“How?” Monk asked, cutting across Rathbone. “What happened? Did he kill himself?” He swore viciously, clenching his fist in the air. “How could they be so damnably stupid? Although I don't know why I care! Better the poor devil does it himself than drag it out to the long torture of a judicial hanging. I should be glad.” He said the words between his teeth, hard and guttural. “Why can't I  Rathbone looked from Monk to Goode. The same conflicting emotions tore inside him. He should have been grateful. Caleb had in effect confessed.

Rathbone had succeeded. The Duke of Wellington's words rang in his ears about the next most terrible thing to a battle lost being a battle won.

There was no taste of victory whatever.

“It wasn't suicide,” Goode said shakily. “Ravensbrook went in to see him, as he asked. Apparently Caleb was concemed he was going to be found guilty.

He said he wanted to write a statement. Perhaps it was a confession, or an indication of something, who knows? Ravensbrook came out for a quill and a paper for him. He took them back in. Apparently the quill was poor. He found his penknife to recut it ...”

Rathbone felt sick, as if he knew the words before they came.

“Caleb suddenly lurched forward, seized the knife, and attacked Ravensbrook,” Goode said, his eyes going from Rathbone to Monk, and back again.

Rathbone was startled. It was not what he had thought after all.

“They fought,” Goode went on. “Poor Ravensbrook is cut quite badly.” “God help him,” Rathbone said quietly. “That was not the ending I wanted, but perhaps it is not the worst. Thank you, Goode. Thank you for telling me.”

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Rathbone was stunned by the news. It was preposterous, even if not all the elements were tragic. He had never known such a thing to happen before, certainly not in this manner.

Monk was standing stock-still, his face dark.

“Come on,” Rathbone said gently. “It's all over.”

Monk did not move. “No it isn't. I don't understand it.”

Rathbone laughed abruptly. “Do you ever? Do any of us? If you thought he was going to tell you what he did with Angus, or why he killed him now, instead of sometime in the past years, you were dreaming. The wretched man was mad. Dear God, wasn't that evidence enough? Jealousy had driven him insane. What more is there to understand?”

“Why he attacked Ravensbrook now,” Monk replied, turning and standing to climb the steps back up. “What good would it have done him?”

“None at all!” Rathbone said impatiently, following rapidly after him.

“What good did killing Angus do him? Nothing except release his hatred.

Perhaps he felt the same way about Ravensbrook. He had nothing to lose.

Can't hang him twice.”

“But they weren't necessarily going to hang him at all!” Monk said sharply, striding through the door and into the hallway. “Goode hadn't even begun.