 'e went back inter the cell wi' 'em. Then just a few minutes arter that there were a cry, an' a bangin' on the door, an' w'en I opened it, 'is lordship staggered out, covered wi' blood, an' said as there'd bin an accident, or summink like that, an' the prisoner were dead… sir.” He took a breath and plunged on. “'E looked terrible white and shocked, sir, poor gennelman. So I sent Bailey for 'elp. I think 'e got a glass o' water, but 'is lordship were too upset ter take it.”

“Did you go to the cell to look at the prisoner?” the coroner demanded.

“Yes sir, 'course I did. 'E were lyin' in a pool o' blood like a lake, sir, an' 'is eyes were wide open an' starin'.” He tugged at his collar again.

“'E were dead. Weren't nuffink more ter be done for 'im. I pulled the door to, didn't lock it, weren't no point. Alcott went ter report wot 'ad ' appened, an' I tried ter do what I could fer ' is lordship till 'elp come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jimson.” The coroner looked for Goode.

“Where is Mr. Goode?” he asked with a frown. “I understood he was to represent the family of the dead man. Is that not so?”

Rathbone rose to his feet. “Yes sir, he is. I don't know what may have kept him. I ask the court's indulgence. I am sure he will not be long.” He had better not be, he thought grimly, or we shall lose this by default! “This is not a court of advocacy, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner said irritably. “If Mr. Goode does not favor us with his presence, we shall proceed without him. Have you any questions you wish to ask this witness?”

Rathbone drew in his breath to make as long-winded a reply as he could, and was saved the necessity by the doors swinging open wide on their hinges.

Ebenezer Goode swept in, coattails flying, arms full of papers, and strode up to the front. He bestowed a dazzling smile upon the coroner, apologized profusely and took his seat, managing to disturb everyone within a ten-foot radius.

“Are you ready, Mr. Goode?” the coroner asked with heavy sarcasm. “May we proceed?”

“Of course!” Goode said, still with the same smile. “Very civil of you to have waited for me.”

“We did not wait for you!” the coroner snapped. “Do you have questions for this witness, sir?”

“Yes indeed, thank you.” Goode rose to his feet, upset his papers and picked them up, then proceeded to ask a lot of questions which merely reaffirmed what Jimson had already said. No one learned anything new, but it wasted considerable time, which was Goode's purpose. And Rathbone's. The coroner kept his temper with difficulty.

Bailey, the second gaoler, was called next, and the coroner elicited from him confirmation of everything Jimson had said, but briefly. There were no contradictions to explore.

It took all Goode's ingenuity to think of sufficient questions to stretch it out a further half hour, and Rathbone found it hard to add anything at all. He redescribed Caleb's words, his gestures, his tone of voice, his behavior earlier during the trial. He even asked Bailey what he thought Ca- leb felt and expected of the outcome, until the coroner stopped him and told him he was asking the witness to speculate beyond his ability to know.

“But sir, Mr. Bailey is an expert witness on the mood and expectations of prisoners charged with capital crimes,” Rathbone protested. “It is his daily occupation. Surely he, of all men, may know whether a prisoner has hope of being acquitted or not? It is of the utmost importance in learning the truth that we know whether Caleb Stone was in despair, or still nurtured some hope of life.”

“Of course it is, Mr. Rathbone,” the coroner conceded. “But you have already drawn from Mr. Bailey, and Mr. Jimson, everything that they know.

It is up to me to reach conclusions, not the witnesses, however experienced.”

“Yes sir,” Rathbone said reluctantly. It was only one o'clock.

The coroner looked at the clock and adjourned for luncheon.

“Have you heard from Monk?” Goode demanded when he and Rathbone were seated in an excellent tavern nearby and enjoying a meal of roast beef and vegetables, ale, apple and blackberry pie, ripe Stilton cheese, and biscuits. “Has he learned anything?”

“No, I haven't,” Rathbone said grimly. “I know he went to Chilverley, but I haven't heard a thing after that.”

Goode helped himself to a large portion of cheese.

“And what about the nurse, what's her name? Latterly?” he asked. “Did she learn anything of use? I see her in court. Shouldn't she be in the East End? We could have put off calling her today. She might have given us something!”

“She's already learned all she can,” Rathbone said defensively. “She said there's nothing there we don't already know.”

“What about Caleb, damn it!” Goode said angrily. “If this isn't an accident, then either it's suicide-and we've already decided that is unlikely-or it's murder. In the interests of human decency, never mind abstract concepts like truth, we need to know.”

“Then we'll have to go further back than Caleb's life in Limehouse,”

Rathbone replied, taking another biscuit. “It lies in the relationship between Ravensbrook, Angus and him. That is in Chilverley. All we can do is stretch this out until Monk himself returns, or at least sends us a witness!” Goode sighed. “And God knows what we'll learn then!” “Or what we'll be able to prove,” Rathbone added, finishing his ale.

The afternoon proceedings began with the coroner calling Milo Ravensbrook to the stand. There was instant silence around the room. Even the barest rustling of movement ceased and every eye was on him. His skin was sickly pale but his clothes were immaculate and his bearing upright. He looked neither right nor left as he took his place behind the rail and swore in a precise, slightly hoarse voice as to his name. His jacket was open and hung a little loosely, to accommodate the bandages where he had been injured.

His jaw was tight, but whether it was clenched in physical pain or emotional distress no one could say.

There was a murmur of both awe and sympathy even before the coroner spoke.

Rathbone glanced at the crowd. Enid looked at her husband, and her eyes were shadowed with unhappiness and pity. Almost absently her hand strayed to Genevieve beside her.

“Lord Ravensbrook,” the coroner began, “will you please tell us what happened on the day of Caleb Stone's death? You do not need to repeat anything before you actually went into his cell, unless you wish to do so.

I have no desire to harrow your feelings more than is my duty and cannot be avoided.”

“Thank you,” Ravensbrook acknowledged without turning his head. He stared at the wall opposite him, and spoke as if in a trance. He seemed to be reliving the events in his mind, more real to him than the paneled room, the mild face of the coroner, or the crowd listening to his every word. All eyes were upon his face, which was racked with emotions, and yet curiously immobile, as if it were all held inside him with unyielding self-control.