Hester had liked him ever since first meeting him in the Stonefield case. Staring around the courtroom, more to judge the emotion of the crowd than to note who was present, she was lent a moment's real happiness to see Enid Ravensbrook, her face smoothed of its earlier suffering, her eyes gentle and bright as she watched Goode, a smile on her lips. Hester looked more closely, and saw there was a gold wedding band on her hand, not the one she had worn earlier, but a new one. For an instant she forgot the present ache of fear and tragedy.
But it was brief. Reality returned with Riley's answer.
"He was also very severely injured," he said quietly.
There was barely a sound in the room. There were faint rustles, tiny movements, a sigh of breath. The jurors never took their eyes from the proceedings.
"A great deal of blood?" Goode pressed.
Riley hesitated.
No one moved.
"No…" he said at last. "When a person is kicked and punched there are terrible bruises, but the skin is not necessarily broken. There was some, especially where his ribs were cracked. One had pierced the skin. And on his back. There the flesh had been ripped.”
There was a gasp of indrawn breath in the room. Several of the jurors looked very white.
"But Sergeant Evan said that the accused's clothes were soaked in blood, Dr. Riley," Goode pointed out. "Where did that come from, if not from his injuries?”
"I assume from the dead man," Riley replied. "His wounds were more severe, and there were several places where the skin was broken. But I am surprised he bled so badly.”
"And there were no wounds on the accused to account for such blood?”
Riley pressed.
"No, there were not.”
"Thank you, Dr. Riley.”
Rathbone rose. It was a forlorn hope, but he had nothing else. He must try anything, no matter how remote. He had no idea what Monk would produce, and there were always the possibilities that involved Arthur and Duke Kynaston.
"Dr. Riley, have you any way of knowing whose blood it was on Rhys Duffs clothes?”
"No, sir," Riley answered without the least resentment. The smooth expression of his face suggested he had no conviction in the matter himself, only a sadness that the whole event should have happened at all.
"So it could belong to a third, or even a fourth person, whom we have not yet mentioned?”
"It could… were there such a person.”
The jury looked bemused.
The judge watched Rathbone anxiously, but he did not intervene.
"Thank you," Rathbone nodded. "That is all I have to ask you, sir.”
Goode called Corriden Wade, who reluctantly, pale-faced, his voice barely heard, admitted that Rhys's injuries could not have produced the blood described on his clothes. Not once did he look up to the dock where Rhys sat motionless, his face twisted in an unreadable expression, a mixture of helpless bitterness and blazing anger. Nor did Wade appear to look towards the gallery where Sylvestra sat next to Eglantyne, both of them watching him intently. He kept his eyes undeviatingly on Goode, confirming that the events of that night of his father's death had rendered Rhys incapable of communication, either by speech or by writing. He was able only to nod or shake his head. He expressed the deepest concern for his well-being, and would not commit himself to any certainty that he would recover.
Goode hesitated, as if to ask him further as to his knowledge of Rhys's personality, but after the vaguest of beginnings, he changed his mind.
There was nothing for him to prove but the facts, and to explore the growth of motive only opened the way for Rathbone to suggest insanity.
He thanked Wade and returned to his seat.
Rathbone took his place. He knew Wade was as sympathetic a witness as he would get, apart from Hester, whom he could find no excuse to call.
And yet he had nothing to ask Wade which would not do more harm than good. He needed something from Monk as desperately as he ever had, and he did not even know what to hope for, let alone to seek, or to suggest. He stood in the middle of the floor feeling alone and ridiculous. The jury were waiting for him to say something, to begin to fight back. He had done nothing so far except make a gesture about the blood, one which he knew no one believed.
Should he ask Wade about the deterioration of Rhys's character, and lay grounds for a plea of insanity… at least in mitigation? He thought it was what Sylvestra wanted. It was the only thing which was comprehensible for such an act.
But it was not a defence in law, not for Rhys. He may be evil, acting from a different set of moral beliefs from anyone else in this crowded room, but he was not insane in any sense that he did not understand either the law, or the nature of his acts. There was nothing whatever to suggest he suffered delusions.
"Thank you, Dr. Wade," he said with confidence he was far from feeling. "I believe you have known Rhys most of his life, is that correct?”
"I have," Wade agreed.
"And been his physician, when he required one?”
"Yes.”
"Were you aware of there being a serious and violent disagreement with his father, and if so, over what subject?”
It was a question to which Wade would find it extremely difficult to answer in the affirmative. If he admitted it, it would seem incompetent that he had not done anything to forestall this tragedy. It would seem like wisdom after the event, and Sylvestra would see it as a betrayal, as indeed so might some of the jury.
"Dr. Wade?" he prompted.
Wade raised his head and stared at him resolutely.
"I was aware of a certain tension between them," he answered, his voice stronger, full of regret. "I thought it the normal resentment a son might have for the discipline a father naturally exerts." He bit his lip and drew in a deep breath. "I had no idea whatever it would end like this. I blame myself. I should have been more aware. I have had a great deal of experience with men of all ages, and under extreme pressure, during my service in the Navy." A ghost of a smile touched his mouth and then vanished. "I suppose closer to home, in people for whom one has affection, one is loath to recognise such things.”
It was a clever answer, honest and yet without committing himself. And it earned the jury's respect. Rathbone could see it in their faces. He would have been wiser not to have asked, but it was too late now.
"You did not foresee it?" he repeated.
"No," Wade said quietly, looking down. "I did not, God forgive me.”
Rathbone hesitated on the brink of asking him if he thought Rhys insane, and decided against it. No answer, either way, could help enough to be worth the risk.
"Thank you, Dr. Wade. That is all.”
Goode had already established the violence of the fight, and the fact that Leighton Duff and Rhys had been involved, and there was no reason to suspect anyone else being there. He called the Duff household servants, deeply against their will, and obliged them to testify to the quarrel the evening of Leighton Duffs death, and the time both men had left the house. At least he spared Sylvestra the distress of testifying.
All the time Rhys sat propped up in the dock, his skin ashen pale, his eyes seeming enormous in his haggard face, a prison warder on either side of him, perhaps more to support him than to restrain. He did not look capable of offering any resistance, let alone an attempt to escape.
Rathbone forced himself to put the thought of him out of his mind. He must use intelligence rather than emotion. Let anyone else feel all the compassion they could, his brain must be clear.
There seemed no way of casting the slightest doubt, reasonable or unreasonable, on Rhys's physical guilt, and he was struggling without a glimmer of hope to think of any mitigation.
Where was Monk?
He dared not look at Hester. He could imagine too clearly the panic she must be feeling.