Slaves of Obsession

9

FOR THE FIRST TIME since he had been married, Monk was reluctant to go home, and because he dreaded it, he did it immediately. He did not want time to think any more than he had to. There was no possibility of avoiding seeing Hester, meeting her eyes and having to build the first lie between them. Earlier in their knowledge of each other they had fought bitterly. He had thought her opinionated, quick-tongued and cold-natured, a woman whose passion was all bent towards the improvement of others, whether they wished it or not.

And she had thought him selfish, arrogant and essentially cruel. This morning he would have smiled at how happy they both were. Now it twisted inside him like a torn muscle, a pain reaching into everything, blinding all other pleasures.

He opened the door and closed it behind him.

She was there, straightaway, giving him no time to recompose his thoughts. All his earlier words fled.

She misunderstood, thinking it to do with his search along the river.

“You found something ugly,” she said quickly. “What is it? To do with Breeland? Even if he’s guilty, that doesn’t mean Merrit is.” There was so much conviction in her voice he knew she was frightened that somehow she was mistaken, and Merrit had played a willing part.

It was the perfect chance to tell her what he had really found, uglier than she could imagine, but about himself, not Breeland. He could not do it. There was a beauty in her he could not bear to lose. He remembered her in Manassas, bending over the soldier, half covered in blood, tending to his wounds, willing him to live, sharing his pain and giving him her strength.

What would she think of a man who had made money out of dealing with the profits of slaving? He had never been more ashamed of anything in his life, anything he knew about. Or more afraid of what it would now cost him … and he realized that was the most precious thing he would ever have.

“William! What is it?” There was an edge of fear in her voice and in her eyes. “What did you find?”

She was concerned for Merrit, and perhaps for Judith Alberton. She could not guess that it was her own life that was threatened, her happiness, not theirs.

The truth stuck in his throat.

“Nothing conclusive.” He swallowed. “I didn’t find any trace of the barge coming back up the river. I’ve no idea whose it was. Probably someone who lent it willingly, or it was stolen from someone who daren’t report it. Or maybe they stole it themselves.” He wanted to touch her, as he usually did, feel the warmth of her body, the eagerness of her response, but self-disgust held him back, closing him in like a vise.

She moved back again, a flicker of hurt in her face.

It was the first taste of the overwhelming loneliness to come, like the fading of the sun before nightfall.

“Hester!”

She looked up.

He had no idea what to say. He could not face the truth. He had had no time yet to work out what words to use.

“I think Shearer may be the one who killed Alberton.” It was a lame thing to fill the place of what was in his mind. It was hardly a revelation.

She looked a little puzzled. “Well, it would explain the odd time with the train, I suppose,” she conceded. “A conspiracy between Shearer and Breeland which Merrit did not know about? Perhaps she and Breeland were at the yard earlier, and that was when she dropped the watch?” Then her face clouded. “But why would they go there? It doesn’t make sense. Why was Daniel Alberton there anyway, at that time of night?” She frowned. “Was it something to do with Merrit running away, do you suppose? And he was still there when Shearer came to steal the guns?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound likely, does it?”

It did not. There was still some major fact they were missing. He had to concentrate hard to make himself feel that it mattered.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, her eyes bright again.

“Yes,” he lied. He guessed she had gone to some trouble. Now that he thought about it, there was a warm, savory odor coming from the kitchen.

She smiled. “Fresh game pie and vegetables.” She looked pleased with herself. “I found a woman today. She’s Scottish. Her name is Mrs. Patrick. She’s a bit fierce, but she’s a terrific cook, and she’s prepared to come every weekday afternoon for three hours, which is good, because most people like to do all day or not at all. Some even expect to live in.” She searched his face. “She’s half a crown a week. Do you think that will be all right?”

He did not even think to add it up. “Excellent! Yes. If you like her, then make it permanent.”

“Thank you.” Her voice lifted. “I do appreciate it.” She touched him lightly, but there was intimacy in it, a sweetness that sent his pulse racing, and a pain through him at his deception. He had no idea how he was going to live with it. An hour at a time, then a day at a time. Maybe he would learn to forget it for whole periods. He would probably never know exactly what he had done with Taunton, if he had betrayed Arrol Dundas or not, or what had driven him to it. It might have been as simple as greed, the desire for the power of success. Or possibly there was some mitigating circumstance—if only he knew it!

He followed her into the kitchen, pleasantly cool with the back windows open and full of the delicious aromas of expertly seasoned food. In other circumstances it would have been a perfect meal. It took all the skill he possessed, all the self-mastery, to pretend it was.

Hester was unaware of the turmoil within Monk. She believed it was no more than the frustration of a case he could not understand which made him shrink away, and she resolved to play her own part in the detecting as soon as possible.

By the time he left the following morning, still in search of more knowledge of Shearer, she had determined what to do. Dressed in her best morning gown of pale blue-gray muslin, she set out to visit Robert Casbolt. She had no doubt he would see her, because of the depth of his regard for Judith Alberton, and for Merrit. He could not fail to know how desperate the situation was, and regardless of his other commitments, he would make time to help.

She knew where he lived because he had mentioned it that first evening at dinner. She arrived shortly after nine o’clock in the morning and gave her card to the butler, with a respectful note written across the back saying simply that she felt it most urgent to speak with him at his earliest convenience, in Merrit Alberton’s interest.

She was kept waiting only fifteen minutes, then shown into a beautiful sitting room full of warm colors. The walls were paneled with mellow oak, and a red Persian rug covered the floor in front of the huge, stone-manteled fireplace, which at this time of the year was half hidden by a tapestry screen. The sofa and chairs were all odd, some covered in velvet, some in brocade and one in honey-colored leather, but the whole effect was one of the greatest comfort. There were two tall lamps, of different sizes, but both with brass columns and large hexagonal shades fringed in deep gold.

Casbolt himself was dressed casually, but obviously with care. His linen was immaculate, his soft indoor boots polished and shining.

“How good of you to come, Mrs. Monk,” he said earnestly. “After you have already done so much. Judith told me that your husband is still working almost night and day to find some way of proving Merrit’s innocence. What can I do to help? If I knew of anything at all, believe me, I would have done it.”

She had already planned carefully what she intended to say.

“I have been giving a great deal of thought to the matter for which Mrs. Alberton first engaged my husband’s services,” she said, accepting the seat he offered her but declining any refreshment. She did not need the excuse of a social amenity to keep his interest. No pretense was necessary between them.

He looked startled, almost as if he were not sure of her meaning. He sat down opposite her, on the edge of the chair rather than leaning back. There was no relaxing in him at all.

“Whoever was willing to resort to blackmail to obtain the guns may have taken it a step further, do you not think?” she explained.

His face cleared, then he frowned again. “Has Mr. Monk found some evidence which suggests Breeland is not guilty after all? Surely the fact that he has the guns precludes that possibility?”

“Of course he is involved,” she agreed. “And perhaps we are seeing something more than is there because we all so badly wish Merrit to be innocent. We are trying to think of any solution that excludes her.…”

“Of course!” he agreed. His face had a crumpled, hurt look, as if the optimism in his voice were at odds with his belief. Hester wondered if he knew a side to Merrit they did not, and it was that which now caused him to hesitate. Then he smiled. “I think Merrit may have been completely duped by Breeland. She is young, and in love. One does not always see clearly. And all the experience she has had is with honorable people.” He looked down at the rich carpet on the floor, then up again quickly. “I know she quarreled very badly with her father, but believe me, Mrs. Monk, Daniel Alberton was a totally honorable man, a man whose word anyone could trust absolutely and who would never stoop to a cruel or greedy act. She was angry with him, but she spoke in haste and the heat of emotion. In her heart she knows, just as I do, that he was as good a man as walks the earth.”

She met his gaze very frankly. “What are you telling me, Mr. Casbolt? That she could not imagine duplicity, therefore Breeland could easily have misled her; or that she loved her father too much to have been party to hurting him, regardless of her anger that evening?”

“I suppose I’m telling you both, Mrs. Monk.” A sad, self-mocking expression filled his face. “Or that I care very much for the outcome of this tragedy, and I would do anything to spare the family further pain.”

There was no way she could be unaware of the power of his feelings. The air between them was charged with the knowledge of fear, horror, the grief of loneliness. In that moment Hester glimpsed the reality of Casbolt’s involvement with the Albertons, and the depth of his lifelong love and devotion to his cousin.

But she was not here to offer sympathy or encouragement.

“Could Breeland have been part of the attempt at blackmail?” she asked. “He seemed willing to do anything at all to get the guns. He is a man whose belief in his cause seems to him to justify anything. He would see it as helping to preserve the Union and freeing slaves.”

Casbolt’s eyes widened very slightly. “I had not thought of it, but it is possible. Except how could he know of Gilmer, and Daniel’s kindness to him?”

“Any number of ways,” she responded. “Someone obviously knew.”

“But he had only been in England a few weeks at that time.”

“How do you know that?”

He drew in his breath slowly. “I don’t!”

“And he could have had allies. Whatever the truth of it,” she pointed out, “it seems Breeland was on a special night train to Liverpool and could not actually have killed Mr. Alberton himself. And Merrit was with him, so that excludes her also, thank heaven.”

He leaned forward. “Are you sure? Mrs. Monk, please, please don’t raise Judith’s hopes unless there is no doubt whatever … you understand it would be unbearably cruel.”

“Of course. I understand. This is why I came to you, not to her,” she said quickly. “And because I can speak to you more frankly about Mrs. Alberton. But do you think it is possible that the whole blackmail attempt is connected with the final theft of the guns—whether it was an unsuccessful attempt by Breeland, or even by Mr. Trace?”

His eyes widened.

“Trace? Yes … it could be. He is … devious enough … for that.” Then he frowned. “But even if it were so, how would that help Merrit? And to be honest, Mrs. Monk, that is really all I care about. I am not concerned with justice. I hope I don’t shock you in saying that. I am sorry if I do. Daniel was my friend, and I need to see his murderers brought to justice, but not at the cost of further loss to his widow and daughter. He was my best friend from youth, and I knew him well. I believe their welfare is what would have concerned him far above any revenge for his death. And that is all it would be now.” He looked at her earnestly, searching her eyes for understanding.

She tried to think how she would feel in Judith’s place. Would she care above all things that Monk be avenged, or would their child’s safety and happiness come first? If she were killed, would she want Monk to pursue vengeance for her?

The answer to that came immediately. No. She would want the living protected. Let time take care of justice.

“I see you understand,” he said softly. “I thought you would.” There was gentleness in his voice, and relief. He could not hide it, and perhaps he did not want to.

But she could not let go of the truth, the need to worry at the problem until she had unraveled it. She would decide afterwards who to tell and what decisions to make.

“I wonder why they asked for the guns to be delivered to Baskin and Company, instead of direct to them. Do you suppose they believed Mr. Alberton had some reason not to sell to one side or the other in the American war?”

He understood exactly what she meant. “I know of none. But it would suggest someone who was unfamiliar with his family history. Anyone who knew him would never imagine he would do business that would profit pirates, however indirectly. So you are right in that it may be an American rather than someone British.” He shook his head a little. “But I don’t see how that helps Merrit. In fact, I don’t even see how it brings us any closer to the truth. What we need is something that shows Merrit had no knowledge of Breeland’s intention to harm Daniel. Either that, or that she knew but was unable to help. She was under threat herself, or imprisoned in some way.”

“We couldn’t prove that because it is quite obviously untrue,” she pointed out. “She went with him willingly, and is still prepared to defend him. She believes he is innocent.”

“She believes it because she has to.” He shook his head and smiled very slightly. “I’ve known Merrit since she was born. She is the closest I have to a child of my own. I know she is passionate and willful, and when she gives herself to something, or someone, it is wholeheartedly, and not always wisely. I have watched her through a love of horses, the determination to be a nun and then a missionary in Africa, and a deep infatuation with the local doctor, a very nice young man who was quite unaware of her regard.” Amusement and affection lit his face. “Mercifully, it passed without incident, or embarrassment.” He shrugged. “I think it is all part of growing up. I seem to remember a few turbulent emotions myself which I blush to recall now, and certainly will not speak of.”

Hester could do the same, including the vicar she had mentioned to Monk. She had also had periods of being quite convinced nobody loved her or understood her feelings, least of all her parents.

“Nevertheless,” she persisted, “the blackmail attempt was quite real. If it was not either Breeland or Trace, then it was someone else. Could it have been Mr. Shearer, the agent?”

He was startled. “Shearer? Why …” He stared at her intently. “Yes, it could, Mrs. Monk. It is a very disagreeable thought, but it is not at all impossible. Shearer acting as intermediary for pirates, and when that did not work, then for Breeland!” His voice rose. “And if Breeland himself cannot have killed poor Daniel, then perhaps Shearer did? Certainly he seems to have left London since Daniel’s death. I have not seen him since a day or two before. That would explain a great deal … and best of all, it would account for Merrit’s belief that Breeland is innocent.”

The quiet room seemed to glow around them. A bowl of golden midseason roses shone amber and apricot, reflected in the polished surface of the table beneath. The grace of a Targ horse filled an alcove.

“Poor Daniel,” he said quietly. “He trusted Shearer. He was ambitious, always looking for the advantage, driving the hardest bargain for shipping of any man on the river, and believe me, that is saying a great deal. But Daniel thought he was loyal, and I confess, so did I.” His lips twisted in a bitter grimace. “But then I suppose the greatest betrayals are from where they are least expected.”

Another thought occurred to Hester, one she would far rather not have entertained, but it would not be dismissed.

“Do you have any control over who buys the guns, Mr. Casbolt?”

“Not legally, but I suppose effectively I do. If Daniel had done something I found intolerable I could have overridden it. Why do you ask? He never did, or anything even questionable.”

“Would you have sold them to the pirates?”

“No.” Again he was meeting her eyes with candor and a fierce intensity. “And if you are thinking that Daniel would, then you are mistaken. Judith would never have borne it, after what happened to her brother. Nor would I. And Daniel would not have done it even if she had never known. Believe me, he hated the pirates as much as we did.” He looked down for a moment. “I’m sorry if I sound harsh, Mrs. Monk, but you did not know Daniel or you would not have asked. What they did to her brother was monstrous. Daniel would not give them air to breathe, let alone guns to continue their crimes. Nor would I have allowed it, whatever the threat or the price.”

Hester believed him, but she could not help wondering if perhaps Daniel Alberton had needed the sale sufficiently to connive at it, and hope Judith would never know. With the American war, guns appeared to be scarce, and at a premium. She did not wish to believe it. She had liked Alberton. But she knew people would do desperate things if faced with ruin, not even so much for the loss of material goods as for the shame of failure.

“Thank you, Mr. Casbolt, you have been very kind in giving me so much of your time.”

“Mrs. Monk, please do not pursue this idea any further. I knew Daniel Alberton better than any man, in some ways even better than his wife did. Nothing in the world would have persuaded him to sell guns to any pirate on earth, and least of all to those in the Mediterranean. You have met Judith. You must have some sense of what a remarkable woman she is, how … how …” It was obvious in his face that he could find no words adequate to name the qualities he saw in her. “Daniel adored her!” he said fiercely, his voice thick with emotion. “He would have lived out his days in debtors’ prison rather than break her trust by doing such a thing. He was a most honorable man, and … and she loved him for it. He … this is difficult for me to say, Mrs. Monk.” He shook his head very slightly, as if to dismiss some cloud around him. “He did not have great passion or wit, great imagination … but he was a man you could trust with anything and everything you possessed. Could you not sense that for yourself, even in the brief time you knew him?” His smile was twisted with pain. The agony in him seemed to fill the room. “Or am I thinking you could see in a few hours what I saw in half a lifetime?”

She was embarrassed for her thoughts, and ashamed of having allowed him to see them.

“I imagine it will prove as absurd as you say.” She made it half an apology, in tone if not in words. “Perhaps if we could find Mr. Shearer it would give us the solution.”

A strange bitterness filled his face for a moment, then vanished.

“I have no doubt that that is true. Who knows what hungers drive a man to the betrayal of those who trust him? Please just do what you can to save Merrit, Mrs. Monk, for Judith’s sake. It is something I cannot do.” He swallowed. “I don’t have the skill. I can care for her in many other ways, ways of business affairs and seeing that she is provided for and that she always has the respect of society. But …”

“Of course,” she promised quickly, rising to her feet. “I shall do it for Merrit’s sake also. We worked side by side for a little while on the battlefield. I know her courage. And I like her.”

He relaxed a little. “Thank you,” he said quietly, standing also. “Please God that Monk will find Shearer, or at least proof of his part in this.”

When she spoke of her thoughts to Monk he found the idea of Alberton’s having connived to sell guns to the pirates repellent, but he was obliged to consider the possibility. She saw the wince of pain in his face as they sat over Mrs. Patrick’s excellent supper, which included a rhubarb pie whose pastry melted in the mouth.

She saw the darkness in his face. It had been there the previous evening also, and she wondered if the same fear had occurred to him then, and he had been unwilling to say so. He had liked Alberton instinctively, more than most clients, and his death had left a sense of loss as well as anger. But there was no way to blunt the thought. Only the truth could banish it … perhaps.

“What did Casbolt say?” he asked her.

“He denied that it was possible. He said Alberton adored Judith and would rather have gone to debtors’ prison than deal with pirates.” She hesitated.

“But …” he prompted.

“But he was Alberton’s closest friend and he could not bear to think he would betray Judith like that. Or that he was … so much less than they all believed him. He’s very loyal. And …” She smiled very faintly at the memory of Casbolt’s face in the beautiful, glowing room, the intensity of the emotion filling his body as he sat on the edge of his seat. “And he is pretty devoted to Judith himself. He would do anything to protect her from further hurt.”

“Including lying to hide Alberton’s guilt?” he pressed.

“I should think so,” she answered frankly, weighing her words and aware that she believed them true. “It would also be a matter of protecting the reputation of a dead friend, for Judith’s sake too. I can understand that, even if I don’t know whether I would do it myself or not.”

His eyes widened. “At the expense of the truth? You!”

She looked back at him, trying to read his expression, but not with any intent to moderate how she answered.

“I don’t know. Not all truths need to be told. Some shouldn’t. I just don’t know which they are.”

“Yes, you do.” There was a black shadow in his face. “They are those which cause the innocent to suffer, and create a divide between people because of lies … even lies of silence.”

She did not understand the depth of feeling behind his words. It was as if he were angry with her, as he had been when they had first known each other and he had thought her hypocritical, even cold. Perhaps then there had been parts of her that were locked away, too quick to condemn what she did not understand and was afraid of, but not now!

She did not know how to break through the barrier. She could not find it, touch it, but she knew absolutely that it was there. What had she said that had created it? Why did he not know her better than to misunderstand? Or love her enough to break it himself?

“I don’t know what the truth is,” she said quietly, looking down at the table. “I think it more likely it had to do with Shearer, whether he meant to sell the guns to the pirates, or Trace, or Breeland, or just anyone who wanted them.”

“I can’t find Shearer.” His voice was flat. “No one has seen him since before the murders.”

“Doesn’t that say a great deal in itself?” she asked. “If he were not involved somehow, wouldn’t he still be here? Wouldn’t he be doing all he could to help, and perhaps improve his own position in the business? He might even hope to be some sort of manager.”

He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, moving about the small room restlessly.

“It isn’t enough,” he said grimly. “You can see it, and I can, but we can’t rely on a jury. Breeland had the guns. He was involved. He might have persuaded Shearer actually to commit the murders, probably for the price of the guns, which could be enough to corrupt many men. I admit, I don’t care if Breeland hangs for it. To corrupt another man to betrayal and murder is an even deeper sin than doing it yourself. But it won’t help Merrit because it doesn’t prove she had no knowledge of it.”

“But …” She started to protest, then realized with a crushing weight that he was right. Not only would the jury be less likely to believe it because of her closeness to Breeland, and the fact that she had gone willingly with him, dropping her watch in the warehouse yard, but she herself, in her misguided loyalty to him, would not deny it.

“There are dark places in everybody,” he said in the silence. “People you believe you know have violence and ugliness it is hard to accept, and impossible to understand.” There was anger in his voice and a pain she heard only too clearly. She wished to ask what he had discovered that he had not told her, but she knew from the angle of his body, the part of his face she could see, half turned away from her as it was, that he would not tell her.

She stood up to clear away the dishes and carry them through to the kitchen. She would not mention it again, at least not tonight.

Monk went to bed early. He was tired, but far more than that he wished to avoid speaking with Hester. He had shut himself out, and he did not know how to deal with it.

In the morning he woke early and left Hester still asleep. At least he thought she was. He was not certain. He wrote a hasty note telling her he had gone to the river again to pursue the matter of the guns, the money, and anything he could learn about the company who dealt with the pirates, then he left. He would find something to eat, if he felt like it, somewhere on the road. There were plenty of peddlers around with sandwiches and pies. The general mass of working people had no facilities to cook, and ate in the street. He did not want to risk Hester’s waking and finding him in the kitchen, because he would have to give some explanation, or openly avoid it, and he was not ready to face so much inward pain.

From the very moment he awoke in the hospital his past had been an unknown land which carried too many areas of darkness, too many ugly surprises. He should have had the sense, the self-restraint, to have guarded his feelings more. He had known then that marriage was not for him. Love and its vulnerabilities were for those with uncomplicated lives, who knew themselves and whose darkest recesses of the soul were only the ordinary envies and petty acts of retreat that affected everyone.

He had not been prepared for someone like Hester, who forced from him emotions he could not stifle or control, and in the end could not even deny.

He should have found the strength to! Or at least the sense of self-preservation.

Too late now. The wound was there, wide open.

He went out of the house, closing the front door softly, and walked as quickly as he could along Fitzroy Street and into Tottenham Court Road. He had no choice but to examine the blackmail issue more closely. His revulsion against the idea was no excuse; in fact, it impelled him to do all he could to test it against the facts, and if possible disprove it.

It was too early to obtain permission to examine Alberton’s finances. Rathbone would not be at his offices in Vere Street at this hour. However, Monk could write a note asking for the necessary authority, and leave it for him.

Then he would pursue Baskin and Company, who had been named as the intermediary for the pirates’ guns.

The river was busy in the early morning. Tides waited on no man’s convenience, and already dockers, ferrymen, bargees and stokers were busy. He saw coal backers, bent double under their heavy sacks, keeping a precarious balance as they climbed out of the deep holds. Men shouted to one another, and the cries of gulls circling low in hope of fish, the clatter of chains and metal on metal, were loud in the air above the ever-present surge and slap of water.

“Never ’eard of it, guv,” the first man answered cheerfully when Monk asked for the company. “In’t now’ere ’round ’ere. Eh! Jim! Yer ever ’eard o’ Baskin and Company?”

“Not ’round ’ere,” Jim replied. “Sorry, mate!”

And so it continued down as far as Limehouse and around the curve of the Isle of Dogs, and again across the river at Rotherhithe. He had been certain the ferrymen would know if anyone did, but even the three he asked had never heard either name.

By midafternoon he gave up and went back to Vere Street to see if Rathbone had obtained the necessary permission to go through Daniel Alberton’s accounts.

“There’s no difficulty,” Rathbone said with a frown. He received Monk in his office, looking cool and immaculate as always. Monk, who had been traipsing up and down the dockside all day, was aware of the contrast between them. Rathbone had no shadows in his past that mattered. His smooth, almost arrogant manner came from the fact that he knew himself, better than most men. He was so supremely confident in who he was he felt no need to impress others. It was a quality Monk admired and envied. He had come to understand himself well enough to know that his own moments of cruelty came from self-doubt, his need to show others his importance.

He recalled himself to the present. “Good!”

“What do you expect to find?” Rathbone was looking curious and a trifle anxious.

“Nothing,” Monk replied. “But I need to be certain.”

Rathbone leaned back in his chair. “Why didn’t you ask me to look?”

Monk smiled thinly. “Because you may not want to know the answer.”

Humor flashed for an instant in Rathbone’s eyes. “Oh! Then you had better go alone. Just don’t leave me walking into an ambush in court.”

“I won’t,” Monk promised. “I still think Shearer is the one who actually committed the murders.”

Rathbone’s eyebrows rose. “Alone?”

“No. I think it would have taken more than one, even holding a gun. They were tied up before they were shot. But he could have hired help anywhere. He certainly lived and worked where he would be able to find plenty of men willing to kill a man, for a reasonable price. The price of those guns would be enough to buy nine decent-sized houses. A small percent of the profit would give him sufficient to obtain all kinds of assistance.”

Rathbone’s fastidious face expressed his distaste.

“And I suppose we have no idea where Shearer is now?”

“None at all. Could be anywhere, here or in Europe. Or America, for that matter, except it’s not the best place to be, unless he has designs on making more money in the armaments business.” He debated with himself whether to mention the whole blackmail affair, and his failure to find any trace of Baskin and Company, and decided against it for the moment. It might be easier for Rathbone if he did not know.

“He could well do that,” Rathbone said thoughtfully, leaning back and placing his fingertips together, elbows on the arms of his chair. “He might have bought more guns somewhere with the money from Breeland, if what Breeland says is true. There’s a very murky area in arms dealing, and he would be in a position to know more about it than most.”

It was a thought which had not occurred to Monk; he was annoyed with himself for it. His preoccupation with the past, and its destruction into the present, was costing him the sharp edge of his skill. But it was second nature to conceal it from Rathbone.

“That’s another reason I need to see Alberton’s books,” he said.

Rathbone frowned. “I don’t like this, Monk. I think perhaps I had better know what you find. I can’t afford to be taken by surprise, however much I may dislike what it shows. No one has accused Alberton of anything yet, but I know the prosecution is going to use Horatio Deverill. He’s an ambitious bounder, and they didn’t nickname him ’Devil’ for nothing. He’s unpredictable, no loyalties, few prejudices.”

“Doesn’t his ambition curb his indiscretion?” Monk asked skeptically.

Rathbone’s mouth turned down at the corners. “No. He’s got no chance of a seat in the Lords, and he knows it. His hunger is for fame, to shock, to be noticed. He’s good-looking, and a certain kind of woman finds him attractive.” A quiver of humor touched his lips. “The sort whose lives are comfortable and a trifle boring,” he continued. “And who think danger would give them the excitement their rank and money shield them from. I imagine you are familiar with the type?”

“Do you?” Then, like a wave of heat inside him, Monk knew why Rathbone had smiled. Monk himself carried that sort of danger, and he knew it and had used it often enough. It was a hint of the reckless, the unknown, even a suggestion of pain, another reality they wanted to touch but not be trapped in. Boredom held its own kind of destruction.

He stood up. “Then we had better know everything we can, good or bad,” he said tersely. “If I see anything I don’t understand, I’ll send you a message, and you can find me an accounts clerk.”

“Monk …”

“Only if I need one,” Monk said from the door. He did not intend to tell Rathbone about his merchant banking days, and that he knew very well how to read a balance sheet, and what to look for if he suspected embezzlement or any other kind of dishonesty. He wanted to block the whole of the past, most especially to do with Arrol Dundas, from his mind.

Monk examined the books of Alberton’s business far into the night. Alberton and Casbolt had dealt in a number of commodities, mostly to considerable profit. Casbolt had been extremely knowledgeable as to where to obtain goods at the best price, and Alberton had known where to sell them to the best advantage. They had left a good deal of the shipping to Shearer, and had paid him well for his services. Read in detail, the movement of money showed a trust among the three men stretching back nearly twenty years.

Even with the skills he half remembered and which came back with startling clarity as he read, added, subtracted, Monk found nothing that was less than completely honest.

But he also had no doubt whatever, when he finally closed the last ledger at twenty-five minutes to one, that the guns the pirates’ agents had demanded through blackmail would be worth roughly £1,875. The guns unaccounted for from the warehouse after Alberton’s death and the robbery had not been paid for through the books. There had been no money in Alberton’s possession at the time of his death, and nothing concealed in the warehouse. If money had changed hands at all, it had gone with whoever had left Tooley Street that night, or else Breeland had passed it to Shearer at the Euston Square station, as he had said.

Tomorrow he would go back and speak to Breeland.

When Hester awoke she found Monk’s note. It left her with an increasing sense of loss. She was almost grateful that the trial of Merrit and Breeland loomed so close; it left her less time to torture herself with questions and fears as to what had changed between them.

Thoughts had flickered darkly across her mind that perhaps he regretted the commitment of marriage, that he felt trapped, closed in by the expectations, the constant companionship, the limits to his personal freedom.

But the change in him had been so sudden it made little sense. There had been no hint of it before; indeed, the opposite was true. Finding Mrs. Patrick had been a stroke of good fortune. It freed Hester to pursue her interest in medical reform without neglecting domestic duties. And Mrs. Patrick was undeniably a better cook.

She forced it from her mind and dressed in soft gray, one of her favorite colors, then set out to call upon Judith Alberton. She was not exactly sure what she wished to ask her, or even what she hoped to learn, but Judith was the only person who knew what had happened to her brother and his family, and Hester still had the feeling that the blackmail attempt was at the heart of the murders, whether it had been brought about by Shearer, or by Breeland, or even possibly by Trace, although that was a thought she hoped profoundly was not true. She had liked Philo Trace. The fact that he was from the South, and his people countenanced the keeping of slaves, was an accident of birth and culture. It had nothing to do with the charm of the man or the pleasure she felt in his company. The conflict of morality was something she sensed he was already facing within himself. Perhaps that was because she wished to believe it, but until forced to do otherwise by evidence, she would suppose it to be so.

It might be coincidence that the murders and the theft had followed so soon after the blackmail, for which the price of silence had been guns, but she did not think so. There was a connection, if she could find it.

Judith seemed pleased to see her. Naturally she was not receiving social calls and was wearing full mourning for her husband, but she was perfectly composed and whatever grief she felt was masked by a dignity and warmth which immediately drew Hester’s admiration—and made her task more difficult and seem more intrusive.

Nevertheless, only the truth would serve, and Merrit’s situation was desperate. The trial was due to start at the beginning of the following week.

“How nice of you to call, Mrs. Monk,” Judith welcomed her. “Please tell me what news you have.…”

Hester hated lies, but she knew from many years of nursing that sometimes half-truths were necessary, for a period at least. Some truths were better unknown altogether. The ability to fight the battle was what was needed, and without the death of hope.

“I have never believed Merrit was involved,” she answered, following Judith into a small room which opened onto the garden and was decorated in greens and white, and at the present moment was filled with the morning sun. “But I am afraid it seems unavoidable that Mr. Breeland was, even if not directly.”

Judith stared at her, no anxiety in her eyes, only confusion.

“If not Mr. Breeland, then who?”

“It seems most likely it was Shearer. I’m sorry.” She did not know why she apologized, only that she regretted that Alberton should have been betrayed by someone he had trusted so long, and so closely. It added to the pain.

“Shearer?” Judith questioned. “Are you sure? He’s a hard man, but Daniel always said he was completely loyal.”

“Have you seen him since Mr. Alberton’s death?”

“No. But then I have only met him once or twice anyway. He hardly ever came to the house.” She did not need to add that they were not social acquaintances.

“No one else has seen him since then either,” Hester told her. “Surely if he were innocent he would be here to help, to continue to work in the business and to offer all the support he could? Would he not be as anxious as we are to catch whoever is responsible?”

“Yes,” Judith said quietly. “I suppose the answer had to be terrible, whatever it was. It was foolish to have hoped it would be … something … bearable … someone easy to hate, and dismiss.”

There was nothing Hester could say to mitigate that. She turned to the other matter she needed to probe. “Mrs. Alberton, your husband and Mr. Casbolt received a very ugly letter requesting that they sell guns to a company which is known to be an intermediary who would sell them on to most undesirable quarters.”

Judith’s face registered no comprehension of why Hester should ask.

“They refused, but they asked my husband’s assistance in finding out who was making the request. The letter was anonymous, and threatening—”

“Threatening?” Judith said quickly. “Have you informed the police? Surely they must be responsible, then.…”

“Mr. Breeland has the guns that were stolen.”

“Oh … yes, of course. I’m sorry. Then why are you asking about these people?”

Again Hester told less than the truth.

“I am not quite certain. I just feel that the coincidence of time, and the fact that it was guns, may mean that they are connected somehow. We need all the knowledge we can possibly obtain.”

“Yes, I see. Of course. What can I tell you?” Judith made no demur at all. She leaned forward, her face watchful and intelligent.

Hester hated opening the subject, but it was a past loss, raised perhaps to avoid a present one.

“I believe you lost your brother in dreadful circumstances.…” She saw Judith wince and the color pale in her cheeks. Hester did not retreat. “Please tell me at least the main story. I don’t ask lightly.”

Judith looked down. “I am half Italian. I daresay you knew I was not entirely English. My father came from the south, about fifty miles from Naples. I had only one brother, Cesare. He was married and had three children. He and his wife, Maria, used to love sailing.”

Her voice was tight and low. “Seven years ago their boat was boarded by pirates off the coast of Sicily. The whole family was killed.” She swallowed convulsively. “Their bodies were found … later. I …” She shook her head minutely, little more than a shiver. “Daniel went out. I didn’t. He … he wouldn’t tell me the details. I asked … I was glad he refused. I saw in his face that it was terrible. Sometimes he dreamed … I heard him cry out in the night, and wake up, his body rigid. But he would never say what had happened to them.”

Hester tried to imagine the crushing weight of horror that had remained with Alberton so vividly, and the love for his wife which had taken him to Sicily, and then kept him silent all the years between. And yet he still dealt in guns! Did he feel they were also used for good, to fight just causes, defend the weak, even keep a balance of power between otherwise violent forces?

Or was it simply the only business he understood, or the most profitable? They would probably never know. She wished to think it was one of the former.

“How long was he away?” she asked aloud.

“I don’t know. Almost three weeks,” Judith answered. “It seemed an age at the time. I missed him dreadfully, and of course I feared for him also. But he was determined to do everything he could to have the pirates found and punished. He pursued word of them from one place to another, but always they eluded him. And most of the forces of law were those who had no interest in catching them.” A fleeting love and sorrow filled her eyes. “Italy is a culture, a language, a great art, a way of life, but it is not a nation. One day it may be, if God is willing, but that day is not yet.”

“I see.”

Judith smiled. “No, you don’t. You are English, forgive me, but you have no idea at all. Neither had Daniel. He did all he could, and when he realized that they could simply disappear anywhere in hundreds of miles of coastline, thousands of islands anywhere between Constantinople and Tangiers, he came home again, angry, defeated, but prepared to care for me and for Merrit, and let justice be God’s, in whatever manner it may.”

There was nothing for Hester to add. Of course it was possible Alberton had made contact with gun buyers in the Mediterranean, pirates or otherwise, fighters for or against Italian unification. But there was no way she could find out. Probably Judith did not know; certainly she would not say.

“How did you know of the blackmail?” Judith asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Mr. Casbolt told me.” Hester realized that needed some explanation. “I was seeking his help regarding his knowledge of Mr. Breeland, and of the munitions business in general. He told me of the pressure to sell to the pirates, and why Mr. Alberton never would, whatever the threat or the price.”

Judith’s face relaxed into a smile. “He always understood. He knew Daniel before I did, you know? They were friends at school here in England, and one year he brought Daniel with him to Italy. That was where we fell in love.” She looked down for a moment. “Without Robert’s help I don’t know if I would be able to commit to Sir Oliver’s fee for representing Merrit, and that would be more than I could bear.” She raised her head quickly, her eyes wide, fear naked in them. “Mrs. Monk, do you think Sir Oliver is going to be able to save her? The newspapers are so certain she is guilty. I had no idea written words could hurt so much … that people who don’t even know you could be so passionately certain of what you are like, what is in your heart. I don’t go out, not at the moment, but I don’t know how I will be able to when the time comes. How will I face people when everyone I pass in the street may believe my daughter is guilty of …”

“Ignore them,” Hester replied. “Think only of Merrit. Those with any honesty will be ashamed of themselves when they discover their error. The others are not worth battling with, and there is nothing you can do about them anyway.”

Judith sat quite still. “Will you be there?”

“Yes.” There had been no decision to make.

“Thank you.”

Hester stayed another half hour, but as a matter of companionship. They talked of nothing important, carefully avoiding speaking of the case, or of love and loss. Judith showed her around the garden, vivid with color as the roses began their second flush. It was warm even in the shade, the heavy perfume of flowers dreamlike. It made Monday’s opening of the trial harsher by contrast, as if this were so soon to end. For a long time neither of them spoke. Platitudes would insult the reality.

Monk went to see Breeland on Saturday. He had not found enough to help Rathbone beyond hope, doubt, issues to raise. He would continue seeking during the trial, but he was beginning to fear that there was no proof to find that Merrit was innocent. It might end in being no more than a matter of judgment.

There was one question to ask Breeland, the answer to which would do him no injury, so Monk had no hesitation in asking it.

Breeland was brought into a small square cell. He looked pale and thinner than when Monk had last seen him. His face had hollows around the eyes and a certain leanness to the cheeks where the muscles showed tight-clenched. He stood stiffly, looking at Monk with resentment.

“I have already told you everything I have to say,” he began before Monk had spoken at all. “You brought me back to stand trial and to prove my innocence. I assume your friend Rathbone will do his duty, although I have little confidence in his belief in my innocence. I trusted you, Monk, but I now fear my trust may have been misplaced. I think you would be pleased enough to see me hang, as long as Miss Alberton is acquitted and you are paid your fee for rescuing her. I apologize if I accuse you unjustly. I hope I do.”

Monk searched the smooth, chiseled face and saw no surface emotion, no fear, no weakness, no doubt in his own courage to face the ordeal now only two days away. He should have admired it. Instead it filled him with a strange fear of his own. He was not certain whether Breeland’s demeanor was more than human, or less. He could see none of his own vulnerabilities reflected there.

“I accept your apology,” he said coolly. “Certainly I would like Miss Alberton acquitted, and I admit I don’t give a damn whether you hang or not … provided you are guilty … whether you actually fired the gun doesn’t matter. If you corrupted Shearer, or anybody else, into doing it for you, that’s all the same to me. If you didn’t, and it had nothing to do with you, then I’ll fight as hard to clear you as I would any man.”

There was no flash of humor in Breeland’s face, not even the ghost of recognition of irony. Monk had a sudden thought that Breeland did not perceive himself except as a hero, or a martyr. Human foibles and absurdities eluded his grasp. Monk saw a vision of an endless desert of existence, always on the grand scale, stripped of the laughter and trivia that bring proportion to life and are the measure of sanity.

Poor Merrit.

He pushed his hands into his pockets. “How many guns did you buy?” he asked casually. “Exactly.”

“Exactly?” Breeland repeated, his eyebrows lifted. “To the gun? I didn’t count them. There was hardly time. I assumed every crate was full. Alberton was a stubborn man, with limited views and no moral or political understanding, but I never doubted his financial integrity.”

“How many guns did you pay for?”

“Six thousand. And I paid him the agreed amount per gun.”

“You paid Shearer?”

“I already told you that.” Breeland frowned. “For that amount of money you could build several streets’ worth of four-bedroom houses in any part of London. It seems obvious to me that Shearer double-crossed Alberton, shot him and the guards in a manner to make it look as if it were Union soldiers who did it, sold the guns to me, and escaped with the money. I am innocent, and Rathbone will be able to demonstrate that.”

Monk made no reply. Breeland was perfectly correct. Monk did not care whether he hanged or not … not at this moment.