“But you liked Angus?”

“Yes, yes I liked him.” Now the shadow was gone, she spoke wholeheartedly.

“He was extraordinarily kind. He was a man you could admire without reservation, and yet so modest he never put himself forward, was never pompous. Yes, I liked Angus enormously. I never saw him lose his temper or perform a cruel act.” The marks of grief were plain in her face, but simple loss, without doubt or underlying darkness.

He hated himself for persisting, and yet the nagging anxiety was in his mind like a toothache, dull and ever present, and sometimes giving a stab so sharp it robbed the breath.

“Never?”

“No,” she said as if she had not expected to feel so. “Never. I am not surprised my husband loved him. He was all he could have wished in a son, had he been granted one.”

“He must have hated Caleb for destroying him,” he said gently. “It would be understandable if he could never forgive such an act of treachery. Most especially since Angus still kept such loyalty towards Caleb.”

She turned away, her voice even lower. “Yes, I could not blame him. And yet he does not seem to feel the anger I do. It is almost as if . . .” He waited, leaning forward, the silence in the room prickling his ears.

She turned very slowly to look at him.

“I don't know what you expect me to say, Mr. Goode ......

“The truth, ma'am. It is the only thing clean enough, the only thing which will in the end stand above all the pain.”

“I don't know it!”

“It was almost as if . . . what?” he prompted.

“As if he had known one day it must happen, and it was like a blow he had long awaited, and the reality of it is the end of the tension, almost a solace. Is that a terrible thing to say?”

“No. It is merely sad,” he said gently. “And if we were honest, perhaps something we might all say. One can become very tired.”

She smiled, for the first time some brightness reached her eyes.

“You are very kind, Mr. Goode. I think perhaps you are well named.” For the first time in many years, he felt the color warm in his face, and a strange mixture of pleasure and an awareness of how lonely he was.

Oliver Rathbone was in court when it reconvened. The benches for the crowd were almost empty. The newspapers were blaring headlines that Caleb Stone had tried to commit another murder, this time of the man who had been a father and a benefactor to him, and a greater justice had prevailed-he himself had become the victim. The matter was ended.

The judge looked for Ebenezer Goode, saw his absence, and raised his eyebrows at Rathbone.

“There is no one to defend, my lord,” Rathbone said with a shrug. He did not know where Goode was, and was privately a little disconcerted that he was not present. He had counted on his support.