Slaves of Obsession

6

IT TOOK THEM that evening and the next day to reach Richmond. They traveled partly by trains, begging rides where they could, amid the wounded passing back from the battlefront. However, unlike the Union troops, the Southerners were elated with victory, and several spoke of it being the end of the war. Perhaps now the Northerners would leave them alone and allow them to live as they chose as a separate nation. Hester saw in their faces a bewilderment as to why there should have been any fighting anyway. Among some there were jokes, a kind of relief that they had been pushed to the final measure and not been found wanting.

Breeland’s bruised and dislocated shoulder had been wrenched back into place and was now in a sling. It must have been painful, but it was not an injury that needed any further treatment. His other cuts were minor. Most of the blood on his clothes was other people’s, from when he had been trying to help the wounded. Monk had found him a fresh jacket, not for cleanliness but in order not to give away his Union loyalty. Like all of them, he was exhausted, but perhaps more than they, he was heartsick. He could hardly be otherwise.

Several times Hester glanced sideways at him as they rode south. The sun picked out the tiny lines in his skin, which were dirt ingrained and deepened by weariness. His muscles seemed locked tight, as if, were she to touch him, they would be hard. His hands were clenched on his legs, surprisingly large hands, very strong. She could see anger in him, but not fear. His thoughts were far away. He was struggling with something within himself and they had no part in it.

She watched Merrit, who also was little aware of the lovely country through which they passed with its heavy shade trees and small rural communities. They saw few men working in the fields, and those they did see were white. Merrit could think only of Breeland. She did not interrupt his thoughts, but she watched him with tense anxiety, her face almost bloodless. Hester knew that in spite of her own horror and exhaustion, the girl was trying to imagine herself into his sense of confusion and shame because of the way the battle had turned. His beloved Union not only had lost but had done so with dishonor. He must feel his beliefs threatened. What was there one could say to a man suffering such pain? Wisely, she did not try.

Hester looked also at Philo Trace. She judged him to be almost ten years older than Breeland, and in the harsh sunlight, tired and grimed with dust and gun smoke still, the lines of his face were deeper than Breeland’s and there were far more of them from nose to mouth and around the eyes. It was a more mobile face, more marked by character, both laughter and pain. There was not the same smoothness to it, the intense control. It was a private face, but there was no timidity in it.

There was something in Breeland’s features that frightened her. It was not a presence so much as an absence, something human and vulnerable she could not see or reach. Was it that which Merrit admired? Or was it simply not there yet because he was younger? Time and experience would write it in the future.

Or did Hester imagine it all because she knew he had killed Daniel Alberton for the guns as coldly as if he were … she had been going to think “an animal.” But she could not have killed an animal without horror.

They rode in silence except for the necessary words for convenience and understanding. There was nothing else to say; no one seemed to wish to bridge the gulf between them. With Monk there was no need to speak. She knew they felt similarly, and the lack of words between them was companionable.

Nearer Richmond, they passed large plantations, and it was here that they saw black men laboring in the fields, backs bent, working in teams like patient animals. White men kept control, walking up and down, watching. Once she saw an overseer raise a long whip and bring it down across a black man’s shoulders with a sharp crack. He staggered, but made no cry.

Hester felt sick. It was a very slight thing—it might happen dozens of times a day somewhere or other—but it was a sign of something deeply alien to all she accepted. Suddenly this was a different land. She was among people who practiced a way of life she could never tolerate, and she found herself staring at Philo Trace with new thoughts. She had liked him. He was gentle; he had humor and kindness, imagination, a love of beauty, and a generosity of spirit. How could he fight so hard to maintain a culture that did this?

She saw the flush on his cheeks under her gaze.

“There are four million slaves in the South,” he said quietly. “If they revolt it will become a slaughterhouse.”

Breeland turned and stared at him with unutterable contempt. He did not bother to speak. Merrit’s expression mirrored his exactly.

The color in Trace’s cheeks deepened.

“America is a rich country,” he went on steadily, refusing to be silenced. “Towns are springing up all over, especially in the North. There’s industry and prosperity—”

“Not if you are a colored person!” Merrit snapped.

Trace did not look at her.

A brief, contemptuous smile curled her lips.

“We export all kinds of things,” Trace went on. “Manufactured goods from the North where industrialists grow rich—”

“Not on slave labor!” Breeland spoke at last. “We profit on what we make with our own hands!”

“Out of cotton,” Trace said quietly. “More than half our nation’s exports are cotton. Did you know that? Cotton grown in the South … and that doesn’t count sugar, rice and tobacco. Who do you think plants, tends and picks the tobacco for your cigars, Breeland?”

Breeland drew in his breath sharply as if to speak, then let it out again.

Trace turned away and looked across the lovely, gentle countryside. There was grief and guilt in his face, a love for something that was beautiful, and terrible, and that he feared to lose. Perhaps he also expected to lose it, if not for everyone, at least for himself.

They went by train, first from Richmond down through Weldon and Goldsboro to the coastal port of Wilmington in North Carolina. From there they went inland again to Florence and finally to Charleston in South Carolina, where, just over three months before, the first shot of the war had been fired to start the bombardment of Fort Sumter.

Monk and Hester remained with Breeland and Merrit while Trace went to make arrangements for passage to England. The trip south had been tense and exhausting. Breeland had made no attempt to escape, nor had Merrit tried to help him, but Hester and Monk were both aware that only extreme watchfulness could assure that it did not happen. It was necessary for them to take turns in keeping awake, with a loaded pistol always to hand.

Once Breeland glanced at Hester with a look of disdain in his eyes, until he considered her face more carefully, and the contempt was replaced with the knowledge that she had seen more death than he had. He was no longer certain that she would not shoot … perhaps not to kill, but certainly to cause extreme and disabling pain. After that he made no attempt to escape from her vigil.

There was much talk in Charleston of the blockade that Mr. Lincoln had declared along the entire coastline of the South, right from Virginia around to Texas. They speculated as to whether it would succeed, and there was talk of gun-running through the Bahamas or other such neutral islands.

But on the second day Trace returned to say he had found passage, and they would leave with the tide the following evening.

The journey back across the Atlantic took only thirteen days, and they seemed to have a fair wind almost all the way. In every physical aspect, it was a pleasure to walk on the deck in the sun with a blue sky around them and a vivid blue sea in every direction, unbroken to the horizon. Merrit was barely recognizable as the girl she had been before the battle and its loss. The determination was still there and the passion, but a joy in her had been destroyed, at least for a time. The heroism of reality had been nothing like that of her dreams. If she had also seen a vulnerability in Breeland, even a flaw, she was too loyal to betray it even in the meeting of a glance.

Emotionally, however, it was quite different.

When Breeland had recovered from his exhaustion of body and the pain in his shoulder was considerably eased, he demanded to speak with Monk. The cabin arrangements had been made so that Trace could keep a reasonable watch upon Breeland. No more was necessary, since escape was obviously impossible. Breeland refused to say anything except if Monk should see him alone.

Monk would have refused him, but his own curiosity was piqued, and he was moved in spite of himself by an urgency in Breeland, as if what he wished to impart was not merely the expected justification of his actions or an offer of some bargain in exchange for his freedom.

They stood on the deck, a little apart from the other passengers, of whom there were far fewer than on the outward voyage. There were no return immigrants, no one coming back from the new world to the old, hoping for better opportunities, greater freedoms. It seemed either no one wished to, or if they did, they were unable to flee the war.

“What is it?” Monk asked a little ungraciously, staring at Breeland as he leaned over the rail watching the blue water churn away to the side and behind them.

Breeland did not move or turn to face him. “Mrs. Monk told Merrit that my watch was found in the warehouse yard where Daniel Alberton was killed,” he said.

“It was,” Monk replied. “I found it myself.”

“I gave it to Merrit, for a keepsake.” He was still staring at the water.

“How gallant of you,” Monk said sarcastically.

“Not particularly.” Breeland was dismissive. “It was a good watch, given to me by my grandfather as a gift on my graduation. I intended to marry Merrit … I thought then that I would be free to do so.”

“I meant how gallant of you to mention the fact, now that it has been found at the scene of her father’s murder,” Monk corrected him.

Breeland turned slowly, his face cold, contempt in his gray eyes. “You can’t possibly imagine she could have murdered her father—shot him, apparently. That is despicable. Even Philo Trace would not stoop to suggesting that.”

“No, I don’t believe it,” Monk agreed. “I think you did, with her there, either helping you or as a hostage.” He smiled grimly. “Although I did consider the possibility that you were alone, and you dropped the watch there on purpose, knowing we knew she had it, in order to stop us from following you.”

Breeland was startled. “You thought I’d do that! In God’s name—” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head, his eyes wide. “You have no idea … have you? Your mind, your aspirations are so … so low, you think of abominations. You have no concept of the nobility of the struggle for the freedom of others. I pity you.”

Monk was surprised he was not angrier, but there was a cold passion in Breeland’s face too alien to stir such a familiar emotion in him.

“We have different ideas of nobility,” he replied quite calmly. “I saw nothing to admire in the three dead bodies in the warehouse yard, bound hand and foot and shot in the back of the head. Whose freedom were they limiting, apart from yours to steal the guns they weren’t willing to sell you?”

Breeland frowned. “I did not kill Alberton. I never saw him again after I left the evening you were there.” It seemed to puzzle him. “He sent me a message that night that he had changed his mind and was willing to sell the guns to me after all, at the full price, and he would have his agent, Shearer, deliver them to me at the railway station. I was to tell no one, because he believed Trace would be annoyed when he found out and might even become violent.” His lips twisted into a slight sneer. “Tragically, he was right. Only he could not have counted on you being such a fool as to believe Trace … except that Trace has been paying much attention to Mrs. Alberton, and she was easily flattered. Or had you not noticed that either? Perhaps like a lot of Englishmen, you have too much of a vested interest in the continuation of slavery to want the Rebels to lose.” It was meant as an insult, and said as such.

This time Monk was angry, startlingly so. There was something in the suggestion that Judith Alberton had, at best, turned a blind eye to her husband’s murder which filled him with a cold rage. The remark about slavery was perhaps well founded, and mattered not at all. He despised slavery as much as Breeland did. His muscles tensed with the desire to hit Breeland as hard as he could. It took a great effort to use only words as weapons.

“I have no interest in slavery,” he said icily. “Perhaps you had not noticed it, but we got rid of it in England a long time ago, generations before you were suddenly moved to take it up. Although we do buy slave-picked cotton … from you, actually. Millions of dollars’ worth of it. And tobacco too. Perhaps we shouldn’t?”

“That’s not—” Breeland began, his face a dull red.

“The issue?” Monk cut in, his eyebrows raised. “No, it isn’t. The issue is that Alberton refused to sell you the guns you wanted, so you murdered him and stole them. What for, or how noble the cause, is irrelevant.” He could not resist sneering. “How brave!”

Fury and humiliation flared in Breeland’s face. “I did not kill Alberton!” He forced the words between his teeth, standing upright from the rail now and facing Monk, the wind tugging at his hair. “I had no need to—even if you believe I was capable of it. He sold me the guns. Ask Shearer. Why don’t you ask him?”

Was it conceivable? For the first time Monk actually considered the possibility that Breeland might not be guilty.

Breeland saw the wavering in his eyes.

“Not much of a policeman, are you?” he said contemptuously.

Monk was stung. He knew he had allowed himself to be read.

“So Merrit gave the watch to Trace, who just happened to go and murder Alberton minutes after someone took the guns from the warehouse yard, and Trace left the watch there?” he said in feigned amazement. “And unfortunately this Shearer, unknown to Alberton or Casbolt, took the guns to you, then took the money you paid him and disappeared?” He shrugged. “Or alternately, Merrit gave the watch to Shearer, perhaps? And he murdered his employer and took the guns to you? His motive would be clear enough, the money. But why did Merrit do that? She did do that, didn’t she? You have no idea where she was while you were conducting this elusive business with the vanishing Mr. Shearer.”

Breeland drew in his breath sharply, but he had no answers, and the confusion in his face betrayed him. He looked away at the blue water again. “No … she was with me at the time. But she’ll swear I bought the guns fairly from Shearer, and I never went anywhere near Tooley Street. Ask her!”

Of course Monk did ask her, although he was almost certain what she would say. Nothing that had happened in Washington or on the battlefield, or on the journey through the South to the ship, had altered her devotion to Breeland or the fierce, defensive compassion she had for him in his army’s defeat. She watched him in the bitterness of his knowledge and the ache to help was naked in her face. He could never have doubted her.

What Breeland felt for her was far harder to read. He was gentle with her, but the wound to his pride was too raw for anyone to touch, perhaps least of all the woman he loved, and to whom he had spoken so fiercely of the greatness of the cause and the victory they would win. He would not be the first or the last man to boast overmuch of his courage or honor, but he seemed to find it harder than most to accommodate himself to a setback, great or small. There was no flexibility in him, no capacity to mock himself or step, even for an instant, outside his consuming passion.

Monk was uncertain whether he admired Breeland or not. Perhaps it was only such men who achieved the great changes in governments or nations. It might be the price of such mighty gains.

Hester had no doubt about it. She thought him innately selfish, and she said so.

“Perhaps Merrit understands him?” Monk suggested to her as they walked together on the deck as the dying sun splashed across the ruffled water, spilling color like fire over the blue. “Words or gestures are not always necessary.”

“Rubbish!” She dismissed the argument, narrowing her eyes against the light and staring seawards. “Of course they aren’t. But a look is … or a touch, something. She’s feeling for both of them now, sharing his pain and loving him desperately. But what about her pain? It’s her father who’s dead, not his! She’s not a soldier, William, any more than you are.” Her eyes were very gentle, searching his for the wound she could heal. “Maybe he doesn’t have nightmares about the battlefield, about Sudley Church, and the men we couldn’t help … but she does.” Her lips were soft, full of pain. “So do I. Perhaps we should. But we need someone to hold on to.”

“Maybe he’s already said all he can to her?” he answered, moving closer and putting his arm around her.

Her face in the beautiful light was quite suddenly full of anger, her eyes wide. “She’ll die of loneliness … when she realizes at last that he isn’t going to give her anything of himself. He’s always going to love the Union first, because it’s easier. It doesn’t ask anything back.”

“It asks everything back!” he protested. “His time, his career, even his life!”

She looked at him steadily. “But not his laughter, or his patience, or generosity to forget himself for a little while,” she explained. “Or think of something that perhaps doesn’t interest him especially. It won’t ever ask him to listen instead of speaking, to change his mind before he’s ready to, to walk a little more slowly or reconsider some of his judgments, let somebody else be the hero, without making a grand gesture of it.”

He knew what she meant.

“He’ll always do it on his terms,” she finished quietly. It was like a damnation.

“Are you sure he killed Alberton?” he asked her.

It was several minutes before she replied. The sky was darkening and the color across the water no longer had the same heat in it. The depth of the sky was indigo shadow, limitless, so beautiful its briefness ached inside her. No matter that there would be dusk tomorrow night, and the night after, and after that; none of them would ever be long enough. And soon she would see them not across the water but over city roofs.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “No other answer makes any sense … but I’m not certain.”

The ship docked at Bristol and Monk disembarked first, leaving the others behind in Trace’s care. He went straight to the nearest police station and told them who he was and of his association with Lanyon regarding the murders in Tooley Street, which crimes had been well reported in the newspapers. He told them he had brought Lyman Breeland back, also Merrit Alberton, and proposed to take them to London by train.

The police were duly impressed and offered to send a constable with them for assistance, and to make sure the prisoners did not escape during the journey. Monk noted the use of the plural with a twinge of distress, but not surprise.

“Thank you,” he accepted. It was not willingly that he included another person—it robbed him of some of his autonomy—but he would require official help, and it would be idiotic to risk losing all they had gained for a matter of pride and the right to make choices which probably would not make the slightest difference in the end.

As it was, the journey was uneventful. The Bristol police had telegraphed ahead, and Lanyon was at the railway station to meet them. Seeing the crowds, Monk was relieved. It might have proved very difficult to keep Breeland from breaking away without help. Had either he or Trace brandished a pistol they might well have been overpowered by some member of the public brave enough to attempt it and innocent enough to have believed Breeland a victim of kidnap.

Whether the fact that they still held Merrit would have restrained him was not something on which Monk would have wished to rely. Breeland might have justified to himself that the Union cause was of greater importance than the life of one woman, whoever it was. He might even have convinced himself that yielding her up was his sacrifice as much as anyone else’s. Or alternatively, he could have chosen to assume she would not be charged with anything, still less found guilty.

Might that be because she was innocent?

Or was it a fair price to pay because she too was guilty?

Now it did not matter, because Lanyon was there with two constables, and Breeland was taken in charge and handcuffed.

“And you, Miss Alberton,” Lanyon said grimly, his long face wearing an expression of puzzlement and regret.

The light died out of Merrit’s eyes and her shoulders drooped. Monk realized that at least for a while her emotions had been centered on Breeland and she had allowed herself to forget her own jeopardy. Now it was back, and real.

Breeland moved his shoulders, as if, had he been free, he would have touched her, reassured her in some way. But he was already handcuffed.

It was Hester who put her arm around the girl. “We shall do all we can to get you the best help,” she said clearly. “We will go first to your mother and tell her you are alive and quite well. At the moment she does not even know that.”

Merrit closed her eyes, tears seeping from under the lids. So close to home, courage was harder to find, the pain sharper. Until now her thoughts had all been upon Breeland. Perhaps she had not even considered her mother. But with familiar English voices around her, the sights and smells of home, the adventure was over and the long, quiet payment for it had begun.

She tried to speak, to thank Hester, but she could not do it and still keep control of herself. She chose silence.

Over Lanyon’s shoulder Monk could see a knot of people gathering, glancing towards them with curiosity. Their faces were ugly, prying, ready for anger.

Lanyon saw his gaze. He looked apologetic.

“We’d better go,” he said hastily. “Before they guess who you are. There’s a lot of bad feeling about.”

“Feeling?” Hester asked, not immediately grasping what he was afraid of.

Lanyon lowered his voice, his brows drawn down. “In the newspapers, ma’am. There’s been a good deal said about Mr. Alberton’s death, and foreigners coming over here and seducing young women into murder, and the like. I think we should leave here as quickly as we can.” He was very careful not to look behind him as he spoke, but already Monk could see the crowd thickening and faces growing uglier. One or two people were quite openly staring now. They seemed to be moving closer.

“That’s appalling!” Hester was angry, a flush spreading up her cheeks. “Nobody’s even been charged yet, let alone tried!”

“We can’t fight from here,” Monk said sharply. He could hear his own voice rising as he thought of how quickly the situation could become violent. He was afraid for Hester. Her indignation could make her careless of her own safety, and a mob would distinguish little between their victim and someone who chose to protect him.

Lanyon said exactly the same. “You come now, quickly,” he ordered, looking at Breeland. “Don’t get any fancy ideas of causing a riot and hoping you’ll get away in it. You won’t! You’ll just get beaten, like as not, and Miss Alberton along with you.”

Breeland hesitated a moment, as if he actually weighed such a plan in his mind, then looked at Merrit’s white face and the misery in her eyes, and abandoned the idea. As if surrendering, he lowered his head a fraction and walked obediently between Lanyon and the constable.

Merrit followed a few paces behind, with the second constable, leaving Monk, Hester and Philo Trace on the platform.

“We must go to Mrs. Alberton,” Trace said anxiously. “She will be distracted with worry. I wish to heaven there were something we could do to clear Merrit of this crime. Surely we can prevent her from being charged?” His words were positive, but his voice belied them. He looked at Monk as if he hoped for help beyond his own power to conceive. “Surely they wouldn’t really think …” He trailed off. He turned to Hester as if to say more, then saw her face.

They all knew Merrit was in love with Breeland, and loyal. That alone would have forbidden her from abandoning him, whatever the truth of the murder. She would see excusing herself as betrayal, which was to her a sin of even greater evil than the original crime. Perhaps, too late, she would regret it, but in any foreseeable future she would not separate herself from Breeland or her fate from his.

“We’ll go straightaway,” Monk agreed.

They were tired after the long train journey in the oppressive heat of early August. Hester was acutely aware of being stained with smuts from the engine fires and that at least the lower foot of her traveling dress was grimed with dust, not to mention creased, but she did not demur. It was also nearly seven in the evening, and hardly the hour to make unannounced calls upon anyone. That too was irrelevant. Without further discussion they piled their cases upon the porter’s wagon and made for the exit, and the nearest cab to take them to Tavistock Square.

Judith Alberton received them without even a pretense of formality. Unconsciously, it was Philo Trace to whom she looked first.

“We have Merrit,” he responded, his eyes softening as they met hers. “She is very tired, and much distressed by all that has happened, but she is unhurt and quite well.”

Her face flooded with relief, but she hesitated.

As if reading her thoughts he answered, “She is not married to Breeland, and she knew nothing of her father’s death … but then you cannot have imagined that she did.”

“No … no, of course not.” She gazed straight back at him, as if to emphasize her words. She was waiting for something else, something so far unsaid. She recollected herself, and that Monk and Hester were still awaiting her acknowledgment. She flushed slightly, turning to them. “I cannot say how grateful I am to you for your courage and skill in bringing back my daughter. I confess, I thought I was asking the impossible. I—I hope you sustained no injury? I cannot believe there was no hardship. I … I wish there were some way I could reward you more than in words, or money, because what you have done is greater than either.”

“We succeeded this far,” Monk said simply. “That is a very considerable reward in itself. I don’t wish to sound graceless, Mrs. Alberton, but would you accept that we did it because we also believed it to be important, and not take upon yourself an additional burden of gratitude.”

Hester found herself smiling with a warmth of pride. It was a generous speech, and she knew it was said spontaneously. She reached out her hand and placed it very lightly on his arm, avoiding his gaze, and moved half a step closer to him. She knew he was aware of her by the slightest warmth up his cheek.

Judith Alberton was smiling also, but the fear had not left her eyes. She must have been far more aware than they of what the newspapers had written.

“Thank you. Please come and sit down. Are you hungry? Have you had any rest since you arrived?”

They accepted gratefully, without telling her exactly how arduous the journey had been. They were partway through an excellent dinner when Robert Casbolt arrived, coming straight into the dining room without waiting for the footman to announce him. He glanced at the assembled company around the table, but his eyes rested on Judith.

She looked up at him without surprise, as if he frequently appeared in such a way.

Hester saw the glint of anger in Trace’s expression, masked the moment later, but she thought she understood it.

If Casbolt saw it also, he gave no sign.

“She is safe and well,” Judith said in answer to his unspoken question.

Something in him darkened, and he could not hide the foreboding in it. “Where is she?”

Judith’s mouth tightened. “The police have arrested her, and of course Breeland.”

“They have Breeland!” He was startled. For the first time he looked fully at Monk, but still ignored Philo Trace. “You brought him back? I commend you! How did you persuade him?”

“At gunpoint,” Monk said dryly.

Casbolt made no attempt to hide his admiration. “That is truly remarkable! I apologize for underestimating you. I admit, I had little hope you could succeed.” He seemed overwhelmed. He pulled out one of the empty chairs and sat down. He waved away the footman’s offer of food or wine with a smile, not taking his eyes from Monk. “Please tell me what happened. I am most eager to know.” He did not ask Judith’s permission, but perhaps he already understood that she would care even more than he.

Monk began to recount their adventures, condensing the tale as much as he could, but frequently both Casbolt and Judith interrupted him, asking for more detail and offering praise or expressing alarm at their danger. Judith particularly was distressed at the plight of the American people caught up in a terrible war. It seemed there were vivid, fragmented reports of the battle at Bull Run in the newspaper already. They said the slaughter had been fearful.

Monk said as little as he could about it while still making sense of the account. Judith grew more tense with every few moments. Her face softened once, when Monk very briefly spoke of Merrit’s helping to prepare the ambulances for the wounded.

“It must have been … terrible beyond words,” she said huskily.

“Yes …” He did not offer to tell her of it, and watching his face, the brightness of the smooth, burned skin over his cheeks, Hester knew it was his own pain he could not relive, not Judith’s he was sparing. She had seen how the horror had overwhelmed him, how the helplessness to do anything in the face of such enormity had robbed him of his belief in himself. She had experienced it herself the first time she had seen battle, and for her it was not so total, because she had at least some medical knowledge, and a function in being there. She could lose herself in the individual she could affect, even if not save. It was not always the success that made it bearable; it was the ability to try.

She had seen it in him, and understood, but it was too raw, too powerful to be touched even by her, or perhaps especially by her. Some wounds have to heal alone, or they do not heal at all.

“Did Breeland not go to the battlefield after all?” Casbolt asked incredulously.

“Yes. It was there we found him.”

“And he came with you?” Casbolt frowned in incomprehension. “Why? He did not have to, surely? I cannot believe his own people would give him up to answer English law.”

“The Union lost,” Monk answered, offering no explanation beyond that simple sentence. He said nothing of the slaughter, the panic, as if the men he had been defending from the shame of it were people he knew. He did not look at either Trace or Hester, or give them time to interrupt. “We went south through the Confederate lines to Richmond, and then Charleston. No one hindered us.”

Judith’s eyes were wide with fierce admiration. Even in these tragic circumstances, Hester could not help thinking what a beautiful woman she was. She was not surprised that Philo Trace was drawn to Judith. She would have found it harder to understand were he not.

“But the police have arrested Merrit,” Judith said to Casbolt. “They found Breeland’s watch in the warehouse yard.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I was there when Monk picked it up.” He seemed puzzled.

Judith lowered her voice. “Breeland gave it to Merrit as a keepsake. I knew that, but I hoped the police would not. However, Dorothea Parfitt told them … in all innocence, I imagine. But it cannot be taken back. Merrit showed it to her, boasting a little, as girls will.” Her composure cracked and she had to struggle to regain it.

Casbolt put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer to him. His face was full of pain, and the strength of his emotion was for a moment completely unguarded.

“Breeland is despicable,” he said softly. “He must have taken it back from her and dropped it there himself, even accidentally, or with the intention of trying to stop us from pursuing him for the harm it could do her. Either way, Judith, I swear we will fight him. We shall obtain the finest lawyers there are, and a Queen’s counsel to defend Merrit, if we cannot prevent it from coming to that.” He turned to Monk. “Is it conceivable Breeland will exonerate her? Does he have any love towards her at all, any honor? After all, he is a grown man, she is little more than a child, and she could never in her life have imagined stealing guns for any cause of her own!”

Hester knew what Monk would say before he spoke. She even glanced at Trace and saw the shadow in his face also.

“No,” Monk answered bluntly. “He denies he ever killed Mr. Alberton or stole anything.” He ignored their disbelief and continued. “He says Mr. Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. He says he bought them quite legally, and paid a man named Shearer for them.”

“What?” Casbolt jerked his head up.

Judith stared at Monk incredulously.

“And he says he has no idea who murdered the men in the warehouse yard,” Monk continued. “But he suggests it might have been Trace, out of revenge for not having been able to purchase the guns.”

“Preposterous!” Casbolt could keep silent no longer. “That’s totally absurd. No one would believe it.” He turned to Judith. “Did you receive any money?”

“No,” she said decisively.

“Who is Shearer anyway? Where is he?” Monk asked her.

“I don’t know where he is,” she admitted. “There has been no money paid for the guns—except, I believe, the money Mr. Trace paid in the beginning.”

Casbolt swung around to Philo Trace. “You paid the first half deposit on the whole shipment, did you not?”

“You know I did, sir.”

“Did you ever receive any part of it refunded because you were not to make the purchase after all?”

“No, not a cent.” Trace’s voice was tight and low, as if he was embarrassed for Judith, although it was in no way her fault.

Casbolt looked at Monk. “That should answer your questions, if you still have any. I don’t know what he has done to Merrit to persuade her of his innocence, or else to coerce her into swearing a lie to protect him, but she is only sixteen, a child. Certainly far too young to have her word taken seriously regarding a man she is obviously obsessed with.” He bit his lip, his expression softening to momentary distress. “Do you think he may have threatened her?”

Again Monk answered honestly. “No. It is my opinion she believes he is innocent. I don’t know why. It may be no more than that she cannot bear to think of his guilt. There is little more bitter than disillusion, and we can make ourselves believe what we need to, however preposterous, at least for a while. We call it loyalty, or faith, or whatever virtue counts most highly to us and fits the need.”

Casbolt glanced across at Judith, then down at the polished surface of the table with its silver and flowers. “There seems no way in which we can protect her from hurt. The best we can do will be to save her from being implicated in Breeland’s guilt in law. The story about our agent Shearer is absurd. Obviously, Breeland organized the stealing of the guns, whether he was there in person or not. We must distance her from that.” He looked at Judith, his face softening again, his voice gentle. “Will you call Pilbeam to handle it for you? If you would rather, I can take care of it, make sure the best possible barrister represents Merrit. There is no need for you to do anything.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you, Robert,” she said quickly, reaching up and taking his hand. “I don’t know how I would have endured these past terrible weeks without your kindness. You have not spared yourself in the slightest, and I know you must be nearly as deeply grieved as I am. Daniel was your friend for even more years than he was my husband. He would be nearly as grateful to you as I am for your tireless care.”

Casbolt colored in an oddly self-conscious way, showing a vulnerability that startled Monk.

“I don’t believe Merrit will consent to be represented separately from Breeland,” Hester said urgently. “And certainly she will not allow him to sacrifice himself for her in any way at all. She is far more disposed to see it as the measure of her love to suffer with him, no matter how innocent she is in fact.”

“But that is …” Casbolt began, then, seeing her face, fell silent. Perhaps he knew Merrit well enough to realize the truth of Hester’s words. He turned to Monk.

But again it was Hester who spoke. “We know Sir Oliver Rathbone quite well. He is the best barrister in London. He can defend her if anyone can.”

Judith turned to her quickly, hope flaring in her eyes. “Would he? She may not be willing to be of any help to herself. Will he not refuse … in the circumstances?” She bit her lip. “I will pay him whatever his price, if that is the question. Please, Mrs. Monk, if there is anything you can do to prevail upon him. I will sell the house, the jewelry I have, everything, to save my daughter.”

“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Hester said softly. “It will not be money that matters to him, although I will tell him how much you care. It will be a question of finding a way to separate Merrit from Breeland’s guilt.”

“Try them separately!” Casbolt could not keep from interrupting; his body was locked with tension, his eyes hollow. “It is transparently unjust to charge them as if they were of one mind and one responsibility. Surely a decent barrister could persuade a jury of that?” There was an edge of desperation in his voice, a sharp, high note close to panic.

“Of course!” Monk said quickly, before he could say more, and Judith would know his fear. “We shall tell him all the circumstances, and if he is willing to take the case, he can then come to you and make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Thank you!” Judith’s face was flooded with relief, and then sudden shame. “You have done so much already. You must be exhausted, and I have sat half the evening pouring out more troubles and expecting your help, when you must be worn to a shadow for lack of sleep, and want more than anything on earth to reach your own home and your own bed. I am sorry.”

“There is no need to be.” Hester reached across quickly and touched Judith’s hand. “We have grown fond of Merrit ourselves, and are almost as angry as you are at the injustice that could be done were Breeland not to pay the price of his crime. Even had you not asked, we should not have wished to leave the task half completed.”

Judith said nothing. She was too full of emotion to retain command of herself.

“Thank you.” Casbolt spoke for her. “It was a fortunate day for us when you crossed our path. Without you this would have been an unmitigated tragedy.” He turned to Trace. “And I have been remiss in acknowledging your part also, sir. Your knowledge and your willingness to take your time and risk your safety in pursuit of justice, and towards Merrit, a very considerable mercy, marks you as a true gentleman. We are in your debt also.”

“There is no debt between friends,” Trace replied. He spoke to Casbolt, but Monk was quite certain his words were meant for Judith.

It was not a task to which Monk looked forward. He had half hoped Judith Alberton would have a lawyer in whom she had such explicit trust that she would look no further, but he had always acknowledged the possibility that in the end Rathbone would have to be approached. This was a desperate case.

Still, as he and Hester rode homeward at last, he felt a weight of oppression settle over him at the prospect of having to go to Vere Street the following day and speak to Oliver Rathbone—worse than that, to ask a favor of him.

Their relationship was long, and tense. Rathbone was by birth everything that Monk was not: privileged, financially comfortable, excellently educated, part of the establishment, effortlessly a gentleman. Monk was a fisherman’s son from Northumberland, a self-made man, grasping his education where he could, bettering himself by imagination and hard work. He could appear a gentleman to the undiscerning eye. He had every whit as much elegance as Rathbone, but it cost him effort. He had learned how to behave, imitated those he admired, but sometimes made mistakes and remembered them with the fire of embarrassment.

Rathbone never made the point that he was superior; to do so would have been unnecessary. Monk was learning that only now, in his forties.

All of which was only a natural abrasion between two men who had equal intelligence and ambition, quickness of thought and word, passion for justice. The issue that mattered, that was always at the front of both their minds, was that they had loved the same woman. And she had chosen Monk.

Now Monk had to go to him and ask his help, offer him a case which could certainly prove complicated and highly emotive, and very possibly incapable of resulting in a satisfactory conclusion. But it was a kind of compliment that he considered Rathbone the only man who could and would attempt such a task.

Hester insisted on going with him.

They came without an appointment and were told by an apologetic clerk that Sir Oliver was in court. However, if the matter was of the urgency they claimed, considering their long association, a message could be sent to the Old Bailey, and Sir Oliver might meet them there during the luncheon recess.

So it proved. The three of them sat together in a crowded inn, hunched over a small table, talking as softly as possible while still loudly enough to be heard above the babble of voices, which were all attempting to do the same thing.

Rathbone acknowledged Hester, then listened studiously to Monk as he told the story, concentrating on putting the case succinctly. Monk was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt.

“I daresay you will have read of the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” he asked.

“Yes,” Rathbone said guardedly. “All England has. Extremely ugly. One of the newspapers this morning said that Lyman Breeland had been brought back to London to stand trial, and Alberton’s daughter also. It is probably nonsense.” He moved the vegetables delicately around his plate. “Someone was seen who resembles them. Why on earth would he leave his cause and his country when they must need him and come back here to face almost certain hanging? I suppose it is conceivable President Lincoln may wish accommodation reached, at a diplomatic level, because of Breeland’s importance to the Union cause, but I cannot see any way of making that sit well with public opinion here, not to mention with the law.” He frowned. “Why? I assume you have some part in it, or you would not have raised the subject.”

“We brought him back,” Monk replied, watching Rathbone’s long, patrician face with its thin cheeks and sensitive mouth. He saw the start of surprise. “At gunpoint,” he added. “But he is not as unwilling as one would suppose.”

“Indeed?” Rathbone’s eyebrows rose.

“He claims he is innocent, and knew nothing about Alberton’s death.” He ignored Rathbone’s expression. “I don’t believe it either, but it is not completely inconceivable. He says Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. The hall porter at Breeland’s rooms did deliver a message to him that night, on receipt of which Breeland packed his belongings and he and Merrit Alberton left immediately.”

“Could have been anything,” Rathbone pointed out. “But continue.”

“He said a man called Shearer, an agent of Alberton’s, brought the entire shipment of guns and ammunition—”

“How much?” Rathbone asked.

“Six thousand rifles and over half a million rounds of ammunition,” Monk replied.

Rathbone’s eyes widened.

“Quite a weight. Not something you carry around in a barrow. Do you know how much that is? A wagon load, two, three?”

“Three at least, large wagons,” Monk replied. “He says Shearer took them to the railway station, where he paid the full price for them, and Shearer went on his way. Breeland never saw Alberton at all, and certainly never harmed him.”

“And what does Merrit Alberton say?” Rathbone glanced at Hester.

“The same,” she answered. “She says they went by train to Liverpool, and from there by sea, calling in at Queenstown in Ireland, and then to New York, and further by train to Washington. We went the same way. She described it pretty accurately.”

Rathbone thanked her. It was impossible to know if he had read anything of her emotions in her face.

“I had thought the police had traced the guns to a barge down the river,” he said thoughtfully. “Did I misread?”

“No. They did. And I was with them,” Monk affirmed. “We traced the barge all the way to Greenwich, where we assume it met a seagoing ship and transferred the guns.”

“So they are both lying?”

“They must be. Unless there is some other explanation we haven’t thought of.”

“And what is it you want of me?” Although there was a rueful, sad shadow of it already in his eyes, there was a smile on his lips, perhaps in memory of other battles they had fought together, both losses and victories that held their hurt.

Hester drew in her breath sharply and left it to Monk to reply.

“To defend Merrit Alberton,” he answered. “She swears she did not murder her father, and I think I believe her.”

Hester leaned forward urgently. “Either way, she is only sixteen, and completely under Breeland’s influence. She believes passionately in his cause and thinks he is a hero, all the noble and brave ideals that any young woman would have.”

Rathbone’s dark eyes widened. “The Union of the American states? Why, for heaven’s sake? Whatever difference could that possibly make to an English girl?”

“No, not the Union, the fight against slavery!” Her own fierce urgency for it, her utter loathing of all the evils of dominion, cruelty and denial were burning in her face. If Merrit Alberton had felt even part of what she did, it would be painfully easy to believe she would have followed to the ends of the earth a man whose crusade was freedom, and thought little of the cost.

Rathbone sighed. Monk knew in a moment of intense understanding exactly what he thought, and was proved correct when he spoke.

“That may well earn her some sympathy with a British jury, who have no more love for slavery than a Unionist, but it will not excuse anything in the eyes of the law. Is she married to this Breeland?”

“No.”

He sighed very slightly. “Well, I suppose that is something. And she is sixteen?”

“Yes. But she won’t testify against him anyway.”

“I assumed as much. And if she would, that would not help us greatly. Loyalty is a very attractive quality; disloyalty is not, even if it is well justified. I swear, Monk, I sometimes think you spend your time trying to find ever more complicated cases for me, until you have one which will confound me completely. You have excelled yourself this time. I barely know where to begin.” But the expression on his face showed that already his mind was racing.

Monk felt the first tiny lift of his spirits. If Rathbone saw it as a personal challenge, he would take it up. Nothing would ever allow him to retreat in front of Hester. The flash of humor, mockery and self-knowledge was there in his eyes, as if he knew Monk’s thoughts as well as he knew his own, and accepted them. If there was a moment of pain, of loneliness, it was hidden instantly.

He began to question them both on every detail he could think of: questions about Casbolt, Judith Alberton, Philo Trace, and the whole of their journey to America and all they had done there. Particularly he was interested in Monk’s journey down the Thames with Lanyon.

He looked distressed, and for a moment seriously out of composure, when Monk told of finding Alberton’s body in the yard, and of almost treading on the watch.

Monk said little of the Battle of Bull Run. The horror of it was not something for which he had words. The few he found were difficult and stilted, the emotion too deep to be shared in this noisy, friendly, peaceful inn. And he was not ready to look at it again himself. It was too closely bound with his love for Hester, and with a strange, sharp sense of his own inability ever to be worthy of that beauty he had seen in her. And anyway, that was the last thing he could share with Rathbone. It would be the ultimate cruelty.

He moved on swiftly to the account of finding Breeland, and how he and Trace had guarded him all the way to Richmond, and then Charleston, and home again.

“I see,” Rathbone said when Monk had finished, with only a few words from Hester. “Then you may tell Mrs. Alberton that I shall call upon her, and she may direct me to her solicitor for instructions. I have a very considerable battle ahead.”

Monk hesitated on the edge of thanking him, then did not. Rathbone had not taken it for him … for Hester perhaps … for the challenge possibly, for justice, but never for Monk, unless it were to prove himself equal to the challenge.

“Good!” he said instead. “Very good!”