Slaves of Obsession

1

“WE ARE INVITED to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Alberton,” Hester said in reply to Monk’s questioning gaze across the breakfast table. “They are friends of Callandra’s. She was to go as well, but has been called to Scotland unexpectedly.”

“I suppose you would like to accept anyway,” he deduced, watching her face.

He usually read her emotions quickly, sometimes with startling accuracy, at others misunderstanding entirely. On this occasion he was correct.

“Yes, I would. Callandra said they are charming and interesting and have a very beautiful home. Mrs. Alberton is half Italian, and apparently Mr. Alberton has traveled quite a lot as well.”

“Then I suppose we had better go. Short notice, isn’t it?” he said less than graciously.

It was short notice indeed, but Hester was not disposed to find unnecessary fault with something which promised to be interesting, and possibly even the beginning of a new friendship. She did not have many friends. The nature of her work as a nurse had meant that her friendships were frequently of a fleeting nature. She had not been involved with any gripping cause for quite some little time. Even Monk’s cases, while financially rewarding, had over the last four months of spring and early summer been most uninteresting, and he had not sought her assistance, or in most of them her opinion. She did not mind that; robberies were tedious, largely motivated by greed, and she did not know the people concerned.

“Good,” she said with a smile, folding up the letter. “I shall write back immediately saying that we shall be delighted.”

His answering look was wry, only very slightly sarcastic.

They arrived at the Alberton house in Tavistock Square just before half-past seven. It was, as Callandra had said, handsome, although Hester would not have thought it worth remarking on. However, she changed her mind as soon as they were in the hallway, which was dominated by a curving staircase at the half turn of which was an enormous stained-glass window with the evening sun behind it. It was truly beautiful, and Hester found herself staring at it when she should have been paying attention to the butler who had admitted them, and watching where she was going.

The withdrawing room also was unusual. There was less furniture in it than was customary, and the colors were paler and warmer, giving an illusion of light even though in fact the long windows which overlooked the garden faced the eastern sky. The shadows were already lengthening, although it would not be dark until after ten o’clock at this time so shortly after midsummer.

Hester’s first impression of Judith Alberton was that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She was taller than average, but with a slender neck and shoulders which made more apparent the lush curves of her figure, and lent it a delicacy it might otherwise not have possessed. Her face, when looked at more closely, was totally wrong for conventional fashion. Her nose was straight and quite prominent, her cheekbones very high, her mouth too large and her chin definitely short. Her eyes were slanted and of a golden autumn shade. The whole impression was both generous and passionate. The longer one looked at her the lovelier she seemed. Hester liked her immediately.

“How do you do,” Judith said warmly. “I am so pleased you have come. It was kind of you on so hasty an invitation. But Lady Callandra spoke of you with such affection I did not wish to wait.” She smiled at Monk. Her eyes lit with a flare of interest as she regarded his dark face with its lean bones and broad-bridged nose, but it was Hester to whom she addressed her attention. “May I introduce my husband?”

The man who came forward was pleasing rather than handsome, far more ordinary than she was, but his features were regular and there was both strength and charm in them.

“How do you do, Mrs. Monk,” he said with a smile, but when courtesy was met he turned immediately to Monk, behind her, searching his countenance steadily for a moment before holding out his hand in welcome and then turning aside so the rest of the company could be introduced.

There were three other people in the room. One was a man in his mid-forties, his dark hair thinning a little. Hester noticed first his wide smile and spontaneous handshake. He had a natural confidence, as if he were sure enough of himself and his beliefs that he had no need to thrust them upon anyone else. He was happy to listen to others. It was a quality she could not help but like. His name was Robert Casbolt, and he was introduced not only as Alberton’s business partner and friend since youth, but also Judith’s cousin.

The other man present was American. As one could hardly help being aware, that country had in the last few months slipped tragically into a state of civil war. There had not as yet been anything more serious than a few ugly skirmishes, but open violence seemed increasingly probable with every fresh bulletin that arrived across the Atlantic. War seemed more and more likely.

“Mr. Breeland is from the Union,” Alberton said courteously, but there was no warmth in his voice.

Hester looked at Breeland as she acknowledged the introduction. He appeared to be in his early thirties, tall and very straight, with square shoulders and the upright stance of a soldier. His features were regular, his expression polite but severely controlled, as if he felt he must be constantly on guard against any slip or relaxation of awareness.

The last person was the Albertons’ daughter, Merrit. She was about sixteen, with all the charm, the passion and the vulnerability of her years. She was fairer than her mother, and had not the beauty, but she had a similar strength of will in her face, and less ability to hide her emotions. She allowed herself to be introduced politely enough, but she did not make any attempt to pretend more than courtesy.

The preliminary conversation was on matters as simple as the weather, the increase in traffic on the streets and the crowds drawn by a nearby exhibition.

Hester wondered why Callandra had thought she and Monk might find these people congenial, but perhaps she was merely fond of them and had discovered in them a kindness.

Breeland and Merrit moved a little apart, talking earnestly. Monk, Casbolt and Judith Alberton discussed the latest play, and Hester fell into conversation with Daniel Alberton.

“Lady Callandra told me you spent nearly two years out in the Crimea,” he said with great interest. He smiled apologetically. “I am not going to ask you the usual questions about Miss Nightingale. You must find that tedious by now.”

“She was a very remarkable person,” Hester said. “I could not criticize anyone for seeking to know more about her.”

His smile widened. “You must have said that so many times. You were prepared for it!”

She found herself relaxing. He was unexpectedly pleasant to converse with; frankness was always so much easier than continued courtesy. “Yes, I admit I was. It is …”

“Unoriginal,” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps what I wanted to say was unoriginal also, but I shall say it anyway, because I do want to know.” He frowned very slightly, drawing his brows together. His eyes were clear blue. “You must have exercised a great deal of courage out there, both physical and moral, especially when you were actually close to the battlefield. You must have made decisions which altered other people’s lives, perhaps saved them, or lost them.”

That was true. She remembered with a jolt just how desperate it had been, how remote it was from this quiet summer evening in an elegant London withdrawing room, where the shade of a gown mattered, the cut of a sleeve. War, disease, shattered bodies, the heat and flies or the terrible cold, all could have been on another planet with no connection to this world at all except a common language, and yet no words could ever explain one to the other.

She nodded.

“Do you not find it extraordinarily difficult to adjust from that life to this?” he asked. His voice was soft, but edged with a surprising intensity.

How much had Callandra told Judith Alberton, or her husband? Would Hester embarrass her with the Albertons in future if she were to be honest? Probably not. Callandra had never been a woman to run from the truth.

“Well, I came back burning with determination to reform all our hospitals here at home,” she said ruefully. “As you can see, I did not succeed, for several reasons. The chief among them was that no one would believe I had the faintest idea what I was talking about. Women don’t understand medicine at all, and nurses in particular are for rolling bandages, sweeping and mopping floors, carrying coal and slops, and generally doing as they are told.” She allowed her bitterness to show. “It did not take me long to be dismissed, having to earn my way by caring for private patients.”

There was admiration as well as laughter in his eyes. “Was that not very hard for you?” he asked.

“Very,” she agreed. “But I met my husband shortly after I came home. We were … I was going to say friends, but that is not true. Adversaries in a common cause, would describe it far better. Did Lady Callandra tell you that he is a private agent of enquiry?”

There was no surprise in his face, certainly nothing like alarm. In high society, gentlemen owned land or were in the army or politics. They did not work, in the sense of being employed. Trade was equally unacceptable. But whatever family background Judith Alberton came from, her husband showed no dismay that his guest should be little better than a policeman, an occupation fit only for the least desirable element.

“Yes,” he admitted readily. “She told me she found some of his adventures quite fascinating, but she did not give me any details. I presumed they might be confidential.”

“They are,” she agreed. “I would not discuss them either, only to say that they have prevented me from missing any sense of excitement or decision that I felt in the Crimea. And for the most part my share in them has not required the physical privation or the personal danger of nursing in wartime.”

“And the horror, or the pity?” he asked quietly.

“It has not sheltered me from those,” she admitted. “Except for a matter of numbers. And I am not sure one feels any less for one person, if he or she is in desperate trouble, than one does for many.”

“Quite.” It was Robert Casbolt who spoke. He came up just behind Alberton, putting a companionable hand on his friend’s shoulder and regarding Hester with interest. “There is just so much the emotions can take, and one gives all one has, I imagine? From what I have just overheard, you are a remarkable woman, Mrs. Monk. I am delighted Daniel thought to invite you and your husband to dine. You will enliven our usual conversation greatly, and I for one am looking forward to it.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “No doubt we shall hear more of it over dinner—it is totally inescapable these days—but I have had more than sufficient of the war in America and its issues.”

Alberton’s face lightened. “So have I, but I would wager you a good carriage and pair that Breeland will regale us again with the virtues of the Union before the third course has been served.”

“Second!” Casbolt amended. He grinned at Hester, a broad, shining expression. “He is a very earnest young man, Mrs. Monk, and fanatically convinced of the moral rightness of his cause. To him the Union of the United States is a divine entity, and the Confederate desire to secede the work of the devil.”

Any further comment was cut short by the necessity of removing to the dining room, where dinner was ready to be served.

Monk found the house pleasing although he was not certain why. It was something to do with warmth of color and simplicity of proportion. He had spent the earlier part of the evening talking with Casbolt and Judith Alberton, with the occasional comment from Lyman Breeland, who seemed to find light conversation tedious. Breeland was too well mannered to show it overtly, but Monk at least knew that he was bored. He wondered why Breeland had come at all. It excited Monk’s curiosity. Looking around the room, including himself and Hester, it seemed an oddly disparate group of people. Breeland appeared to be in his early thirties, a year or two younger than Hester. The rest of them must have been in their middle to later forties, apart from Merrit Alberton. Why had she chosen to attend this dinner when she could surely have been in the company of other young girls, if not at a party?

Yet he saw in her no sign of tedium or impatience. Was she remarkably well mannered, or was there something which drew her here by choice?

The answer came at the end of the soup course and as the fish was served.

“Where do you live in America, Mr. Breeland?” Hester asked innocently.

“Our home is in Connecticut, ma’am,” he replied, ignoring his food and gazing at her steadily. “But at present we are in Washington, of course. People are coming in from all over the northern part of the Union to gather to the cause, as no doubt you know.” He raised his level eyebrows very slightly.

Casbolt and Alberton glanced at each other, and away again.

“We are fighting for the survival of an ideal of freedom and liberty for all men,” Breeland continued emphatically. “Volunteers are pouring in from every town and city and from the farms even far inland and to the west.”

Merrit’s face was suddenly alight. She looked for a moment at Breeland, her eyes shining, then back to Hester. “When they win, there will be no more slavery,” she proclaimed. “All men will be free to come and go as they choose, to call no man master. It will be one of the greatest and noblest steps mankind has taken, and they will do it even at the cost of their lives, their homes, whatever it takes.”

“War is usually at that cost, Miss Alberton,” Hester answered quietly. “Whatever the cause of it.”

“But this is different!” Merrit’s voice rose urgently. She leaned forward a little over the exquisite china and silver, the light from the chandeliers gleaming on her pale shoulders. “This is true nobility and sacrifice for a great ideal. It is a struggle to preserve those liberties for which America was founded. If you really understood it all, Mrs. Monk, you would be as passionate in its defense as the Union supporters are … unless, of course, you believe in slavery?” There was no anger in her, just bewilderment that anyone should do such a thing.

“No, I don’t believe in slavery!” Hester said fiercely. She looked neither to right nor left to see what other people’s feelings might be. “I find the whole idea abhorrent.”

Merrit relaxed and her face flooded with a beautiful smile. An instant warmth radiated from her. “Then you will understand completely. Don’t you agree we should do all we can to help such a cause, when other men are willing to give their lives?” Again her eyes flickered momentarily to Breeland, and he smiled back at her, a faint flush of pleasure in his cheeks, and he looked away again, perhaps self-consciously, as if guarding his emotion.

Hester was more guarded. “I certainly agree we should fight against slavery, but I am not sure that this is the way to do it. I confess, I don’t know sufficient about the issue to make a judgment.”

“It is simple enough,” Merrit replied, “when you cut away the political quarrels and the matters of land and money, and are left with nothing but the morality.” She waved her hand and, without realizing it, blocked the way of the footman trying to serve the entree. “It is a matter of being honest.” Again the lovely smile transformed her face. “If you were to ask Mr. Breeland, he would explain the matter to you so you would be able to see it with such clarity you would burn to fight the cause with all your heart.”

Monk looked across to see how Daniel Alberton felt about this intense loyalty in his daughter to a war five thousand miles away. There was a weariness in his host’s face which told of many such discussions, and no resolution.

Newspapers in London carried many stories about Mr. Lincoln, the new president, and of Jefferson Davis, who had been elected president of the provisional government of the Confederate States of America, those states that had broken away from the Union one by one over the last several months. For a long time many had hoped to avoid outright war, while others actively encouraged it. But with the bombardment of Fort Sumter by the Confederates, and its subsequent surrender on April 14, President Lincoln had asked for seventy-five thousand volunteers to serve for a period of three months, and proposed a blockade of all Confederate ports.

Newspapers suggested that the South had called for a hundred and fifty thousand volunteers. America was now at war.

What was far less obvious was the nature of the issues at stake. To some, like Merrit, it was simply about slavery. In reality it appeared to Monk to have at least as much to do with land, economics and the right of the South to secede from a Union it no longer wished to be part of.

Indeed, much sympathy in Britain lay with the South, although the motives for that were also mixed, and perhaps suspect.

Alberton’s patient tones came with an effort which for an instant was naked in his face.

“There are many causes, my dear, and some of them conflict with each other. There are no ends I know of which justify dishonorable means. One must consider—”

“There is nothing which justifies slavery!” she said hotly, cutting across him with no thought for the respect she owed him, especially in company. “Too many people use sophistries to defend not risking themselves or what they own in a fight.”

Judith’s hand tightened on her silver fork, and she glanced at her husband. Breeland smiled. A flush of irritation crossed Casbolt’s face.

“And too many people rush in to espouse one cause,” Alberton replied, “without taking a moment to weigh what their partisanship might cost another cause, equally just and equally in need of their help, and perhaps as deserving of their loyalty.”

It was apparent it was no philosophical argument. Something of immediate and highly personal importance was at stake. One had only to glance at Lyman Breeland’s stiff shoulders and unsmiling face, at the high color in Merrit’s cheeks, at Daniel Alberton’s very evident impatience, to know that.

This time Merrit did not reply, but her temper flared very visibly. She was in many ways still not much more than a child, but her emotion ran so deep that Monk found the situation on the verge of embarrassment.

The entree plates were removed and cherry pie and cream were served. They ate in silence.

Judith Alberton made some pleasant remark about a musical recital she had been to. Hester expressed an interest Monk knew she did not feel. She did not care for sentimental ballads, and he wondered, looking at Judith’s remarkable face, if his hostess really did either. It seemed a taste at odds with the strength of her features.

Casbolt caught Monk’s eye and smiled as if secretly amused.

Gradually the conversation began again, gentle and well mannered, with an occasional shaft of wit. The pie was succeeded by fresh grapes, apricots and pears, then by cheese. Light gleamed on silver, crystal and white linen. Now and then there was laughter.

Monk found himself wondering why Breeland had been invited. Discreetly he studied the man, his expression, the tensions in his body, the way he listened to the conversation as if intent upon interpreting from it some deeper meaning, and waiting his chance to intercede with something of his own. Yet it never came. Half a dozen times Monk saw him draw breath and then fail to speak. He looked at Merrit, when she was speaking, and there was a momentary softness in his eyes, but he scrupulously avoided leaning close to her or making any other gesture which might appear intimate, whether to guard her feelings or his own.

He was polite with Judith Alberton, but there was no warmth in him, as if he were not at ease with her. Considering her remarkable beauty, Monk did not find that difficult to understand. Men could be intimidated by such a woman, become self-conscious and prefer to remain silent rather than to speak, and risk sounding less than as clever or as amusing as they would have desired. He was probably ten years younger than she, and Monk had begun to suspect he was in love with her daughter, without her approval.

Casbolt showed no such lack of ease. His affection for Judith was apparent, but then as cousins they had probably known each other all their lives. Indeed he made several references, often in jest, to events in the past they had shared, some of which had seemed disasters at the time but had now receded into memory and no longer hurt. The pain or laughter shared made a unique bond between them.

They spoke of summer visits to Italy when the three of them—she, Casbolt, and her brother Cesare—had walked the golden hills of Tuscany, found gentle and idiosyncratic pieces of statuary that predated the rise of Rome, and speculated on the people who might have made them. Judith laughed with pleasure, and Monk thought he saw a shadow of pain as well. He glanced at Hester, and knew she had seen it also.

Casbolt’s voice held it too: the knowledge of something too deep ever to be forgotten, and yet which could be shared because they had endured it together; he, she and Daniel Alberton.

Nothing overt was said during the entire course of the meal, and certainly nothing remotely offensive. But Monk formed the opinion that Casbolt did not much like Breeland. Perhaps it was no more than a dissimilarity in temperament. Casbolt was a sophisticated man of wide experience and charm. He was at ease with people, and conversation came naturally to him.

Breeland was an idealist who could not forget his beliefs, or allow himself to laugh while he knew others were suffering, even for the space of a dinner. Perhaps it was a certain strangeness, being far away from his home at a time of such trial, and among strangers. And obviously he could not help responding to Merrit’s youth and her charm.

Monk had some sympathy with him. He had once been as passionate about great causes, brimming with zeal over injustices that affected thousands, perhaps millions. Now he felt such heat only over individuals. He had tried too often to affect the course of law or nature, and tasted failure, learning the strength of the opposition. He still tried hard and grieved bitterly. The anger seized up inside him. But he could also lay it aside for a space, and fill his heart and mind with the sweet and the beautiful as well. He had learned how to pace his battles—at least sometimes—and to savor the moments of respite.

The last course was almost completed when the butler came to speak to Daniel Alberton.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said in little above a whisper. “Mr. Philo Trace has called. Shall I tell him you are engaged, or do you wish to see him?”

Breeland swiveled around, his body stiff, his expression so tightly controlled as to be almost frozen.

Merrit was far less careful to hide her feelings. The color rose hot in her cheeks and she glared at her father as if she believed he were about to do something monstrous.

Casbolt glanced at the others in apology, but his face was alive with interest. Monk had the fleeting impression that Casbolt actually cared what he thought, then he dismissed it as ridiculous. Why should he?

Alberton’s expression made it plain that he had not expected the caller. For a moment he was taken aback. He looked at Judith questioningly.

“By all means,” she said with a faint smile.

“I suppose you had better ask him to come in,” Alberton instructed the butler. “Explain to him that we are at dinner, and if he cares to join us for fruit, then he is very welcome.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while the butler retreated, and then returned, ushering in a slender, dark-haired man with a sensitive, mercurial face, the type whose expression conveyed emotion and yet perhaps hid his true feelings. He was handsome, as if charm came easily, and yet there was something elusive about him, and private. Monk judged him to be perhaps ten years older than Breeland, and the moment he spoke it was apparent he came from one of those Southern states which had recently seceded from the Union and with whom the Union was now at war.

“How do you do,” Monk replied when they were introduced, after the butler had brought another chair and discreetly set an additional place at the table.

“I’m truly sorry,” Trace said with some embarrassment. “I seem to have the wrong evening. I certainly did not intend to intrude.” He looked for a moment at Breeland, and it was clear they already knew each other. The animosity between them crackled in the air.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Trace,” Judith said with a smile. “Would you care for a little fruit? Or a pastry?”

His eyes lingered on her with pleasure and a certain earnestness.

“Thank you, ma’am. That is most generous of you.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Monk are friends of Lady Callandra Daviot. I cannot remember whether you met her or not,” Judith continued.

“No, I didn’t, but you told me something of her. A most interesting lady.” He sat down on the chair, which had been drawn up for him. He regarded Hester with pleasant curiosity. “Are you connected with the army also, ma’am?”

“Indeed she is,” Casbolt said enthusiastically. “She has had a remarkable career … with Florence Nightingale. I am sure you must have heard of her.”

“Naturally.” Trace smiled at Hester. “I’m afraid in America these days we are obliged to concern ourselves with all aspects of war, as I daresay you know. But I am sure it is not what you wish to discuss over dinner.”

“Isn’t that what you have come about, Mr. Trace?” Merrit asked, her voice cold. “You did not call socially. You admitted as much when you had mistaken the evening.”

Trace blushed. “I don’t know how I came to do that. I have already apologized, Miss Alberton.”

“I’m sure I don’t know either!” Merrit said. “I can only think you were worried in case Mr. Breeland might at last persuade my father of the justice of his cause, and you should find yourself without the purchase you expected.” It was a challenge, and she made no concession to courtesy. Her passionate conviction rang in her voice so sincerely it almost robbed it of rudeness.

Casbolt shook his head. He looked at Merrit patiently. “You know better than that, my dear. However profound your convictions, you understand your father better than to think he would go back on his word for anyone. I hope Mr. Trace knows that also. If he doesn’t, he soon will.” He looked across at Monk. “We must apologize to you, sir, and to you,” he said, including Hester for an instant. “This must all seem inexplicably heated to you. I daresay no one explained to you, Daniel and I are dealers and shippers, among other things. Guns of good quality are in great demand, with the United States at war, as it regrettably is. Men from both the Union and the Confederacy are scouring Europe and buying up everything they can. Most of the available weapons are quite possibly inferior, as likely to blow up in the faces of the men who use them as to do any damage to the enemy. Some of them have aims so bad you would be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn at twenty paces. Do you know anything about guns, sir?”

“Nothing at all,” Monk said truthfully. If he ever had such knowledge, it had gone with the coach accident five years ago which had robbed him of all memory before that time. He could not recall ever having fired a gun. However, Casbolt’s explanation made clear the turbulence of emotions Monk had felt in the room, the presence of both Breeland and Trace, and the bitter emotion between them. It had nothing to do with Merrit Alberton, or any of the family.

Casbolt’s face lit with enthusiasm. “The best modern gun—say, for example, the P1853, last year’s model—is built of a total of sixty-one parts, including screws and so on. It weighs only eight pounds and fourteen and a half ounces, without bayonet, and the barrel is rifled, of course, and thirty-nine inches long. It is accurate over at least nine hundred yards—well over half a mile.”

Judith looked at him with a slightly reproving smile.

“Of course!” He apologized, glancing at Hester, then at Monk again. “I’m sorry. Please tell us something of your business, if it is not all confidential?” His expression held an interest so sharp it was difficult to imagine it was affected purely for the sake of mere politeness.

Monk had never been asked such a question in the society of a dinner party. Normally it was the last thing people wished to speak of, because he was present to investigate something which had caused them recent pain and in all likelihood was still doing so. Crime not only brought fear, bereavement, and inevitably suspicion, it ripped from quiet lives the decent masks of secrecy everyone put over all manner of smaller sins and weaknesses.

“Robert!” Judith said urgently. “I think you are asking Mr. Monk to tell us about people’s tragedies.”

Casbolt looked wide-eyed and not in the least put out. “Am I? What a shame. How can I circumvent that? I really would like to hear something of Mr. Monk’s fascinating occupation.” He was still smiling, but there was a determination in his voice. He sat back from the table a little, picking up a small bunch of a dozen or so green grapes in his fingers. “Tell me, do you spend a lot of time on robberies, missing jewels, and so on?”

It was a far safer subject than guns or slavery. Monk saw the interest flicker in Judith’s face, in spite of her awareness that the subject was possibly not one a polite society would pursue.

Daniel Alberton also seemed relieved. His fingers stopped twisting the fruit knife he held.

“Mrs. Monk says that her involvement in your cases has replaced the exhilaration, the horror, and the responsibility she felt on the battlefield,” Casbolt prompted. “They can hardly be affairs of finding the lost silver saltcellar or the missing great-niece of Lady So-and-so.”

They were all waiting for Monk to tell them something dramatic and entertaining which had nothing whatever to do with their own lives or the tensions which lay between them. Even Hester was looking at him, smiling.

“No,” he agreed, taking a peach off the dish. “There are a few of that order, but every so often there is a murder which falls to me, rather than to the police—”

“Good heavens!” Judith said involuntarily. “Why?”

“Usually because the police suspect the wrong person,” Monk replied.

“In your opinion?” Casbolt said quickly.

Monk met his eyes. There was banter in Casbolt’s voice, but his look was level, unflickering and highly intelligent. Monk was certain this remark at least was not made idly, to relieve the previous embarrassment between Breeland and Trace.

“Yes, in my belief,” he answered with the weight he thought it deserved. “I have been seriously wrong at times, but only for a while. I was once convinced a famous man was innocent, and worked very hard to prove him so, only to find in the end that he was horribly and cold-bloodedly guilty.”

Merrit did not wish to be interested, but in spite of herself she was. “Did you manage to put right your mistake? What happened to him?” she asked, ignoring the grapes on her plate.

“He was hanged,” Monk said without pleasure.

She stared at him, a shadow flickering in her eyes. There was something in his manner she did not understand, not the words but the emotion. “Weren’t you pleased?”

How could he explain to her the anger he had felt at the loss of the woman who had been killed, and that revenge, which was all that a hanging was, brought nothing back? Justice, as the law contained it, was necessary, but there was no joy in it. He looked at the soft lines of her face; she had barely outgrown the roundness of childhood, and she was so certain she was right about the American war, so burning with indignation, love and consuming idealism.

“No,” he said, needing to be honest to himself whether she understood or not. “I am pleased the truth was known. I am pleased he had to answer for his crime, but I regretted his destruction. He was a clever man, greatly gifted, but his arrogance was monstrous. In the end he thought everyone else should serve his talents. It consumed his compassion and his judgment, even his honor.”

“How tragic,” Judith said softly. “I’m glad Robert asked you; your answer is better than I had expected.” She glanced at her husband, whose expression confirmed her own.

“Thank you, my dear.” Casbolt flashed her a sudden smile, then turned back to Monk. “Tell us, how did you catch him? If he was clever, then you must have been even cleverer!”

Monk answered a trifle smugly. “He made mistakes—old cases, old enemies. I uncovered them. It is a matter of understanding loyalties and betrayals, of watching everything, and never giving up.”

“Hounding him?” Breeland asked with distaste.

“No!” Monk replied sharply. “Seeking the truth, whether it is what you want it to be or not. Even if it is what you dread most and cuts deepest at what you want to believe, never lie, never twist it, never run away, and never give up.” He was surprised at the vehemence with which he meant what he said. He heard it in his voice and it startled him.

He saw the agreement in Hester’s face, and felt himself color. He had not realized her respect mattered so much to him. He had never intended to be so vulnerable.

Merrit was staring at him with a sudden interest, as if in a space of moments he had metamorphosed into a man she could like and she did not know how to deal with the change.

“There you are,” Casbolt said with evident pleasure. “I knew you had invited a most interesting man, my dear,” he said to Judith. “Are you ever defeated, Mr. Monk? Do you ever retire from the fray and concede to the villain?”

Monk smiled back, a trifle wolfishly. Now the passion was gone; they were fencing to entertain.

“Not yet. I’ve come close a few times. I’ve feared my own client was guilty, or that the person I was employed to protect might be, and I have wanted to let go, just walk away and pretend I did not know the truth.”

“And did you?” Alberton asked. He was leaning forward a little across the table, his plate ignored, his eyes intent upon Monk’s face.

“No. But sometimes I liked the villain better than the victim,” Monk answered honestly.

Judith was surprised. “Really? When you understood the crime you had more sympathy with the murderer than the person he killed?”

“Once or twice. There was a woman whose child was systematically molested. I liked her far better than the man she killed for it.”

“Oh!” She sucked in her breath sharply, her face blanched with pain. “Poor creature!”

Trace looked at her, his eyes wide, then at Merrit. “Was he guilty?”

“Oh, yes. And a victim himself.”

“A …” Judith started, then understanding, her eyes filled with pity. “Oh … I see.”

Breeland pushed his chair back from the table and rose slowly to his feet.

“I am sure Mr. Monk’s adventures are fascinating, and I regret having to excuse myself so early, but since Mr. Trace has called on what is apparently business, I feel I should either stay and argue my cause over his, or withdraw and retain your goodwill by not allowing this most agreeable evening to descend into acrimony.” He lifted his chin a little higher. He was angry and self-conscious, but would yield his convictions to no one. “And since you already know every reason why the Union is fighting to preserve the nation we have founded in freedom, against a Confederacy which would encircle us in slavery, and I have argued it with every reason and every emotion in my power, I shall thank you for your hospitality and wish you good night.” He inclined his head stiffly in something less than a bow. “Mrs. Alberton, Miss Alberton.” He looked at Daniel coldly. “Sir. Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, including everyone else. Then he turned on his heel and left.

“I’m so sorry,” Trace repeated. “That was the last thing I meant to have happen.” He turned from Judith to Daniel Alberton. “Please believe me, sir, I never doubted your word. I did not know Breeland was here.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Alberton agreed, rising to his feet also. “Perhaps if the rest of you will excuse us, we shall be able to conclude our business quite quickly. It seems unfortunate, and unnecessary, now that Mr. Trace is here, for me to require him to come again tomorrow.” He looked apologetically to Hester and Monk.

“I daresay it is my fault.” Casbolt looked at Trace and shrugged very slightly. “It was I who last spoke to you about it. I may have given the wrong date. If I did, I am sorry. It was most careless of me.” He turned to Judith, then to Monk and Hester.

“It is quite all right,” Monk said quickly, and he meant it. The friction between Trace and Breeland was more interesting than a blander party might have been, but of course he could not say so.

“Thank you,” Casbolt said warmly. “Shall you and I remain here while the ladies retire to the withdrawing room and Daniel and Mr. Trace conduct their business?”

“By all means,” Monk accepted.

Casbolt looked at the port bottle nestling in its basket, and the sparkling glasses waiting for it, and grinned broadly.

Judith led Hester and Merrit through to the withdrawing room again. The curtains were still open and the last of the evening light still bathed the tops of the trees in a warm apricot glow. An aspen shimmered as the sunset breeze turned its leaves, glittering one moment, smooth the next.

“I am so sorry for the intrusion of this miserable war in America,” Judith said ruefully. “It seems we can’t escape from it at the moment.”

Merrit stood very straight, her shoulders squared, staring out of the long windows at the roses across the lawn.

“I don’t think it is morally right that we should try to. I’m sorry if you feel that it is bad manners to say so, but I honestly don’t believe Mrs. Monk is someone who would use manners as an excuse to run away from the truth.” She turned her head to stare at Hester. “She went to the Crimea to care for our soldiers who were sick and injured when she could have stayed here at home and been comfortable and said it was none of her business. If you had been alive at the time, wouldn’t you have campaigned with Wilberforce to end the slave trade through Britain and on the high seas?” There was a challenge directed at Hester, but in spite of the ring in her voice, her eyes were bright, as if she knew the answer.

“Please heaven, I hope so!” Hester said vehemently. “That we even entered into it was one of the blackest pages in all our history. To buy and sell human beings is inexcusable.”

Merrit gave her a beautiful smile, then turned to her mother. “I knew it! Why can’t Papa see that? How can he be there in his study actually proposing to sell guns to the Confederacy? The slave states!”

“Because he gave his word to Mr. Trace before Mr. Breeland came here,” Judith replied. “Now please sit down and don’t place Mrs. Monk in the middle of our difficulties. It is quite unfair.” Taking Merrit’s obedience for granted, she turned to Hester. “Sometimes I wish my husband were in a different business. I am not sure if there is anything entirely without contention. Even if you were to sell tin baths or turnips, I daresay there would be someone on your doorstep declaring your demands were unrighteous or prejudicial to somebody else’s livelihood. But armaments arouse more emotions than most other things, and seem to depend upon so many reverses of fortune that cannot be foreseen.”

“Do they?” Hester was surprised. “I would have thought governments at least could see the probability of war long before it became inevitable.”

“Oh, usually, but there are times when it comes right out of nowhere at all,” Judith replied. “Naturally my husband, and Mr. Casbolt as well, study the affairs of the world very closely. But there are events that take everyone by surprise. The Third Chinese War just last year was a perfect example.”

Hester had no knowledge of it, and it must have been clear in her face.

Judith laughed. “It was all part of the Opium Wars we have with the Chinese every so often, but this one took everybody by surprise. Although how the Second Chinese War began was the most absurd. Apparently there was a schooner called Arrow, built and owned by the Chinese, although it had once been registered in British Hong Kong. Anyway, the Chinese authorities boarded the Arrow and arrested some of the crew, who were also Chinese. We decided that we had been insulted—”

“What?” Hester said in amazement. “I mean … I beg your pardon?”

“Precisely,” Judith agreed wryly. “We took offense, and used it as a pretext to start a minor war. The French discovered that a French missionary had been executed by the Chinese a few months before that, so they joined in as well. When the war finished various treaties were signed and we felt it safe to resume business with the Chinese as usual.” She grimaced. “Then quite unexpectedly the Third Chinese War broke out.”

“Does it affect armament sales?” Hester asked. “Surely only to the advantage, at least for the British?”

Judith shook her head very slightly. “Depends upon whom you were selling to! In this instance, not if you were selling to the Chinese, with whom we were going through a period of good relations.”

“Oh … I see.”

“Then perhaps we should be more careful to whom we sell guns?” Merrit said fiercely. “Instead of just to the highest bidder!”

Judith looked for a moment as if she were about to argue, then changed her mind. Hester formed the opinion that her hostess had had some variation of this conversation several times before, and on each of them failed to make any difference. It was eminently none of Hester’s business, and better left alone, yet the impulse in her, which so often Monk told her was arbitrary and opinionated, formed the words on her lips.

“To whom should we sell guns?” she asked with outward candor. “Apart from the Unionists in America, of course.”

Merrit was impervious to sarcasm. She was too idealistic to see any moderation to a cause.

“Where there is no oppression involved,” she said without hesitation. “Where people are fighting for their freedom.”

“Who would you have sold them to in the Indian Mutiny?”

Merrit stared at her.

“The Indians,” Hester answered for her. “But perhaps if you had seen what they had done with them, the massacres of women and children, you might have felt … confused, at the least. I know I am.”

Merrit looked suddenly very young. The gaslight on her cheeks emphasized their soft curve, almost childlike, and the fair hair where it curled on her neck.

Hester felt a surge of tenderness towards her, remembering how ardent she had been at that age, how full of fire to better the world, and sure that she knew how, without the faintest idea of the multitudinous layers of passion and pain intertwined with each other, and the conflicting beliefs, all so reasonable if taken alone. If innocence were not reborn with each generation, what hope was there that wrongs would ever be fought against?

“I am not happy about the morality of it either,” she said contritely. “I would rather have something relatively uncomplicated, like medicine. People’s lives are still in your hands, you can still make mistakes, terrible ones, but you have no doubt as to what you are trying to do, even if you don’t know how to do it.”

Merrit smiled tentatively. She recognized an olive branch and took it. “Aren’t you afraid sometimes?” she asked softly.

“Often. And of all sorts of things.”

Merrit stood still in the fading light. Only the very top of the aspen beyond her still caught the sun. She was fingering a rather heavy watch which had been tucked down her bosom, and now she had taken it out. She caught Hester’s eyes on it and the color deepened in her cheeks.

“Lyman gave it to me … Mr. Breeland,” she explained, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “I know it doesn’t really complement this dress, but I intend to keep it with me always, to the devil with fashion!” She lifted her chin a little, ready to defy any criticism.

Judith opened her mouth, then changed her mind.

“Perhaps you could wear it on your skirt?” Hester suggested. “It looks like a watch for use as much as ornament.”

Merrit’s face lightened. “That’s a good idea. I should have thought of that.”

“I tend to wear a useful watch rather than a pretty one,” Hester said. “One I cannot really see defeats the purpose.”

Merrit walked over to the chair opposite Hester and sat down. “I have the most tremendous admiration for people who dedicate themselves to the care of others,” she said earnestly. “Would it be intrusive or troublesome of me to ask you to tell us a little more about your experiences?”

Actually it was something Hester was very willing to leave behind her when there was nothing she could accomplish and no one to persuade. However, it would have been ungracious to refuse, so she spent the next hour answering Merrit’s eager questions and waiting for Judith to lead the conversation in another path, but Judith seemed to be just as interested, and her silence was one of deep attention.

When Trace had completed his business with Alberton he took his leave, and Alberton returned to the dining room, glanced at Casbolt, then seeing a slight nod, invited him and Monk to find more comfortable seats, not in the withdrawing room with the ladies but in the library.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Monk,” Alberton said almost before they had made themselves comfortable. “I have certainly enjoyed your company this evening, and that of your wife, who is a most remarkable woman. But I invited you here because we need your help. Well, principally I do, but Casbolt is involved as well. I am sorry for misleading you in such a way, but the matter is very delicate, and in spite of Lady Callandra’s high opinion of you—which, by the way, was given as a friend, not professionally—I preferred to form my own judgment.”

Monk felt a moment’s resentment, mostly on Hester’s behalf, then realized that he might well have done the same thing himself, were he in Alberton’s position. He hoped it was nothing to do with guns, or a choice between Philo Trace and Lyman Breeland. He found Trace the more agreeable man, but he believed in Breeland’s cause far more. He did not feel as passionately as Hester, but the idea of slavery repelled him.

“I accept your apology,” he said with a slightly sardonic smile. “Now, if you can tell me the matter that troubles you, I will make my judgment as to whether I can help you with it—or wish to.”

“Well taken, Mr. Monk,” Alberton said ruefully. He made light of it, but Monk could see the tension underlying his words. His body was rigid; a tiny muscle ticked in his jaw. His voice was not quite even.

Monk felt a stab of guilt for his levity. The man was neither arrogant nor indifferent. His self-control all evening had been an act of courage.

“Are you facing some kind of threat?” he asked quietly. “Tell me what it is, and if I can help you, I will.”

The flicker of a smile crossed Alberton’s face.

“The problem is very simple to explain, Mr. Monk. As you know, Casbolt and I are partners in the business of shipping, sometimes timber, but mostly machinery and armaments. I imagine after the conversation of our other dinner guest, that much is obvious.” He did not look at Casbolt while he spoke but fixed his gaze unwaveringly on Monk. “What you cannot know is that some ten years ago I was introduced to a young man named Alexander Gilmer. He was charming, very beautiful to look at, and a trifle eccentric in his style of living. He was also ill and had been earning his way as an artists’ model. As I said, he was of striking appearance. His employer had abandoned him, Gilmer said, because he had refused him sexual favors. At that time he was desperate. I paid his debts as a matter of compassion.” He took a deep breath but his eyes did not waver.

Casbolt did not attempt to interrupt. He seemed content that Alberton should tell the story.

“Nevertheless,” Alberton went on, his voice even lower, “the poor man died … in very tragic circumstances.…” He drew in his breath and let it out in a sigh. “He had tried to get more work as a model, but each time with less respectable people. He was … somewhat naive, I think. He expected a standard of morality that did not exist in the circles in which he moved. He was misunderstood. Men thought he was offering sexual favors, and when he refused they became angry and put him out on the street. I suppose rejection very often produces such emotions.” He stopped, his face filled with pity.

This time it was Casbolt who took up the thread, his voice earnest.

“You see, Mr. Monk, poor Gilmer, whom I also helped financially on one occasion, was found dead several months ago in a house known for male prostitution. Whether they merely sheltered him out of compassion, or if he worked there, is not known. But it made any money passed to him, whether a gift or a payment, fall under suspicion.”

“Yes, I see that.” Monk could visualize the picture very clearly. He was not sure precisely how much he believed, but it was probably irrelevant. “Someone has discovered proof of this gift of yours and wishes you to continue it … only to them?”

A flicker crossed Alberton’s face. “It is not quite as simple as that, but that is the substance of it. It is not money they wish. If it were, I could be tempted, to protect my family, although I realize that once you have paid there is no end to it.”

“It also appears to be an admission that there is something to hide,” Monk added, hearing the edge of contempt in his own voice. Blackmail was a crime he loathed above any other kind of theft. It was not just the extortion of money; it was a form of torture, long-drawn-out and deliberate. He had known it to drive people to their deaths. “I’ll do all I can to help,” he added quickly.

Alberton looked at him. “The payment they want is one I cannot give.”

Casbolt nodded very slightly, but there was anger and pain in his face. He watched Monk intently.

Monk waited.

“They want me to pay them in gun sales,” Alberton explained. “To Baskin and Company, a firm which I know is merely a front for another which sells directly to pirates operating in the Mediterranean.” His hands were clenched into fists till his knuckles shone white. “What you may not know, Mr. Monk, is that my wife is half Italian.” He glanced momentarily at Casbolt. “I think you heard mention of it at dinner. Her brother and his wife and children were murdered while at sea off the coast of Sicily … by pirates. You will understand why it would be impossible for me to sell them guns in those circumstances.”

“Yes … yes, of course I do,” Monk said with feeling. “It is never good to pay blackmail, but this is doubly impossible. If you give me all the information you have, I will do everything I can to find out who is threatening you, and deal with it. I may be able to find proof that your gift was no more than compassion, then they will have no weapon left. Alternatively, there may be the same weapon to use against them. I assume you would be willing for me to do that?”

Alberton drew in his breath.

“Yes,” Casbolt said without hesitation. “Certainly. Forgive me, but it was to form some judgment of your willingness to pursue a difficult and even dangerous case to the conclusion, to fight for justice when all seemed stacked against you, that I asked you so much about yourself earlier in the evening, before you knew the reason why. I also wished to see if you had the vision to see a cause greater than satisfying the letter of the law.”

Monk smiled a trifle twistedly. He also took few men at their word.

“Now, if you would tell me how they got in touch with you, and everything you know about Alexander Gilmer, both his life and his death,” he replied, “I will begin tomorrow morning. If they get in touch with you again, delay them. Tell them you need to make arrangements and are in the process of doing so.”

“Thank you.” For the first time since he had mentioned the subject, Alberton relaxed a little. “I am deeply obliged. Now we must discuss the financial arrangements.”

Casbolt reached out his hand. “Thank you, Monk. I think we now have room to hope.”