Slaves of Obsession

7

RATHBONE RETURNED to the courtroom rather hurriedly. His junior was perfectly capable of conducting the present case. It was a routine one: purely a matter of presenting the evidence, most of which was incontestable. It was as well, because all through the afternoon it was not the subject of Regina versus Wollcroft which occupied his mind, but how he would handle the case of Regina versus Breeland and Alberton which he had been rash enough to accept.

He was not only uncomfortable with the case itself but with his own reason for agreeing to take it. He had read something of it in the newspapers, although it did not especially interest him because it seemed so clear-cut, but like most of the editorial writers, he was deeply sorry for Judith Alberton. Compassion was a noble emotion, but it was not a good basis upon which to go to law. Juries might be swayed by sentiment; judges were not. And public opinion was very harshly against Merrit Alberton. It seemed she had conspired with a foreigner to murder her own father. It was an affront to all decencies, to family loyalty, to obedience, to property and to patriotism. If every daughter were free to disobey her father in such a violent and appalling manner, then all society was threatened.

Rathbone found that those assumptions irritated him, and that his respect for the establishment, while deep in the roots of his life—on the surface at least—was becoming a trifle frayed. He despised prejudice, tradition set in rigid minds and no more than habit.

He had also accepted the case in part because he liked the challenge. There was an excitement in stretching himself to the full, and a danger. What if he were not equal to it? What if he failed to secure justice and an innocent man or woman was hanged because he had not been clever enough, brave enough, or imaginative, articulate, persuasive?

Or a guilty man were to be freed? Perhaps to kill again, at the best to profit from his crime and show to others that the law was not capable of protecting his victims?

But even without these he knew he would have accepted it because Hester was involved. She had not said so, but he had seen in her face that she cared for Merrit, might even find something of herself in her, as she might have been at sixteen; wayward, idealistic, too much in love to believe ill of the man in whom she had vested so much, too close to her dream to deny it, whatever the cost.

Was that how she had been? He wished he had known her then. Ridiculous how sharp that ache was, even half a year after she had married Monk. In fact, it was sharper now than it had been when she was still single and Rathbone could have asked her to marry him, if he had only realized how much he had wanted it.

When the case reached its conclusion, satisfactorily and a good hour earlier than he had expected, he accepted his client’s thanks and went out into the hot, noisy August street. He hailed the first available hansom that passed him, giving his father’s address in Primrose Hill. He settled back for the long ride and deliberately let his mind slip into idleness. He did not wish to think of Monk or of his new case. Especially he did not wish to think of Hester.

After an agreeable supper of fresh bread, Brussels pâté, a very pleasant red wine, and then hot plum pie with flaky pastry and fresh cream, he sat back in his armchair and looked through the open French windows across the lawn to the honeysuckle hedge and the orchard beyond. There was no sound but birds singing, and the faint scratch as Henry Rathbone wiggled a small knife around in the bowl of his pipe, not really achieving anything. He did it out of habit, his mind not on the task, just as he seldom actually smoked the pipe. He filled it, tamped down the tobacco, lit it, and invariably allowed it to go out.

“Well?” he said eventually.

Oliver looked up. “Pardon?”

“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

It was both comfortable and disturbing to be understood so well. There was no room for evasions, no escape, and no temptation to try.

“Have you read about the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” Oliver asked.

Henry knocked out his pipe on the fire surround. “Yes?” he said, looking anxiously at Oliver. “I thought it was supposed to be an American gun buyer. Isn’t it?”

“Almost certainly,” Oliver said ruefully. “Monk has just brought him back here to stand trial.”

“So what does he want from you? He does want something, doesn’t he?”

“Of course.” Occasionally he tried hedging with his father. It never worked, because even if he succeeded in misleading him, he felt so guilty he found himself admitting the truth and then feeling ridiculous. Henry Rathbone was transparently honest himself. Sometimes it was a fault—in fact, quite often, when negotiation or management had to be achieved. He would never have made an even moderate barrister. He had not the first idea how to act a part or plead a cause in which he did not believe.

But he had a brilliant grasp of facts and a relentlessly logical mind which was capable of remarkable leaps of imagination.

Now he was waiting for Oliver to explain. Outside the starlings were swirling across the sky, black against the fading gold of the sun. Somewhere close by a lawn recently had been mown, and the smell of the cut grass was heavy.

“He brought the daughter back also,” Oliver started to explain. “Extraordinary, but she and Breeland say that they are neither of them guilty of killing Alberton, or of stealing the guns.” He saw the look of disbelief in his father’s face. “No, I don’t think so either,” he said quickly. “But he does have a story better than simple denial. He says Alberton changed his mind, but had to do it secretly because of Philo Trace, the buyer from the South to whom he had already given his word and from whom he had accepted a half payment in advance.”

Henry’s mouth pulled down at the corners in distaste. “And was Alberton the sort of man to do that?”

“Not from what I’ve read, but I have no personal knowledge,” Oliver replied. “Apart from dishonesty, it would ruin his reputation for the future. But more to the point, according to Monk, Trace did not receive his money back.” He hesitated. “At least, he says he didn’t. And Alberton’s estate has no record of having received Breeland’s money.”

Henry put his pipe in his mouth. He lit a match, and the sharp smell of it filled the air momentarily. He held it to the tobacco and inhaled. It ignited, puffed smoke for an instant, then went out again. He sucked at it anyway.

“The most reasonable explanation seems to be that Breeland is lying,” Oliver went on. “Perhaps I need to examine Alberton’s business affairs, and what I can of Mr. Trace, to guard myself from unpleasant surprises.”

Henry nodded slowly in silent agreement. Oliver was still leaning forward, elbows on his knees. They were facing each other across the space in front of the fireplace, as if the fire were lit, although on this summer evening it was still warm enough for them to be pleased the French doors were open. It was merely a comfortable habit shared over years of discussing all manner of things. Oliver had first done it when he was eleven; then it had been a question of irregular Latin verbs, and trying to find a logic behind their eccentricity. They had reached no conclusion, but the sense of companionship, of having attained some quality of adulthood, was of immeasurable satisfaction.

“The police traced the guns to the river and onto a barge down as far as Bugsby’s Marshes,” he went on. “Whereas Breeland claims he took delivery of them at the railway station and went by train to Liverpool. Merrit Alberton swears to the same thing.”

“That doesn’t make a great deal of sense,” Henry said thoughtfully. “How competent are the police? I wonder.”

“Monk says the man in charge seems excellent. And regardless of that, Monk himself went with him. He says exactly the same. The guns went from the warehouse to the river, and downstream as far as Bugsby’s Marshes. From there it would be an easy matter to transfer them to an oceangoing ship, and across the Atlantic. Even Breeland doesn’t argue that he took them, and they arrived safely in America. Presumably they were used in the battle at Manassas.”

Henry said nothing, absorbed in thought.

“Hester believes the girl is innocent,” Oliver said, then instantly wished he had not. He had betrayed too much of himself. Not that Henry was unaware of his feelings. Hester had visited him often enough. She had sat in this room, watched the light fade across the sky and the last sun gilding the tips of the poplars, the evening breeze shimmering through the leaves. She had liked Henry, and she had felt at home here, comforted by more than the beauty of the place, the honeysuckle and the apple trees, also by an inner peace.

“Not that that is a reason, of course!” he added, and as Henry’s eyes opened wide, he felt himself blushing. It was exactly a reason. He had only drawn attention to it by denying it.

“There seems to be a great deal that you don’t know yet,” Henry observed, holding his pipe up and examining it ruefully. “The girl may have been used, and unaware of it.”

“That is possible,” Oliver agreed. “I need to answer a great many questions if I am to go into court with any chance of competence, let alone success.”

Henry looked at Oliver closely. “You have accepted the case, I assume?”

“Well … yes.”

Henry grunted. “A trifle precipitate. But then you are far more impulsive than you like to think.” He smiled, robbing his words of offense. There was deep affection in him, and Oliver had never in his life doubted it.

“I shall have to see Mrs. Alberton, of course,” he pointed out. “She may not wish to engage me.”

Henry did not bother to answer that. He had as high an opinion of his son’s professional abilities as had everyone else.

“What does Monk think?” he asked instead.

“I didn’t ask him,” Oliver replied a trifle tartly.

“Interesting that he did not tell you anyway,” Henry said, contemplating his pipe. “He is not usually discreet with his views. He is either being devious or he does not know.”

“I shall have more ideas when I have seen Merrit Alberton and heard what she has to say,” Oliver went on, perhaps more to himself than to his father. “I shall be able to make some estimate of her character. And naturally, whether I represent him or not, I shall have to speak to Breeland.”

“Do you intend to represent him?”

“I would rather not, but if he has any sense he’ll do everything in his power to see that they are charged and defended together.”

“What if he is prepared to defend her at his own cost?” Henry asked quietly. “If he loves her, he may do that. Will you allow him to?”

Oliver considered for several moments. What would he do if Breeland were willing to take the blame in order to exonerate Merrit, and yet he believed Merrit guilty?

“You had better consider it,” Henry warned. “If they are truly in love, they may each try to take the blame for the other, and make your task a great deal more difficult, whomever you represent. You had not thought of that,” he observed with surprise.

“No,” Oliver admitted. “It was nothing Monk said, rather what he omitted to say, but I had the impression Breeland would not sacrifice himself for anyone else. But I need to know a great deal more than I do, or I am going to run the risk of being caught in this.”

“Precisely,” Henry agreed. “For a start, could the story of Breeland’s be true, however unlikely?”

“About the agent, Shearer? I don’t know. Certainly I know of no reason that makes it completely impossible—I shall have Monk find out if there is such a person, and if so, what he is like. Could he have murdered Alberton and taken Breeland’s money himself?” He went on thinking aloud. “That would be the obvious line of defense, and presumably what Breeland will say. If I use that, either for Breeland or for Merrit alone, then I must be certain it cannot be disproved.”

Henry watched him in silence. Oliver realized he would certainly have to work closely with Monk, and he had resisted it until now. He wanted to take the case, but he would rather have been independent, presented Monk and Hester with the defense accomplished, rather than sought their assistance.

“Is it possible Breeland is guilty and the daughter did not know of it?” Henry suggested. “If she knew of it, unless she was taken by force to America, then she is an accomplice at least, and an accessory after the fact.”

Oliver said quickly, “I don’t know beyond doubt, but from what Monk told me, she cannot be unaware of the truth. She and Breeland were together the whole of the night Alberton was murdered, and she certainly was not in America under duress.” He hesitated. “And a watch that Breeland gave her as a keepsake was found in the warehouse yard.”

Henry said nothing, but his expression was eloquent.

Outside, the shadows were lengthening on the lawn and the air was definitely cooler. A three-quarter moon was luminous in the fading sky. The sun had gone even from the poplars.

“I am obliged to defend Breeland also.” Oliver stated the inevitable. “Unless he insists on his own man, in which case I imagine Merrit Alberton will choose to have the same person, whatever her family wants.”

“And will you accept him as a client, believing him guilty?” Henry asked. “Knowing that his condemnation will certainly mean the girl’s as well?”

It was a moral dilemma Oliver disliked acutely. He found the murders unusually repellent because they were brutal, and as far as he could see, also unnecessary. Breeland, or anyone else, could have stolen the guns without killing Alberton and the guards. They could have been left unconscious and bound, and still been unable to prevent the theft. By the time they were found Breeland had been safely away. The killing accomplished nothing and it was a gratuitous cruelty.

He would far rather have defended Merrit, even if it were no better than pleading her youth and a certain amount of duress or intimidation, and that she had not foreseen the violence. No such argument was feasible for Breeland.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I need to understand a great deal more before I can even formulate what defense to make.”

The silence remained unbroken for some time. Henry stood up and closed the French doors, then returned to his seat.

“There is also the matter of the blackmail,” Oliver resumed, and to Henry’s surprise, told him what Monk had said briefly of Alberton’s urgent reason for consulting him. “I suppose that could be involved,” he finished dubiously.

“Well, you certainly need to find out who was responsible,” Henry agreed. “Perhaps they took revenge for not having been sold their guns.”

“But Breeland lied about the guns!” Oliver went back to the one fact that seemed inescapable. “Monk traced them down the river to Bugsby’s Marshes, not to the railway station and Liverpool.” He stared at the empty fireplace.

“But why murder?” Henry asked. “From what you have said, Breeland did not have to kill Alberton to take the guns. Consider this girl very carefully, Oliver. And consider the widow as well.”

Oliver was startled. “A domestic crime?”

“Or a financial one,” Henry amended. “Whatever it is, make sense of it in your own mind before you go into court. I am afraid you have no choice but to employ Monk to learn much more before you commit yourself to anything. I think you would be well advised to delay the trial for as long as you are able to, and know far more about the Alberton family before you speak on their behalf, or you will not serve your client well.”

Oliver sank further into the chair, content to sit with his thoughts in the quiet room, without any necessity to stand up and light the gas.

Henry sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, but he knew he could allow the subject of the Alberton case to drop for this evening.

Rathbone was startled by Judith Alberton. He had expected the handsome house, suitably draped in black, curtains drawn, wreath on the door, and the straw in the street outside to muffle the sound of the horses’ hooves as they passed, the mirrors draped or turned to the wall. Some people even stopped the clocks. All widows wore mourning, the unrelieved black gown, except for perhaps a jet brooch or a locket, the decoration made of hair, which he found repellent.

But Judith Alberton’s face was so remarkable in its beauty, and the extraordinary power of emotion in it, that what she wore was irrelevant.

“Thank you for coming so soon, Sir Oliver,” she greeted him as he came into the dim withdrawing room. “I am afraid our predicament is very serious, as I expect Mr. Monk has told you. We are desperately in need of the most skilled help we can find. Has he described our situation?”

“An outline of it, Mrs. Alberton,” he replied, accepting the seat she indicated. “But there is a great deal more I need to understand if I am to do my best for you.” He avoided using the word success. He was not sure if there was any possibility of it. What would success be? Merrit acquitted and someone else condemned? Who? Not Breeland; they had been in love then, whether they were now or not. They survived or fell together. He must make her realize that.

“Of course,” she agreed. At least outwardly she was perfectly composed. “I will tell you anything I can. I don’t know what can help.” Her confusion was plain in her eyes.

Her hands lay still in her lap on the black fabric, but they were stiff, the knuckles pale.

It was surprisingly difficult to begin. It was always unpleasant intruding on someone’s grief, probing into affairs which might show a side of the dead person that others had not known and which would have been so much less painful to have kept secret. But present danger did not allow such luxury. Her dignity in concealing her grief moved him more than weeping would have done.

“Mrs. Alberton, from what I have heard so far, there does not seem any way in which we can defend your daughter separately from Lyman Breeland.” He saw her lips tighten, but he could not afford to tell her what she wished to hear, rather than the truth. “They have both stated that they were together the whole of that night,” he continued. “Whether she was aware beforehand of what he intended to do, or was in any way a willing partner, can be argued, although we should need better proof than anything we have so far in order to convince a jury of it. Our only hope is to learn exactly what did happen, and then do the best we can to show anything that mitigates the blame. Unless, of course, we can show that there is a highly reasonable possibility that someone else altogether is guilty.” He said it with little hope.

“I don’t know what the truth is,” she said frankly. “I simply cannot believe that Merrit would do such a thing … not willingly. I don’t care for Mr. Breeland, Sir Oliver. I never did, but my husband had no such qualms. He did not sell him the guns simply because he had already committed himself to sell them to Mr. Trace, and accepted a payment of half the sum.”

“You are certain the money had been paid by Trace?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What about the money from Breeland?”

Her eyes flew open wide. “From Breeland? There was no money from him. He stole the guns. Surely that was the whole reason for—for murdering my husband and the guards, poor men. I have done what I can for their families, but no recompense makes up for the loss of someone you love.”

“One would assume robbery was his reason,” he agreed. “And yet surely he could have stolen the guns without killing anyone? A blow to the head would have overpowered them and kept them silent, and they would have been tied adequately to prevent any escape and pursuit.”

He saw the shadows in her eyes, the quick shock of pain as the realization came to her that perhaps her husband’s death was unnecessary to the theft, that he had been killed in hatred or cruelty, not as a part of war.

“I had not thought of that,” she replied very softly, her gaze lowered, as if to defend herself from his understanding.

He was painfully aware of it. He would not have pried were there any alternative, but time and the imperatives of the law allowed no mercy.

“Mrs. Alberton, if I am to defend your daughter, I am forced to defend Breeland as well, unless I can find some way to separate them in the eyes of the public, and therefore of a jury. I must know the truth, whatever that is. Believe me, I cannot afford to be surprised in this courtroom or to face an adversary who knows more of the facts than I do.” He shifted fractionally in his seat. “Knowledge is my only weapon, and all the skill in the world cannot defeat a man whose armory is vastly superior. David and Goliath is a fine story, and can be applied as metaphor to certain circumstances, but what is too often overlooked, or even forgotten, is that David did not stand alone. I have not his confidence that God is on my side.” He smiled as he said it, but in mockery of himself.

Her chin came up quickly and she met his eyes. “I have total confidence that Merrit did not have any willing hand in the murder of her father,” she said without hesitation, her voice strong. “But I do not believe that God intervenes in every miscarriage of justice. In fact, we all know perfectly well that He does not. Tell me what you need from me, Sir Oliver. I will give everything I have to save my daughter.”

He did not doubt that she meant it. Even had he not already formed an opinion of her, it was plain in her face, the urgency, the courage and the fear.

“I need all the facts that I can find,” he replied. “And I need your agreement that if it is necessary, which it may be, I shall represent Lyman Breeland as well, with whatever consequences may stem from that.” He watched her intently as he spoke, seeing the flicker in her gaze, the awareness of how repugnant it would be to ally herself with the man she believed had murdered her husband.

“Please consider it carefully before you reply, Mrs. Alberton,” he warned. “I do not know what I shall discover when I begin to look into it with more care, more thoroughness. I cannot promise you that it will be what you wish to know. All I can say is that if you employ me to act for you, I will do everything I can to serve your best interests. I can and will keep every confidence entrusted to me. But I will not lie to you, nor can I protect you from reality.”

“I understand.” She was very pale indeed, her body stiff, as if, were she to let go of the iron control she willed upon herself, she might collapse completely. “I will face whatever you may find. I believe in the end it will prove my daughter to be innocent of malice, if not of folly. Do whatever is needed, Sir Oliver.”

“That will include employing Monk again, to enquire into the case further than he has done so far.”

“Anything that you judge appropriate,” she agreed. “If you trust him, then I do. And he has already proved himself more than able by bringing Merrit home. How he managed to convince Breeland to come as well I cannot imagine.”

“At gunpoint, I understand,” he said dryly. “But apparently he claims that was more because Breeland wished to remain with his regiment than because he was afraid to face trial. He claims to have a complete defense, not only to murder but even to robbery.”

She said nothing. Emotions chased each other across her face: fear, pain, bewilderment, doubt.

He rose to his feet. “First I shall go and speak with Miss Alberton. I can proceed little until I have heard what she has to say.”

“Will you come back and tell me?” She stood up quickly. She moved with remarkable grace, and he was reminded again what a beautiful woman she was.

“I will keep you informed,” he promised. It was not quite the answer she had requested, but it was all he would commit himself to do. He wondered, as the footman showed him out, how deeply he might regret such a promise. He could imagine no outcome of this issue which would not bring with it deep and terrible pain. There seemed no answer which would not add to Judith Alberton’s loss.

He had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with Merrit. He stood in the small, bare room in the prison where she was being held prior to trial. It was stone-walled, washed with lime, the floor made of stone blocks. The hinges of the iron door were bedded deep into the jamb on one side, and the lock bit into the other, as if some desperate person might fling himself against it in a blind effort to escape.

There was a table where he could sit and presumably write notes, if he wished, although there was no inkwell. A pencil would have to suffice. There was a second chair for the accused.

When she came in he was again surprised. He had expected someone very girlish, angry, frightened and very possibly disinclined to cooperate with him. Instead he saw a young woman who would never rival her mother in beauty but who nevertheless had some remnant of both charm and dignity, in spite of being very obviously exhausted, her fair hair scraped back and pinned, by the look of it, without benefit of a mirror. Since she had not yet been convicted of any crime, except in public opinion, she still wore her own clothes, a blue muslin dress with a white collar which exaggerated the pallor of her skin. It was clean and fresh. Her mother must have had it sent for her.

“The wardress says you are Sir Oliver Rathbone, and you are to represent me,” she said very quietly. “I presume that my mother has engaged you.” It was barely a question. They both knew that there was no other explanation.

He began to reply, but she cut across him. “I did not have any part in the murder of my father, Sir Oliver.” Her voice trembled only very slightly. “But I will not allow you to use me in order to blame Mr. Breeland.” She lifted her chin a fraction as she spoke his name and the corner of her mouth softened.

“Perhaps you had better tell me what you know, Miss Alberton,” he replied, indicating the chair opposite for her to be seated.

“Only if it is understood that I will not be manipulated,” she answered. She stood quite still, waiting for his word before committing herself even to listen.

He had a sudden sense of how very young she was. Her loyalty was blind, absolute and perhaps the most precious thing to her. He could believe she defined herself by such a value, the ability to love totally, even at such a terrible cost. It was part of being sixteen. He could hardly remember such unequivocal passion. He hoped he had once been so ardent, so careless of hurt to himself, placing love before all.

Time and experience had blunted that … too much. Perhaps if he had not been afraid to love like that he would not have lost Hester. But that was a useless thought now, and too brilliantly painful to indulge, even in passing. That was much too real, too wholehearted.

“I have no intention of trying to manipulate you,” he said with a fierceness that even surprised him. “I would like to know the truth, or at least as much of it as you can tell me. Please begin with simple facts. We may go on to deduction and opinion later. Perhaps you would begin with the day of your father’s death, unless you feel there is something relevant earlier.”

She sat down obediently and composed herself, folding her hands.

“Mr. Breeland and Mr. Trace both wished to purchase the guns that my father had for sale. Each, of course, for his own side in the civil war in America. Mr. Trace represented the Confederacy, the slave states; Mr. Breeland is for the Union, and against slavery anywhere.” The ring of pride and anger in her voice was unmistakable. Rathbone could not help identifying with her in that much at least.

He did not interrupt.

“My father said that he had already promised to sell the entire shipment of guns, above six thousand of them, to Mr. Trace,” she continued. “And he would not change his mind, no matter what Mr. Breeland, or I, for that matter, would say to him. Every argument against slavery was tried, every horror and injustice, every monstrosity of human cruelty detailed, but he would not reconsider.” There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away furiously, annoyed with herself for betraying such emotion. “I quarreled with him.” She sniffed, then shook her head as she realized how inelegant it was.

Rathbone offered her his handkerchief.

She hesitated, then took it, simply so that she might blow her nose, and then continued.

“Thank you. I was very angry indeed. I think the more so because I had always thought well of him before. I had never seen that side of him which …” She lowered her eyes, looking away from him. “Which could not admit when he had made a mistake, and yield to a better cause. I said some things to him I wish now I could take back. Not that they are not true, but I could not know they would be the last words he ever heard from me.”

Rathbone did not wish to give her time to dwell on the thought.

“You left the room. Where did you go?”

“What? Oh. I went upstairs and packed a small valise with immediate necessities—linens, clean blouses, toiletries, that’s all.”

“Where was Mr. Breeland during this quarrel?”

“I don’t know. At his rooms, I suppose.”

“He was not in your parents’ house?”

“No. He did not overhear the quarrel, if that is what you are thinking.”

“It occurred to me. Then where did you go?”

“I left.” The color rose up her cheeks delicately. It made him more inclined to believe her awareness of just what a major step she had taken, and that she was as sensible of the risk to her reputation as her mother would have been. She took a deep breath. “I went out of the servants’ door, at the side of the house, and walked along the street until I came to the crossroads, where I found a hansom. I took it, directing the driver to Mr. Breeland’s rooms.”

He did not need to ask the address. Monk had already told him.

“And was Mr. Breeland at home?”

“Yes. He welcomed me, most especially when I told him about the quarrel I had had with my father.” She leaned forward across the table. “But you must understand, he in no way encouraged me to defy my parents or behave in any way the least improperly. I require that you should fully believe that!”

Rathbone was not sure what he believed, but it would be foolish to tell her so now. It was not the issue. He could not afford to be concerned with Breeland’s morality except as it showed itself in acts that were punishable in law.

“I don’t question it, Miss Alberton. I need to know how you spent the rest of that night until you had left London altogether. Very precisely, if you please. Omit nothing.”

“You think Lyman murdered my father.” Her eyes were direct, her voice perfectly steady. “He did not. What he told Mr. Monk is the exact truth. I know it because I was with him. We spent the evening speaking together and planning what we should do.” A first smile touched her lips; it seemed like self-mockery of another more innocent time. “He tried to persuade me to make peace with my parents. He warned me that his country was at war. He explained to me that honor required he join his regiment and fight. But of course I understood that already. I simply wished to be his wife and wait for him, support him and do everything I could myself to help in the fight against slavery. I never imagined I was going to sail off into a new and peaceful life somewhere else.”

Rathbone believed her. Her earnestness was transparent and he thought he heard a thread of disappointment she herself was surprised to discover. Something confused her, but as yet he had no idea what it was.

“Please continue,” he prompted. “Tell me exactly what occurred. Was Mr. Breeland ever out of your sight?”

“Not for more than a few moments,” she replied. “He did not leave his apartment. It was nearly midnight, and we were still talking about what we should do.” Pride and tenderness flickered in her for a moment. “He was concerned for my reputation, more than I was myself. If I should have slept the night in his sitting room no one in America would have known it, and that was all my concern. But he cared for me, and it troubled him.”

Rathbone was better aware than she how rapidly word traveled, and it flashed through his mind to wonder how much Breeland’s concern was for her reputation as it might affect him as her future husband. But it was an uncharitable impulse, and he did not speak it aloud.

She swallowed. In spite of her attempt at calm, and her undoubted courage, the effort was costing her dear.

“A little before midnight a young boy came with a message for Lyman. It was a note. He tore it open and read it immediately. It said that my father had changed his mind about selling the guns, but for obvious reasons he could not say so in front of Mr. Trace. He would return him his money later, and explain that Lyman’s arguments regarding slavery had won him over and he could no longer in good conscience sell the guns to the Confederates. Lyman was to go to the railway station at Euston Square and the guns would be delivered to him there. Liverpool was the best port for them to be shipped to America.” She was watching him intently, willing him to believe her.

He recognized that she was almost certainly using Breeland’s words for the explanation, but he did not interrupt her.

“That was what he did,” she continued. “We packed up immediately, taking what was of most importance to him. There was hardly time to do even that. But the guns were the most valuable of all. They were part of the battle for freedom, and a cause that is just must always take precedence over a few material possessions.”

“You helped him pack?” he asked.

“Naturally. I had only a few things myself.” Again the tiny smile touched her face. She must have been thinking back now on her own hasty departure, in the name of love and principle, with only what she could put into a bag she could carry in her hand. He tried to imagine what precious things gathered in her short lifetime she had had to leave behind. And apparently she had done it without serious regret. He thought how deeply, how unselfishly, she must love Breeland. It hurt him with surprising force that he might be utterly unworthy of it. When he spoke his voice had more anger in it than he had intended.

“And who was this note from? I presume it was signed?”

“Yes, of course,” she said indignantly. “He would hardly have acted upon it, leaving everything, had he not known who sent it.”

“Who did?”

Color deepened in her face, and there was a moment’s confusion as she realized how much depended upon the truth of the issue, and that she thought, after all, not knew it.

“It was signed by Mr. Shearer,” she said defiantly. “Of course in light of the … murders …” She gulped. She seemingly could not bring herself to say her father’s name in this connection. Her chin came up. “But when we got to Euston Square the guns were there, already loaded onto a wagon. Lyman never left me for more than a few moments, and that was after the guns were delivered, and he paid Shearer the money. He had written authority to accept on my father’s behalf, and it was all perfectly in order. I … I was so happy my father had at last seen the justice of what Lyman was fighting for and changed his mind.”

“But you did not think to return home and tell him so?”

Misery filled her eyes. “No,” she answered very quietly. “I loved Lyman and still wanted to go with him to America. I … I was still angry that my father had taken so long to see what had been plain to me from the beginning. Slavery is wicked. Treating a human being like a possession can never be right.”

He did not know what to think. The story made no sense, and yet he did not think she was lying to him. She believed what she said. Had Breeland somehow duped her? If he had not murdered Alberton himself, then had he employed someone else to do it? Perhaps this man Shearer? “Tell me about your journey north to Liverpool and what happened there,” he instructed.

“How can it matter?” She was puzzled.

“Please do so,” he insisted.

“Very well. Lyman showed me to a carriage where I was reasonably comfortable and told me to wait for him while he spoke to the guard. He returned in about ten minutes, and shortly after that the train pulled out.”

“Who else was in the carriage?” he interrupted.

“How can it matter? No one I know. I did not speak to them. An old man with a lot of whiskers. A woman with a dreadful hat, quite the ugliest I have ever seen, red and brown. Why would anyone wear red and brown together? I don’t know who else. It’s all unimportant.”

“Where did the train stop?” he pressed.

Obediently she described the journey in its monotonous details.

He wrote down her answers in rapid, almost illegible notes.

“And in Liverpool?”

She told him of Breeland’s trouble in having the guns stored temporarily, of finding space on a ship bound first for Queenstown in Ireland, then for New York. With every new fact she spoke of, the pictures became more real, the more he was convinced her story was told from experience rather than imagination.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “You have been very patient, Miss Alberton, and you have helped greatly in your defense.”

“I will not allow you to defend me at Lyman’s expense!” she said quickly, leaning forward across the table, her face flushed. “Please understand that. I shall dismiss you, or whatever it takes, if …”

“I understood you when you first told me, Miss Alberton,” he said calmly. “I shall not do so; you have my word. I cannot promise what the court will do, and I have never promised to anyone what a jury will do. But for myself, I can answer absolutely.”

She sank back. “Thank you, Sir Oliver. Then I shall be very glad if you will act for me and … and do what you can.”

He rose to his feet, feeling a twist of pity for her, almost like a physical spasm. She was so young, a child, trying to behave like a woman, trying to keep a dignity she was so close to losing. He wished profoundly he could have comforted her, that either her mother or father were here, even that Breeland was … damn him. But all he could do to help her was to remain formal, keep the fierce control she depended upon.

“I shall return to tell you how I am progressing,” he said carefully. “If you do not see me for a few days, it is because I am working on your behalf. Good day, Miss Alberton.” He turned a little quickly, not waiting to look at her as the tears spilled from her brimming eyes.

Rathbone was driven to see Lyman Breeland by curiosity as well as by duty, but it was still not a task he expected to find either easy or pleasant.

He was received in a room markedly similar to the one in the women’s section of the prison, with the same bare lime-washed walls, simple table and two wooden chairs.

In some ways Breeland was exactly what Rathbone had expected: tall, lean, a hard body used to exercise. One would have judged him a man of action. “Military” was the first thing that came to mind because of his upright bearing and a certain pride in him, even in these crushing circumstances. He was dressed in a plain shirt and trousers an inch or two short for him. Presumably they were borrowed. He would have left the battlefield at Manassas in his dirty, bloodstained uniform.

But Breeland’s face surprised Rathbone. Without realizing it he had formed preconceptions in his mind, expected to see a man of readable passions, an arresting face in which one could see zeal and loyalty and a will that overrode all obstacles, all pain or rebuff. Perhaps unconsciously he had envisioned someone like Monk.

Instead he saw a handsome man, but unreachable in an entirely different way. His face was smooth, features perfectly regular, but there was something in it which struck him as remote. Perhaps there were not enough lines yet, as if his emotions were all within, smothered.

“How do you do, Mr. Breeland,” he began. “My name is Oliver Rathbone. Mrs. Alberton has engaged me to defend her daughter, and as I daresay you will appreciate, it is necessary that her defense and yours be conducted either by the same person or by two people who are acting as one.”

“Of course,” Breeland agreed. “Neither of us is guilty, and we were in each other’s company the entire time when the crime occurred. Surely you have already been informed of that?”

“I have spoken with Miss Alberton. However, I should like to hear it from you, on your own behalf if you wish me to act for you, and on hers if you prefer to retain someone else.”

No smile touched Breeland’s face. “I am told you are the best, and it would seem sensible that one person should represent us both. Since apparently you are willing, I accept. I have sufficient funds to meet whatever your charges are.”

It was an oddly discourteous way of putting it, as if Rathbone had been touting for business. But he could understand Breeland’s feelings. He had been brought back to a foreign country by force to stand trial for a crime for which he would be hanged if he were found guilty. He would be defended by strangers he was obliged to trust without the ability to test them himself. Any man who was not a fool would be defensive, afraid and angry.

Rathbone decided not to attempt any kind of rapport, at least not yet. First, quite formally, he would establish the facts.

“Good,” he said graciously. “Perhaps if you will sit down we shall be able to begin discussing the details of strategy.”

Breeland sat obediently. He moved with ease, even grace, apart from a slight awkwardness in one shoulder.

Rathbone sat opposite him. “Would you begin with your first acquaintance with Daniel Alberton.”

“I heard of him through the arms trade,” Breeland answered. “His name is well known, and trusted, and he could provide the most excellent guns, and rapidly. I called upon him and attempted to purchase first-class muskets and ammunition for the Union. I told him of the cause for which we were fighting. I did not expect him to understand that the Union itself was of the profoundest value. An Englishman could not be expected to grasp the damage of secession, but I believed any civilized nation would be against the enslavement of one race of people by another.” The contempt in his voice was stinging. They had been speaking for only minutes, and surely Breeland must be aware that his own life was in jeopardy, but already he had made an opportunity to express his passion for the Union cause.

Rathbone found it oddly disconcerting, and he was not sure why.

Breeland went on to describe his attempts to deal with Alberton, and his failure. Alberton had given his word to Philo Trace and accepted his money, and he considered himself bound. Breeland allowed a grudging admiration for that, but still believed the justice of the Union cause should have overridden any one man’s sense of commitment.

Rathbone’s reply was instant, not weighed.

“Can any group claim collective honor without that of the individuals who compose it?”

“Of course,” Breeland responded with a direct, almost confrontational stare. “The group is always greater than the one. That is what society is; that is civilization. I am surprised you need to ask. Or are you testing me?”

Rathbone was about to deny it, then realized that in a sense he was testing him, but not as Breeland meant.

“What is the difference between that and saying that the end justifies the means?” the barrister asked.

Breeland gazed back at him, his clear gray eyes unwavering. “Our cause is just,” he replied with an edge to his voice. “No sane person could doubt it, but I did not kill Daniel Alberton for it, or anyone else, except on the battlefield, face-to-face as a soldier does.”

Rathbone did not answer him. “Tell me what happened the night you quarreled with Alberton and later Miss Alberton left her home and came to you.”

“You spoke with her. Did she not tell you?”

“I wish to hear your account of it, Mr. Breeland. Please oblige me.” Rathbone was angry without knowing why.

“If you wish. She will bear out all I say, because it is the truth.” Then Breeland proceeded to describe the evening in essence exactly as Merrit had. Rathbone pressed him for details of the train journey to Liverpool, of the carriage in which they rode and such trivia as the other occupants and what they were wearing.

“I don’t see the relevance,” Breeland protested, a shadow of anger darkening his face. “How can it have anything whatever to do with Alberton’s death what kind of a hat some woman in a railway carriage was wearing hours later?”

“I do not tell you how to purchase guns, Mr. Breeland,” Rathbone said tartly. “Please do not advise me how to conduct a case in court, or what information I shall need.”

“If you feel you need a description of the woman’s hat, Mr. Rathbone, then I shall give it to you,” Breeland said coldly. “But Miss Alberton would be in a better position to judge such a thing. It seems to me both trivial and absurd.”

“Sir Oliver,” Rathbone corrected with a chilly smile.

“What?”

“My name is ‘Sir Oliver,’ not ’Mr. Rathbone.’ And the hat is important. Please describe it.”

“It was large and extremely ugly. As far as I can recall, there was a lot of red in it, and some other, duller shade, brown or something like that—Sir Oliver.”

“Thank you. I believe your account of your journey, even though it seems to contradict the facts that the police have.” He rose to his feet.

“It is the truth,” Breeland said simply, also standing up. “Is that all?”

“For the time being. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you wish any messages sent to your family, or anyone else? Do you have all you require in the way of clothes—toiletries, for example?”

“Sufficient.” Breeland gave a slight grimace. “A soldier should think nothing of personal privation. And I have been permitted to write such letters as I wished to, so that my family might know I am in good health. I should prefer they did not learn of this absurd accusation until after it has been proved false.”

“Then I shall continue investigating every avenue of proof that someone else is responsible for the deaths of Daniel Alberton and the two guards at the warehouse,” Rathbone said, inclining his head in the slightest of gestures and taking his leave.

He was outside in the sun amid the traffic of the street with its noise and haste before he realized why he was so angry. Breeland’s account of his actions had tallied so precisely with Merrit’s, even to the complete irrelevancies such as the woman’s hat, that he did not doubt it was the truth. An invented tale would not run to such trivia. He was quite certain that both Merrit and Breeland had indeed made the journey by train from London to Liverpool, and there seemed no other occasion on which it could have happened. Nevertheless, he would have Monk make absolutely certain, produce witnesses if possible.

What made him clench his hands as he strode along the footpath, holding his shoulders tight, was that not once had Breeland asked if Merrit was all right, if she was frightened, suffering, unwell, or in need of anything that could possibly be done for her. She was little more than a child, in a place that was more terrible than anything her life could have prepared her to meet, and facing the possibility of being hanged for a crime which depended wholly upon his passion for his own political cause, however justified. And yet it had not entered his mind to ask after her, even when he knew Rathbone had only just left her.

Rathbone might admire Breeland’s dedication in time, but he could not imagine liking a man who devoted himself to the cause of mankind in general but could not care for the individuals closest to him, and who was blind to their suffering when even a word from him would have helped. The question crossed his mind whether it was people he loved at all, or simply that he needed some great, absorbing crusade to lose himself in as an excuse for evading personal involvement with its sacrifices of vanity, its compromises, its patience and its generosity of spirit. With a great cause one could be a hero. One’s own weaknesses did not show; one was not tested by intimacy.

There was a prick of familiarity in that, an understanding of regret. The slow, quiet ache inside when he thought of Hester was also a self-knowledge, now made sharper by coming face-to-face with Lyman Breeland.

It was late afternoon by the time Rathbone went to see Monk. It was not an interview he was looking forward to, but it was unavoidable. Breeland’s story must be substantiated by facts and witnesses. Monk was the person to find them, if they existed, and Rathbone was inclined to believe that they did.

He arrived at Fitzroy Street just after six, and found Monk at home. He was glad. He would not have chosen to be alone with Hester. He was surprised by how little he trusted his emotions.

Monk appeared almost to have expected him, and there was a look of satisfaction in his lean face as Rathbone came in.

“Of course,” Monk agreed, waving for Rathbone to sit down. Hester was not in the room. Perhaps she was about some domestic duty. He did not ask.

“I’ve heard her story.” Rathbone crossed his legs elegantly and leaned back, exactly as if he were at ease. He was a brilliant barrister, which meant he was articulate, thought rapidly and logically. He was also a very fine actor. He would not have described himself in those terms, however, at least not the last one. “And Breeland’s also,” he added. “I think it more likely true than not, but naturally we shall require substantiation.”

“You believe it,” Monk said thoughtfully. It was impossible to tell from his expression what his own ideas were. Rathbone would have liked to know but he would not ask, not yet.

“Merrit gave a very detailed description of the train journey to Liverpool,” Rathbone explained, telling Monk about the woman with the hat. “Breeland gave the same description, more or less. It is not proof, but it is highly indicative. You might even be able to find someone else on that train who may have seen them. That would be conclusive.”

Monk chewed his lower lip. “It would,” he conceded. “Then who killed Alberton? And rather more awkwardly, how did the guns get from the river at Bugsby’s Marshes across the city to the Euston Square station?”

Rathbone smiled very slightly. “That is what I shall employ you to discover. There appears to be some major fact which we have not learned. Possibly it has to do with this agent, Shearer. There is also the very unpleasant possibility that Alberton himself was involved in deception of some sort and was double-crossed by Shearer, or even by Breeland.”

A flicker of amusement lit Monk’s eyes. “I take it that you did not greatly like Mr. Breeland.” It was made more in the tone of an observation than a question.

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “That surprises you?”

“Not in the slightest. There is much in him I admire, but I cannot bring myself to like him,” Monk agreed.

“You know, he never once asked me how Merrit was.” Rathbone heard the anger and amazement in his own voice. “He can’t see anything but his damned cause!”

“Slavery is pretty repugnant.”

“A lot of things are, and a great many of them spring from obsession.” Rathbone’s voice suddenly shook with anger. “And an inability to see any point of view except your own, or to empathize with another person’s pain if he is in any way different from yourself.”

Monk’s eyes widened. “You are absolutely right,” he said with sudden, profound seriousness. “Yes … Lyman Breeland is a very dangerous man. I wish to hell we did not have to defend him in order to defend Merrit.”

“I see no alternative, or believe me, I should have taken it,” Rathbone assured him with feeling. “Investigate everything. I don’t believe Merrit is guilty of anything beyond falling in love with a cold fanatic of a man. He may be guilty of no more than an ability to love a theory too much and people too little. And that may lead to many sins, but not necessarily the murder of Daniel Alberton. You had better look very carefully at Philo Trace, and at this agent, Shearer, and anything else you find pertinent.”

“And as always, you are in a hurry.”

“Just so.” Rathbone rose to his feet. “Try hard, Monk. For Merrit Alberton’s sake, and for her mother’s.”

“But not Breeland’s …”

“I don’t give a damn about Breeland. Find the truth.”

Monk walked towards the door with Rathbone, his face already furrowed in thought. “It has a nice irony to it, doesn’t it,” he observed. “I hope to hell it isn’t Trace. I rather like him.”

Rathbone did not reply; they were both too aware of men in the past they had liked, of cases where love and hate had seemed so misplaced. Some tragedies it was too easy to understand, the emotions and judgments not nearly simple enough.