Slaves of Obsession

10

ON THE FOLLOWING Monday the trial began of Lyman Breeland and Merrit Alberton, jointly accused of the Tooley Street murders. Oliver Rathbone was as well prepared as he was able to be, given the information he possessed. From what Monk had told him, he believed Breeland had not committed the crimes himself, but assuring the jury that he had not instigated them, and profited from them knowing what had occurred, was quite another matter. And Rathbone was aware of having a client who would not naturally elicit the sympathy of the jury.

He had spoken to both Merrit and Breeland on the Friday before. He had weighed whether to suggest to Breeland a softer manner, more expression of humility, even of regret for the tragedy of Alberton’s death, but he formed the belief that it would be a wasted attempt, perhaps even produce a pattern of behavior that was obviously false.

Now as the court was called to order and the proceedings began, Rathbone looked up at Breeland’s face in the dock, expressionless, staring straight ahead as if he had no interest in the people assembled there, no regard or respect for them, and Rathbone wished he had made some effort to warn him how dearly that could cost.

Merrit, on the other hand, looked young and frightened, and very vulnerable indeed. Her skin was pale, blue-shadowed around her eyes, and her hands were clenched on the rail so hard it would be easy to think she was holding on to it to save herself from falling. As Rathbone watched her, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin a little, and looked up at Breeland. Very tentatively she reached out her hand and touched his arm.

The shadow of a smile moved his lips, but he did not speak to her. Perhaps he did not wish the court to witness any emotion in him. Perhaps he felt that love was a private thing, and he would not share it with those who had come to stare, and to judge.

Rathbone was acutely conscious of Judith Alberton, as were most of the people in the court. There was a beauty in her carriage, and in what could be glimpsed of her features. He saw people nudge each other as she came in, and several men were unable to keep the admiration, or the interest, from their expressions.

Rathbone wondered if she was accustomed to being stared at, or if it made her uncomfortable. She looked at Merrit, who was still turned towards Breeland, then across at Rathbone. It was only a glance before she sat down, and he could not see her eyes through the veil. He only imagined the desperation she must be feeling. All the help anyone could give her could not cross the barrier of loneliness she must face, the fear of what these days would bring.

Hester was beside her, dressed in dark and pale grays, the light catching her fair skin and a little white lace at her throat. He would have recognized the curve of her cheek anywhere, and the individual way she carried her head. The greatest beauty in the world did not catch his breath that way with the ache of familiarity, the memory of so many shared struggles for victory over ignorance and wrong. Winning had mattered, of course it had, the causes had always been worth the fight, but he realized how good the battles themselves had been. This was another one, but they were not together in it as they had been in the past. Monk was between them in a new way.

He saw Breeland stiffen and a look of extraordinary dislike fill his face. Rathbone followed his glance. A slender, dark-haired man had entered the courtroom and was making his way towards a vacant seat on the edge of the aisle in the public gallery. He moved with an unusual grace and made no sound at all, taking a place where it was unnecessary to excuse himself to anyone. His remarkable eyes studied Judith Alberton, even though she was in front of him and he could not have seen her face.

Rathbone wondered if this was Philo Trace. He knew it was not Casbolt, since they had already met.

Opposite him, across the aisle, Horatio Deverill was rising to open his case. He was a tall man, slender in his youth but now thickening around the middle. His once-handsome features were slightly coarsened but still full of power and character. But it was his voice which commanded attention and forced one to listen. It was rich, idiosyncratic, with perfect enunciation. Many a jury had been mesmerized by it. When he spoke, no one’s attention wandered.

“Gentlemen,” he began, smiling at the jurors, sitting upright and self-conscious in their high, carved seats. “I shall tell you about a heinous and terrible crime. I shall show you how an honorable man, much like yourselves, was conspired against to be robbed, and then murdered, in order to gain guns for the tragic conflict which is even now being fought out in America, brother against brother.”

There was a murmur of horror and sympathy around the room.

Rathbone was not surprised. He had expected Deverill to play for any emotional reaction he could draw. He was perfectly capable of doing the same, were he to suppose it would win him a case. He did not care about individual points, only the verdict.

“And I shall show you,” Deverill continued, “that this terrible deed was not only an offense against the law of this land, and the laws of God, but against the very laws of nature itself, acknowledged by every race and nation in mankind. It was carried out at the behest and to serve the purposes of the accused, Lyman Breeland. But, gentlemen, it was aided and connived at by the victim’s own daughter, Merrit Alberton.”

He received the desired gasp of horror, shimmering around the room like a hot wind before a storm.

“She was infatuated with Breeland,” he continued. “And what he did to induce this obsession in her I cannot prove, so I shall not attempt even to tell you, but suffice it to say, after the terrible deed was done, she fled to America with him, that very night.” He shook his head. “And it was only by the good offices of a private agent of enquiry, employed by her own mother, the widow of the murdered man, that she and Breeland were brought back to this country, at gunpoint, to face you, and your decision as to how justice may be served.

“To this end, my lord …” He turned at last to face the judge, a lean man with powerful features and clear, silver-gray eyes. “To this end, I call my first witness, Robert Casbolt.”

There was intense interest as Casbolt came into the court and crossed the open space of the floor in front of the judge and jury and climbed up the short, curving steps to the witness stand. He was immaculately dressed in dark gray, and looked pale but composed. There was not even the shadow of the smile he so often wore, and which had etched the lines around his mouth.

He swore as to his name and residence, and awaited Deverill’s first questions calmly. Once he glanced down at Judith and his expression softened, but it was only for an instant. He looked like a man at a funeral. He did not look towards the dock.

“Mr. Casbolt …” Deverill began, smiling apologetically and walking up and down the open floor like an actor facing an audience to deliver a great soliloquy. Although it was the jury to whom he was playing, he never once looked in their direction. “I realize this is acutely painful for you, sir. Nevertheless it is necessary, and I hope you will bear with me while I take the court through the events which led to this tragedy. You were aware of almost all of them, even though you can have had no idea to what terrible end they were destined.”

Rathbone looked at the jury. They ranged from about forty to sixty in age, and seemed decent and prosperous, like most jurors. There were qualifications of property required which ruled out many younger men, or those of a different social class. They sat serious, unhappy, and concentrating fiercely upon every word that was said.

“Mr. Casbolt, would you tell the court how and when you first encountered Lyman Breeland?”

“Of course,” Casbolt said quietly, but his voice fell with perfect clarity in the faint rustling around the room. “I do not recall the exact date, but it was early in May of this year. He presented himself at the business premises of Daniel Alberton and myself.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “He was interested in the armaments aspect of our business.”

“And what did Mr. Breeland say to you?” Deverill asked innocently.

“That he was authorized to purchase guns for the Union cause in the American conflict,” Casbolt answered. “He said he was entrusted by his superior with a very large sum of money, approximately twenty-three thousand pounds, which he had deposited at the Bank of England.”

There was a gasp of amazement around the room. It was a fortune beyond most men’s imagination. Several people looked up at Breeland in the dock, but he studiously ignored them all, keeping his eyes on Deverill.

“Did you see this money?” Deverill asked, his voice hushed with awe.

“No, sir. One would not have expected him to bring it with him,” Casbolt answered. “It is a … a fortune!”

“It is indeed. But he told you, and Mr. Alberton, that the government of the Northern states of America had sent him with this money in order to purchase guns, is that so?”

“Guns and ammunition for them, yes, sir.”

“And you believed him?”

“We had no cause to doubt him. I still have not,” Casbolt replied. “He presented credentials, including a letter from Abraham Lincoln bearing the seal of the President of the United States. Both Daniel Alberton and I were well informed as to the escalating hostilities across the Atlantic, and naturally we were also aware of the fact that representatives from both the Union and the Confederate states had been purchasing guns wherever they were available all over Europe.”

“Just so,” Deverill agreed. He pushed his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, stared at the polished toes of his boots, then looked up at Casbolt. “And had you, or Daniel Alberton, sold guns before to either party in this war?”

“We had not.”

“And you are sure that Daniel Alberton had not, for example, made a private agreement with Lyman Breeland, unknown to you or Mr. Trace?” Deverill prompted.

Casbolt’s face filled with a curious mixture of emotions which were only too apparently painful. His eyes flickered towards Judith, sitting in the front seat of the gallery.

Everyone in the room must have been aware of the tension and the personal grief.

Rathbone looked up at Breeland. He was watching intently, but if he felt any sorrow or fear it was too tightly under control to betray itself. His pride could serve him ill. It looked too much like indifference. The next time he had the opportunity to speak to his client, Rathbone would tell him so, for any good it would do.

“Are you sure?” Deverill prompted.

Casbolt drew his attention back. His expression cleared.

“The other reason was that Daniel Alberton was my friend, and one of the most honorable men I have ever known. In twenty-five years I never knew him to break his word to anyone.” His voice caught. “One could not ask more of a business associate than that, coupled with skill and knowledge of his field.”

“Indeed one could not,” Deverill agreed softly, looking again at the jury.

Rathbone swore under his breath. He had never imagined defeating Deverill would be easy, but the reality of his task was becoming sharper by the minute. Brilliant as Rathbone was, and ruthless, he could not alter the truth, nor would he try.

“What, precisely, was the agreement made with Mr. Trace?” Deverill asked ingenuously.

“Daniel had given his word to sell six thousand P1853 Enfield rifled muskets,” Casbolt replied clearly.

Deverill was supremely satisfied. It glowed in his face. Rathbone knew the jurors saw it, and had judged its importance accordingly. They believed he had scored a major point, even if they did not know what it was. One of them, a man with magnificent side-whiskers, shot a malevolent glance up at Breeland.

Merrit looked as if she had been struck. She moved a fraction closer to Breeland in the dock. The movement was not lost on the jury.

Rathbone knew how to manipulate emotion also, although at times he found it repugnant. He would have used the slave issue, one most Englishmen deplored, even though many of them favored the South. But he was conscious of Hester sitting beside Judith Alberton, and how she would despise him for the moral dishonesty of it. He was angry with himself that he allowed it to hurt.

“Why was he prepared to sell guns to Mr. Trace, sir?” Deverill enquired innocently. “Was he a sympathizer with the Confederate cause?”

“No,” Casbolt answered. “I am not aware that he had a loyalty to either side. The only opinion I heard him express was one of sadness that the issue had come to war at all. In the several months previously he had hoped it would be resolved by negotiation. It was simply that Mr. Trace presented himself and was desperate to purchase. He did not argue his cause greatly. He said the South wanted to be free to decide its own destiny and choose its form of government, but little more than that. It was Mr. Breeland who tried to persuade him that his cause justified the sale of arms to the Union rather than anyone else.”

“So Mr. Trace obtained the sale simply because he was first?” Deverill deduced.

“Yes. He paid half the sum as an evidence of good faith. The second half was to follow upon delivery of the guns and ammunition.”

“And Breeland wished Mr. Alberton to renege on that agreement and sell the guns to him instead?”

“Yes. He was most insistent … to the point of unpleasantness.” Casbolt’s face was twisted with regret, even a degree of self-blame, as if he should have foreseen the tragedy.

Deverill was quick to seize on it. “What sort of unpleasantness? Did he threaten anyone?”

“No … not so far as I am aware.” Casbolt’s voice was soft, his mind very much in the past tragedy. “He accused Daniel of being in favor of slavery, which of course he was not. Breeland was passionate about his cause, both to abolish slavery in America and to keep all the states in the Union, whether they wished it or not. He frequently argued his opinion—his obsession—that the South should not be allowed independence … only he called it secession. I admit, I don’t understand the difference.” This time the faintest smile touched his face.

Deverill opened his eyes very wide. “Nor I, to be frank.” He gestured very slightly towards the dock, but did not look up at it. “But fortunately it is not our concern.” He dismissed it. “In his attempts to change Mr. Alberton’s mind about the guns, did he call upon him at his place of business, or at his home, do you know?”

“Both, he told me, but I know for myself that he called often at his home, because I was there on half a dozen occasions. He was offered hospitality and accepted it.”

Again several jurors shot Breeland a look of loathing.

“There is something peculiarly repellent in the ultimate betrayal of eating at a man’s table and then rising up and murdering him. Every society abhors it,” Deverill said quietly, his voice very low, and yet carrying to every corner of the room.

The judge glanced at Rathbone. He would have objected to the irrelevance of the comment, but it was not irrelevant except legally, and every man and woman in the room knew it. It would only betray his own desperation. He shook his head minutely.

Deverill continued. “During these visits, Mr. Casbolt, did you observe any relationship growing between Breeland and Merrit Alberton?”

Casbolt winced and shivered a little. “Not as much as I should have done.” His voice was tight in his throat, strained with regret. Even sitting several yards away, and looking upwards at him on the stand, Rathbone was moved by the emotion in him. It was too genuine for anyone to doubt it, or be unaffected.

There was a ripple of compassion around the room. A woman sniffed. One of the jurors shook his head slowly and glanced up at Merrit in the dock.

Rathbone turned to Judith, but her expression was hidden by her veil. He saw Philo Trace look towards her, and his emotion also was laid bare to see. Rathbone realized in that moment that Trace loved Judith, silently, without expectation of return. He knew it with a depth of understanding because that was how he loved Hester. The time for her responding to him was gone. Perhaps it was only an illusion that it had ever been.

Deverill had milked the silence for all he could get from it. He resumed his questioning.

“And did you see Miss Alberton return his attentions?” he asked.

“Indeed.” Casbolt cleared his throat. “She is only sixteen. I believed it was an infatuation which would pass as soon as Breeland left to go back to America.”

Instinctively, Rathbone looked up at Merrit and saw the pain and defiance in her face. She leaned a little forward, longing to tell them the truth, how much she truly loved Breeland, but she was not permitted to speak.

Casbolt went on. “He was an officer in an army.” Suddenly anger burst through, raw and hard in his voice. “About to engage in civil war five thousand miles away from England. He was in no position to make an offer to a woman, let alone a child of Merrit’s age! It never occurred to me that he would! I don’t believe it entered her father’s mind either. And if Breeland had had the ill judgment, the effrontery, to do so, Daniel would naturally have refused.”

In the dock Breeland stirred, but he also could not defend himself yet.

“If Breeland loved her,” Casbolt went on, “and were an honorable man, he would have waited until the war was over, and then returned with a proper offer, when he could support her and care for her as a man should. Provide a home for her … not leave her with strangers in a besieged city while he went off to a battle from which he might never return … or return crippled and unable to care for her.” He was shaking as he stood gripping the rails, his face white.

He had not given a single fact tying Breeland to the murder of Daniel Alberton, but he had damned him in the eyes of every person in the room, and Deverill knew it. It was there in the confident stance of the barrister’s body, the smooth velvet of his voice.

“Just so, Mr. Casbolt. I am sure we all feel as you do, and might well have had no more foresight as to the tragedy to come. We hold no condemnation, sir, no wisdom after the event. Could you now tell us what you observed the night of Daniel Alberton’s death …?”

Casbolt closed his eyes, his hands still gripping the rail.

“Are you all right, Mr. Casbolt?” Deverill said anxiously. He stepped forward, as if afraid that Casbolt might actually collapse.

“Yes,” Casbolt said between his teeth. He took a deep breath and lifted his head, staring with fixed eyes at the paneled wall above the gallery. “I know only from learning what happened earlier that evening. I assume you will call Monk, who was present, to tell you what he saw and heard. I had been dining late with friends and had not yet retired. It was about half-past three when a messenger brought me a note from Mrs. Alberton.”

“Exhibit number one, my lord,” Deverill said to the judge.

The judge nodded and the usher handed a piece of paper to Casbolt.

“Is this the note you received?” Deverill asked.

Casbolt’s hand trembled as he took it. He had difficulty finding his voice. “It is.”

“Will you read it for us?” Deverill requested.

Casbolt cleared his throat.

“ ‘My dear Robert: Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, but I am deeply afraid something serious may have happened. Daniel and Merrit had a terrible quarrel this evening. Mr. Breeland was here, and Mr. Monk. Mr. Breeland swore that he would not be defeated in his cause, regardless of what it cost him. Merrit has left home. I discovered an hour ago that she has packed a bag and gone, I fear to Breeland. Daniel left shortly after the quarrel. He must have gone after her, but he has not returned. Please find him and help. He will be so distressed.’ ”

He looked up, his voice thick as if he fought tears. “It is signed ’Judith.’ Of course I did not hesitate more than a moment to wonder what was the best course of action. I realized it would be to enlist Monk’s help, in case of unpleasantness, and then go straight to Breeland’s rooms. If necessary we could bring Merrit back by force … before her reputation was ruined.” A bitter humor flashed across his face and disappeared, replaced by misery.

Deverill nodded his head slowly.

The jury looked suitably grieved.

The judge glanced at Rathbone to see if he had any response, but there was none to make.

“Please continue,” Deverill requested. “I assume you went to find Mr. Monk?”

“Yes,” Casbolt agreed. “I awoke him and told him briefly what had happened. He came with me, first to Breeland’s rooms, which were empty. We were let in by the night porter, who told us Breeland and a young lady had left.…”

Again the judge glanced at Rathbone.

“I have no objection, my lord,” Rathbone said clearly. “I intend to call the night porter myself. He has information which supports Mr. Breeland’s version of events.”

The judge nodded, and turned to Casbolt. “Please restrict yourself to what you know, not what others have told you.”

Casbolt bowed acknowledgment and continued with his story. “Because of what the night porter told us, we went with all possible haste back to my carriage, which was waiting outside, and drove to the warehouse in Tooley Street.” He stopped for a moment to regain his composure. It was obviously a struggle for him. Anyone in the room could see that the events of that night were so overpowering that he was transported back to the yard in the early-morning light, and the horror he had seen there. He spoke in a harsh, almost toneless voice, as if he could not bear to remember with the reality of feeling.

Rathbone listened, finding the story more devastating than when Monk had told him. There was something in Casbolt’s reliving of it which carried an even greater power. If he had asked the jury for a verdict now, they would have hanged Breeland and Merrit today, and pulled the lever for the trapdoor themselves.

Casbolt had described finding the bodies in their grotesque positions with only the briefest of words, almost too spare to re-create the picture. His horror filled the room. No man could have acted such searing emotion.

He did not mention finding the watch. Deverill had to remind him of it.

Casbolt looked startled. “Oh. Yes. Monk found it. He picked it up. It had Breeland’s name engraved on it, and a date. I don’t recall what it was.”

“But Lyman Breeland’s name was on it, you are certain of that?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Just one thing more, Mr. Casbolt.”

“Yes?” He looked puzzled.

“Forgive me for such an enquiry, sir,” Deverill apologized. “But just in case anyone might wonder, or my learned friend raises the issue, allow me to spare him the trouble. Exactly where were you that evening, before you received Mrs. Alberton’s desperate note? You said you dined with friends?”

“Yes, Lord Harland’s house, in Eaton Square. I am afraid the party went on rather longer than expected. I did not arrive home until a little after three. I was still up when the messenger arrived.”

“I see. Thank you.” Deverill turned with a flourish towards Rathbone, waving a hand in invitation.

Casbolt had said nothing Rathbone disputed, nothing he wished to clarify. He would have liked to stretch out the proceedings in the hope Monk might yet discover something more, but if he did so now Deverill at least would know it, possibly the jury would also.

He half rose from his seat. “I have no questions for the witness, my lord.”

“Good. Then we may adjourn for luncheon,” the judge said bleakly.

Rathbone was barely outside the courtroom when he saw Hester and Judith Alberton coming towards him. Philo Trace was a few yards away, but he did not approach them. It flashed through Rathbone’s mind to wonder again exactly what Trace’s part was in the purchase of guns. Could he have been the one who tried to blackmail Alberton, and was that why Alberton had absolutely refused to deal with Breeland … because he dared not? Had Monk been the catalyst which made him change his mind? It was only the thread of an idea, but it persisted.

“Sir Oliver?” Judith was in front of him. He could hear the fear in her voice.

“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Alberton,” he said with more confidence than he felt. It was a part of his profession he had been obliged to practice so often: the comforting of people in desperate situations, the giving of courage and hope he had no knowledge he could justify. “We have our turn after Mr. Deverill has done all he can. I don’t feel any certainty that I can prove Breeland innocent, but with Merrit it will be far easier. Don’t lose heart.”

“The watch,” she said simply. “If Merrit was not there, how did it come to be in the warehouse yard? She was so proud of it, I cannot imagine her willingly letting it out of her possession.”

“Can you imagine her lying to protect Breeland?” he asked gently. He could not help looking for a moment at Hester and saw in her eyes the fierce need to help, and confusion because she did not know how to.

“Yes,” Judith said quietly. “Sir Oliver … I am terribly afraid I should not have sent Mr. Monk to bring her back. Have I condemned her to death—” Her voice broke.

Hester tightened her grip on Judith’s arm, willing her to have strength. But she could not argue, could not think of any words that would comfort.

“No,” Rathbone lied with authority. He heard the ring of conviction in his own voice, and was stabbed with fear that he would be proved wrong. But he was used to risk, to defying the rules and trusting to fortune, because it was all he had. He was acutely conscious that he did not deserve to succeed as often as he had. “No, Mrs. Alberton. I do not believe that Merrit is guilty of more than foolishness. I am very sorry that I may have to demonstrate that the man she loves is in no way worthy of her, and she will find that very hard. There is little in life as bitter as disillusion. And when it happens she will need your comfort. You must remain strong for that time. It will not be long.”

Judith’s expression could not be seen, but the emotion, the effort at self-mastery and the fear were all in her voice.

“Of course. Thank you, Sir Oliver.” It was painfully apparent that she wanted to say more, and also that she would be asking for something he could not give her. She waited only a moment longer, then slowly turned away. After she had moved a step or two she was facing Philo Trace. She must have seen his expression, his remarkable eyes. Perhaps she was the fortunate one, to be able to hide behind a veil, to have no one know how much she had seen of his emotions, or to pretend she had not read them.

Then the moment was gone, and with Hester beside her she walked away. Rathbone went to find himself some luncheon, although he had little appetite for it.

The afternoon resumed late with Lanyon giving evidence for the police. In the rather stiff language of officialdom he corroborated all that Casbolt had said, at Deverill’s insistence, also confirming that Casbolt had indeed dined with friends and remained in their company until after the time Alberton and the guards were believed to have been killed.

It was unnecessary. Rathbone had never considered Casbolt a possible suspect, nor did he believe anyone else had.

Deverill thanked Lanyon effusively, as if he had made an important point.

Rathbone was pleased to see several jurors looking mystified.

“And did you find anything remarkable at the scene of the murders which led you to the identity of any of the persons present, apart from the victims?” Deverill asked.

“Yes,” Lanyon said unhappily. “A gentleman’s gold watch.”

“Where did you find it?”

The jury were only mildly interested. They already knew, and their distaste was apparent. A couple of them looked up at Breeland.

He ignored them almost as if he were unaware. Rathbone had seen innocent men with that sublime detachment, knowing the crime spoken of had nothing to do with them. He had also seen guilty men with a coldness that appeared just the same, because they had no understanding that what they had done was repellent. They felt no pain except their own.

Merrit was utterly different. She was pale, shivering, and it cost her a very obvious effort to muster even a semblance of composure. She had been stunned by Casbolt’s account of finding the bodies. Lanyon’s less emotional telling of essentially the same facts had been even harder for her. His tightly controlled voice made it more real. Yet in his own way he was also shocked. It was in the keenness of his speech, the way he kept his eyes down and did not once look at Judith in the front row of the gallery, nor up at Merrit herself.

Deverill took Lanyon through the exact circumstances of finding the watch, and of the name engraved on the back. Then he moved on to Lanyon’s following of the trail of wagons from the yard to Hayes Dock and the beginning of their journey down the river by barge.

At four o’clock the judge adjourned the court for the day.

In the morning, Deverill resumed exactly where he had left the story. It took him the rest of the morning to proceed detail by detail until Lanyon admitted to losing the trail at Bugsby’s Marshes. Deverill very graciously offered to call every bargee, docker and waterman who had given Lanyon evidence.

Wearily, the judge asked Rathbone if he contested the issue, and immensely to the court’s relief Rathbone said that he did not. He was happy to concede that everything Lanyon had said was true.

Deverill looked startled, and pleased, as if his adversary had unexpectedly surrendered.

“Are you well, Sir Oliver?” he enquired solicitously.

There was a faint titter around the gallery, instantly hushed at a glare from the judge.

“In excellent health, thank you,” Rathbone replied. “Quite well enough for a trip down the river to Bugsby’s Marshes, if I felt like it. I don’t. But please don’t let me stop you, if you feel it will serve your cause.”

“It will certainly not serve yours, sir!” Deverill returned.

“Nor harm it either.” Rathbone smiled. “It is irrelevant, a diversion. Please continue.…”

The judge had a very dry smile and directed them to proceed.

“Your witness,” Deverill invited.

Rathbone stood up and walked across the floor to stand in the middle of the open space. This time every eye was on him, waiting for him to begin the fight. So far he had not even parried a blow, much less struck one. He knew he must make a mark immediately or forfeit their attention.

“Sergeant Lanyon, you very diligently followed the trail of this barge all the way from Tooley Street, near Hayes Dock, down the Thames as far as Bugsby’s Marshes. It carried a cargo of something heavy, and we have assumed it was the guns from Mr. Alberton’s warehouse. Do you know the identity of the men who were seen by these various witnesses to whom you spoke? I mean know it, Sergeant, rather than deduce it from a dropped watch or a chance to purchase armaments for a cause.”

“No, sir. I only know they knew where the guns were and they wanted them enough to commit murder to take them,” Lanyon answered with only a flicker of expression in his mild, thin face.

“Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “But who were they?”

Lanyon’s jaw set hard. “I don’t know. But someone dropped that watch, and recently. Gold watches don’t lie around warehouse yards long before someone notices them.”

“Not in daylight, anyway.” Rathbone smiled very slightly. “Thank you, Sergeant Lanyon. You seem to have fulfilled your duty excellently. I have nothing more to ask of you … except … did you find out what happened to the guns after Bugsby’s Marshes? Or what happened to the barge afterwards?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. Don’t you find that curious?”

Deverill stood up.

Rathbone held out his hand. “I rephrase that, Sergeant Lanyon. In your experience as a police officer, is that a usual occurrence?”

“No, sir. I’ve looked hard for anything further, but I can’t find any trace of where the guns went after that, or the barge.”

“I shall enlighten you,” Rathbone promised. “About the guns, at least. The barge mystifies me as much as it does you. Thank you. I have nothing further to ask.”

After the luncheon adjournment Deverill called the medical officer, who described the exact manner of the killings. It was gruesome and distressing evidence, and the court heard it in near silence. Deverill seemed to begin with the intention of drawing from him every agonizing detail, then just in time realized that the jury were acutely aware of the pain it had to cause the widow, and this not only produced in them a very natural rage against the perpetrators but also against himself, for subjecting her to hearing, perhaps for the first time, a clinical description of horror she had been protected from before.

Rathbone looked up at Merrit in the dock and saw the agony in her eyes, her ashen skin now so bleached of color as to seem bruised, and the achingly rigid muscles of her arms and body as silent weeping racked through her. It would be a hard man indeed who could look at her and not believe that if she had had even the slightest knowledge of this before, let alone complicity, she was tortured with remorse now.

He also wondered what went through her mind regarding Breeland, sitting bolt upright as if on some military duty, his features composed, almost without expression.

In Rathbone’s mind the thing that burned up inside him with a rage he could not control was that Breeland never once extended his hand towards Merrit or made any gesture of pity for her. If he were distressed within himself, it was inside a loneliness nothing could break. Whatever he felt for her, he cared more for his cause, and the dignity and stoic innocence he presented to the world. If he had any human vulnerability, no one must see it. If he had weighed the cost to Merrit at all, it had not been heavy enough on the scales to show.

A military expert was called who testified that this peculiar method of binding the arms and legs over a pole was known to be practiced by the army of the Union to punish those of its members who had been found guilty of various crimes, the T indicating “thief.” It was not an execution, but usually lasted for six to twelve hours, by which time the man concerned was barely able to stand, even after release. He had no opinion as to the shooting, but his anger was palpable that an accepted form of discipline should have been so misused. It was an insult to the honorable man who had designed it.

Whether the court agreed with him it was impossible to say; they were overwhelmed with the savagery of the only case they had witnessed, and they were not at war. The necessities of the Union army, of any army, were unknown to them. The fact that the practice was specific to the army for which Breeland fought was an added condemnation. The hatred for him could be felt in the air like a hot, stinging smell.

Rathbone’s mind raced as to how he could undo the emotional damage. Mere facts would be drowned in the revulsion of feeling.

The last witness of the day was Dorothea Parfitt, the seventeen-year-old friend to whom Merrit had shown the watch and bragged a little of her love affair. Dorothea walked across the open space of the floor and tripped on the very first step up to the box. She had hold of the railing, so it was only barely noticeable, but she let out a little gasp and straightened herself, blushing.

Deverill was extremely gentle with her, doing all he could to ease her obvious consciousness that her words could condemn her friend, perhaps to the rope. What motive she had had in first saying this to the police no one else could know. It might have been envy, because Merrit had won the love of a most glamorous man who was older, braver, more mysterious and exciting than the youths she knew. It is very natural to want to prick vanity, especially if it is exercised at your expense. She could not then have foreseen the terrible consequences. She would not even have been able to imagine standing here now, about to repeat her words, because she could not take them back, and give Deverill the power to place a rope around Merrit’s neck.

She faced Deverill like a rabbit in front of a snake. Never once did she allow her eyes to stray towards Merrit in the dock.

The watch was passed up to her but she refused to touch it.

“Have you seen it before, Miss Parfitt?” Deverill asked gently.

At first her throat was so tight, her lips so dry, that her voice would not come.

Deverill waited.

“Yes,” she said at last.

“Can you tell us where, and in what circumstances?”

She swallowed convulsively.

“We all realize that you would immeasurably rather not,” Deverill said with a charming smile. “But loyalty to the truth must outweigh the desire not to cause trouble for a friend. Just tell me exactly what happened, what you saw and heard. You are not accountable for the actions of others, and only an unjust or guilty person would hold you to be. Where did you see this watch, Miss Parfitt, and in whose possession?”

“Merrit’s,” she answered, her voice little above a whisper.

“Did she show it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Did she say?”

Dorothea nodded. Deverill held her gaze as if she were mesmerized.

“Lyman Breeland had given it to her as a token of his love.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “She really thought he loved her. She had no idea he was wicked … honestly! She must have found out, and given it back to him, because she would never have had anything to do with killing her father … not ever! I know she argued with him because she thought he was terribly wrong to sell the guns to that man from the South, because the South keeps slaves. But you don’t kill people over things like that!”

“I am afraid they do in America, Miss Parfitt,” Deverill said with wry regret. “It is a subject about which some people feel so violently that their behavior is beyond the bounds of ordinary law and society. One of the most tragic of all kinds of war is beginning, even as we stand here in this peaceful courtroom and argue our differences. And we none of us know where it will end. Please God, we will not, with our own prejudices and greeds, make it any worse.”

It was a sentiment Rathbone felt profoundly, and yet Deverill’s giving voice to it irritated him like a scraped elbow. Whether Deverill meant it or not, Rathbone had no doubt he expressed it to manipulate the emotions of the court.

Dorothea had no idea what to make of it. She stared at him with open confusion.

“Mr. Deverill,” the judge admonished, leaning forward, “are you chastising the witness for her lack of knowledge as to the outcome of the present tragedy across the Atlantic?”

“No, my lord, certainly not. I am simply trying to point out that some people feel passionately enough about the issues of slaving to kill those who differ from them.”

“It is unnecessary, Mr. Deverill. We are aware of it,” the judge said dryly. “Have you anything further to ask Miss Parfitt?”

“No, my lord, thank you.” Deverill turned to Rathbone. His foretaste of victory was plain in his face, in the confidence of the way he stood, balancing with his back a trifle arched and his shoulders squared. “Sir Oliver?”

Rathbone rose to his feet. The watch was the most powerful piece of evidence against Merrit, the one thing he could not explain away. Deverill knew it as well. What mattered was what the jury saw.

“Miss Parfitt,” he said, matching Deverill smile for smile, gentleness for gentleness. “Of course you have no choice but to tell us that Merrit Alberton showed you the watch that Breeland gave to her as a token of his feelings for her. You said it first with no knowledge of its meaning, and now cannot withdraw it. We all understand that. But Mr. Deverill omitted to ask you exactly when this incident occurred. Was it the day of Daniel Alberton’s death?”

She looked suddenly relieved, seeing escape. “No! No, it was several days before that. At least two, and maybe three. I don’t recall exactly now. I could get my diary?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he declined. “Not for me, anyway. Could she have given it back to him for any reason? A quarrel, possibly? Or to have the catch altered, or put on a chain, or something else engraved?”

“Yes!” she said eagerly, her eyes widened. She seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said quickly, afraid she would embellish it and be caught in an invention. “That is all we need to know, Miss Parfitt. Please do not strive to help. Only what you know is evidence, not what you may wish, or even believe.”

“Yes …” she said awkwardly. “I … I see.”

The judge looked at Deverill.

Deverill shook his head with a slight smile. He knew he did not need to make more of it.

The court adjourned for the day, and Rathbone went straight to see Merrit. He found her alone in the cell used for such meetings. The wardress was stationed outside the door, a big woman with her hair scraped back severely and a pink, scrubbed face. She shook her head slightly as Rathbone went past her and the key clanked in the lock.

“It’s not going well, is it?” Merrit said as soon as they were alone. “The jury think Lyman did it. I can see it in their faces.”

Did she instinctively think of Breeland before herself, or had she not yet grasped that she also was charged equally with him? No one believed she had fired the shots herself, but an accomplice in such a crime would be held just as responsible and punished with the same finality. He could not afford to be gentle with her. She must face the truth of the situation before it was too late even to try to save it.

“Yes, they do,” he agreed candidly. He saw the pain in her eyes, the trace of unreasonable hope that she was wrong die away. “I am sorry, but it is inescapable, and I would not be helping your cause if I were to pretend otherwise.”

She bit her lip. “I know.” Her voice was hoarse. “They are so mistaken in him. He would never do anything so vile … but even if they could not understand that, surely they can be made to see that there was no cause to? He received a note that my father had changed his mind and would sell the guns to him after all. He had found a way of escaping his commitment to Mr. Trace and was free to offer them to the more honorable cause. They were there at Euston Square Station. There was even a special train just to transport them.”

“I believe I can prove that he could not have fired the shots himself,” he agreed, allowing no lift of hope into his voice. He must not mislead her, even by implication. “What I cannot prove is that whoever did it was not paid to by Mr. Breeland. And that is just as serious a crime. Since you and he left England with the guns, you are accomplices in robbery and murder.…” He held up his hand as she began to protest. “I can make a good argument that you were unaware of what had happened, and therefore innocent—”

“But Lyman is innocent too!” she cut in, leaning forward urgently, her eyes bright. “He had no idea anyone had killed to get the guns!”

“How do you know that?” he asked very gently. It was not a challenge. There was no confrontation.

“I …” she started to answer. Then she blinked, her face puckering with dismay. “You mean how can I prove it to them? Surely …” Again she stopped.

“Yes, you do have to,” he answered the question he thought had been in her mind. “In law one is presumed innocent unless you can be proved to be guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Consider the word reasonable. Do you believe, after listening to the evidence so far, that the men in the jury box will have the same idea of what is true as you will have? We lose reason in emotion. When you think of issues like war, injustice, slavery, the love of your family or your country, your way of life, are any of us guided purely by reason?”

She shook her head minutely. “No,” she whispered. “I suppose not.” She took a deep breath. “But I know Lyman! He would not stoop to anything dishonorable. Honor, what is right, is dearer to him than anything. That is part of the reason I love him so much. Can’t you make them see that?”

“And are you absolutely certain that what is right would not include sacrificing three men to the cause of obtaining guns for the Union?” he asked.

She was very pale. “Not by murder!” But her voice shook. Her eyes filled with tears. “I know he was not in the warehouse yard that evening, Sir Oliver, because I was with him all the time, and I was not there. I swear that!”

He believed her. “And how did the watch come to be there? How do I explain that to the jury?”

Fear rippled through her. He could not mistake it.

“I don’t know! It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t explain it.”

“When did you last see the watch?”

“I’ve been trying to think, but my mind is in such turmoil the harder I try the less clear it becomes. I remember showing it to Mrs. Monk, and I had it the day after that, because that was when Dorothea admired it, so of course I told her about it.” She flushed very faintly, hardly more than a suspicion of color in her pale face. “After that … I’m not certain. Times get muddled in my memory. So much happened, and I was furious with my father.…” The tears spilled over her eyes and she fought for self-control.

Rathbone did not interrupt her or try to offer words they both knew he could not mean.

“Could you have lost it, or left it on a garment you were not wearing?” he asked at length.

“I suppose so.” She seized the explanation. “I must have. But Lyman would never have left it in the yard, and who else could?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I shall have Monk investigate it. It may now be possible your father took it with him.”

“Oh, yes! That could be, couldn’t it?” At last there was a lift of hope in her voice. “Sir Oliver, who was it that killed him? Was it Mr. Shearer? That is very dreadful. I know my father trusted him. They had worked together for years. I only met him once. He was rather grim, sort of … I’m not sure … angry. At least I thought he was.” She searched his face to see if he understood what she found so difficult to say. “Was it for money?”

“It seems as if it was.”

“How could my father have been so wrong about him?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because we tend to judge others by our own standards.”

She did not answer. And within a few moments he took his leave, trying to encourage her to keep heart.

He did not especially wish to see Breeland, but it was a duty he must not shirk. He found him standing by the chair and small table in the room assigned for him. His face was stiff, his shoulders locked so tight they strained the fabric of his jacket. He looked accusingly at Rathbone, and Rathbone could not blame him for it. He disliked the man, and Breeland must know it, and also that Rathbone’s first loyalty was to Merrit Alberton. It was Judith, after all, who was paying him. It was Merrit’s desire, not Breeland’s, that they be charged as one, and she would not claim any special innocence. She was determined to stand with him, although Rathbone wondered if it was now love for Breeland or love of loyalty which kept her.

Without warning he felt a keen pity for Breeland, thousands of miles from home and overwhelmingly among strangers who hated him for what they believed him to be. Perhaps had Rathbone been in similar circumstances he would have wrapped himself in the same icy dignity. It was the last protection Breeland had left, to seem not to care. And why should anyone parade his vulnerability for his enemies to stare at?

Could Shearer have murdered Alberton without Breeland’s knowledge, and certainly without his complicity? And should Breeland, owing all his allegiance to his own people, locked in a terrible war, not have taken the guns so fortuitously offered him—simply because he suspected they had been obtained by deceit? It was war, not trade. For him they were the survival of a cause, not a matter of profit.

Breeland stared at him. “I assume that at some point in this farce you will attempt to defend at least Miss Alberton, if not me?” he said coldly. “Although I would remind you she came willingly with me to America, and Monk will testify to that.”

“I am more concerned to hear him testify as to the exact times of the events on the night of the murders, and your train to Liverpool,” Rathbone replied levelly. “It will be a simpler matter to convince them of the fact that Shearer may well have planned and committed the murders and the theft of the guns, with the intention of selling them to you, and you buying them in good faith, than it will be to make them feel well disposed towards you.”

“What does that matter?” Breeland said bitterly. “I am a foreigner. They don’t understand my cause, or sympathize with it. They don’t know what America stands for. They have not caught our dream. I can’t help that. Surely they at least understand justice?” It was said with an air of challenge, and not a little of insult.

Rathbone reminded himself of the man’s isolation, of how much he had already sacrificed for a cause that was both noble and unselfish. Would he himself have done any better, any more wisely? Would such threat, and such lack of understanding and respect all around him, not have made him lash out also?

“Juries are people, Mr. Breeland, and subject to emotional impulses like the rest of us,” he said as mildly as he could, keeping the edge out of his voice. “They will not remember everything that is said to them. In fact, they will probably not even hear it all, or perceive it in the way we wish them to. Very often people hear what they think they will hear. Make them feel some respect for you, some liking, and they will see the best, and recall it when it matters. This is not peculiar to English juries; it is part of the nature of all people, and we choose to be tried before a jury precisely because they are ordinary. They work on instinctive judgment and common sense as well as the evidence presented to them. Your own common law is based upon this.”

“Yes, I know.” Breeland’s lips were tight. Rathbone felt there was fear as well as anger and idealism behind the mask of his face. He did well that it was not the overriding thing. “I cannot make people like me. And I will not grovel. My cause speaks well enough for me. I would abolish slavery from the earth.” Now his voice rang with passion, his eyes alight. “I would give every man the chance to be his own master, to believe what he chooses and speak his mind without fear.”

“It sounds marvelous,” Rathbone said wearily, but with total sincerity. “I am not sure if it can exist. Liberty is always a matter of balancing one thing against another, gains and losses. But that is not the issue. You can fight for whatever you wish once you are free to leave the dock. First accomplish that, and to do it you will need to behave with a little more humanity. Believe me, Mr. Breeland, I am very good at my profession … easily as good as you are at yours. Take my advice.”

Breeland stared at him, his eyes steady and fixed, fear far down in their depths bright and hard.

“Do you … do you think you can prove me innocent?” he said softly.

“I do. Now make the jury pleased to see me do it!”

Breeland said nothing, but some of the ice in him melted.

In the morning Monk was called to the witness stand to corroborate first Casbolt’s evidence of their visit to Breeland’s rooms, and then their terrible discovery in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street.

Deverill treated him with civility, but he could draw him to say little beyond a simple “Yes” or “No.” He knew perfectly well, as was his skill to know, that Monk worked with Rathbone and his interest was in the defense. He had no intention of allowing Monk to cloud the issue or raise questions.

Monk wished there were some he could raise. So far he could think of nothing to add, even had Deverill allowed him to.

He substantiated all that Lanyon had already told them about their pursuit of the barge down the river as far as Greenwich and Bugsby’s Marshes beyond.

“Now tell me, Mr. Monk, when you reported your findings to Mrs. Alberton, did she then request you to undertake any further activities on her behalf?” Deverill asked with wide eyes and acute interest in every line of his body.

It angered Monk to have to play out Deverill’s charade, but he had no choice. Deverill asked his questions far too cleverly to give him room to say anything else without lying, and being caught at it.

“She asked me to go to America and bring her daughter back,” he replied.

“Alone?” Deverill was incredulous. “A superhuman task, surely—and one not designed to enhance Miss Alberton’s honor or reputation.”

“Not alone,” Monk said tartly. “She suggested I take my wife with me. And Mr. Philo Trace also expressed a desire to go, which I was glad to accept, since he knew the country and I did not.”

“Most practical, at least as far as it extends,” Deverill damned it with faint praise. “Mrs. Alberton can hardly have foreseen this situation today.” He turned on the spot, his coat swinging. “Or perhaps she did. Perhaps she loved her husband and wished his murder avenged. Even at this cost!”

Rathbone started to rise.

“Not very logical,” Monk criticized with a cold smile. “If all she wanted was justice, she would have employed someone to go to America and kill Breeland—and Miss Alberton also, had she thought her guilty.” He ignored the gasps around the room. “That would have been easier to accomplish, and less expensive. Only one man necessary, and no return fare for Breeland or Miss Alberton, and no chance of their escape.”

“That is an appalling suggestion, sir!” Deverill said in well-displayed horror. “Barbaric!”

“No more so than yours,” Monk retorted. “And no sillier.”

There was a faint titter of laughter around the gallery, more a release of tension than amusement.

The judge half hid a smile.

Deverill was annoyed, but as he framed his next question his wording was a great deal more carefully considered.

“Did Breeland return with you of his own free will?”

“I gave him no choice,” Monk replied with slight surprise. “But actually he did express a willingness to answer the charge. He said he—”

“Thank you!” Deverill cut him off, raising his hand, holding the palm forward for silence. “That is sufficient. Whatever Breeland wishes to say, he will no doubt be given the opportunity in due course. Now—”

“And of course you will believe him,” Monk said sarcastically.

Rathbone smiled.

“What I believe is irrelevant,” Deverill snapped. “It is the members of the jury who matter here, Mr. Monk. But while we are considering beliefs, did you believe Breeland’s eagerness to prove his innocence, or did you feel it advisable to bring him back under some restraint?”

“I have learned that my beliefs may be mistaken,” Monk answered. “I kept him under restraint. However, I did not think the same necessary for Miss Alberton. I used no restraint whatever upon her.”

Deverill’s face tightened with irritation. He should have foreseen that Monk might say that.

“Thank you. I know of nothing further you could usefully add to our deliberations. Unless my learned friend has something to ask you, you are excused.”

Rathbone rose to his feet slowly, not until the very last minute certain of what he was going to say. How wise was it to pursue the matter? How far could he predict what Monk would say? Should he allow Deverill the opportunity to reexamine? Everything Monk would corroborate in Breeland’s story would be better told by Breeland himself.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head very slightly. “I agree with Mr. Deverill.”

The judge looked slightly surprised, but Monk was allowed to return to the body of the court, where he sat beside Hester and Judith Alberton, only once glancing at the brooding figure of Philo Trace.

Deverill’s last witness was a banker who testified that no money whatsoever had reached Daniel Alberton’s account since the payment made by Philo Trace as a deposit in good faith.

Deverill offered to have both Casbolt and Trace testify to this, but the court was willing to accept the banker’s word and his documents.

“The prosecution rests,” Deverill said, facing the jury with a smile. “The guns were stolen. No payment was made to Alberton and Casbolt. Mr. Alberton was murdered in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street and the guns taken and shipped to America, quite openly by Lyman Breeland, in the willing company of Merrit Alberton, whose watch was found at the scene of the murders. None of these things has the defense even attempted to deny. They cannot! Gentlemen, Breeland is manifestly guilty, albeit because he believes in his cause at any cost. And Miss Alberton is swept off her feet in her consuming obsession for him, which even now she does not abandon. But murder is a deed he cannot walk away from with impunity. We shall show him so!” And he turned to Rathbone with an inviting gesture of his hand. “But please give us your best efforts to try … when the court reconvenes tomorrow.”