Slaves of Obsession

2

MONK HAD DESCRIBED the case to Hester on their way home from the Albertons’ house. She was entirely at one with him about his acceptance. She found blackmail as abhorrent as he did, and apart from that, she had liked Judith Alberton and was distressed to think of the amount of embarrassment and pain that might be caused to the family were scandal to be created over the circumstances of Alberton’s help to Alexander Gilmer.

Monk set out early to go to Little Sutton Street in Clerkenwell, where Alberton had told him Gilmer had died. It was only eight o’clock as he walked rapidly towards Tottenham Court Road to find a hansom, but the streets were full of all kinds of traffic: cabs, carts, wagons, drays, coster-mongers’ barrows, peddlers selling everything from matches and bootlaces to ham sandwiches and lemonade. A running patterer stood on the corner with a small crowd around him while he chanted a rough doggerel verse about the latest political scandal and caused roars of laughter. Someone threw him a coin and it flashed for a moment in the sun before he caught it.

The musical call of a rag and bone man sounded above the noise of hooves and the rumble of wheels over the rough road. Harness clinked as a brewer’s dray went by laden with giant barrels. The air was heavy with the smells of dust, horse sweat and manure.

Monk glanced at a newsboy’s headlines, but there was nothing about America. The last he had heard was the rumor that the real invasion of the Confederate states was not to take place until the autumn of this year. Back in mid-April President Lincoln had proclaimed a naval blockade of the Confederate coast right from South Carolina to Texas, then later extended it to include Virginia and North Carolina. Fortifications had been begun to protect Washington.

Today was Tuesday the twenty-fifth of June. If anything had happened since then more than the occasional skirmish, news of it had not yet reached England. That took roughly from twelve days to three weeks, depending upon the weather and how far it had to travel overland first.

He saw an empty hansom and waved his arm, shouting above the general noise. When the driver pulled the horse up Monk gave him the address of the Clerkenwell police station. He had already considered how he intended to begin. He did not suppose either Alberton or Casbolt was lying to him, although clients certainly had in the past and no doubt would again. But even the best-intentioned people frequently make mistakes, omit important facts, or simply see an incomplete picture and interpret it through their own hopes and fears.

The cab arrived at the police station; Monk alighted, paid the fare and went in. Even five years after the accident, and with so much of a new life built, he still felt a surge of anxiety, the unknown returning to remind him of those things he had discovered about himself. Right from the beginning he had had flashes of familiarity, moments of recollection which vanished before he could place them. Most of what he knew was from evidence and deduction. He had left his native Northumberland for London, and begun his career as a merchant banker, working for a man who had been his friend and mentor, until his ruin for a crime of which he was innocent, although Monk had been unable to help him prove it. That had been the force which had driven Monk into the police and away from the world of finance.

Too many discoveries had made it evident that he had been a brilliant policeman, but with a ruthless streak, even cruel at times. Juniors had been afraid of his tongue, which had been too quick to criticize, to mock the weaker and the less confident. It was something he disliked, and of which he could at last admit, even if only to himself, he was ashamed. A quick temper was one thing, to demand high standards of courage and honesty was good, but to ask of a man more than his ability to give was not only pointless, it was cruel, and in the end destructive.

Every time he went into an unfamiliar police station, he was aware of the possibility that he would meet another reflection of himself he would not like. He dreaded recognition. But he refused to let it shackle him. He went in through the door and up to the desk.

The sergeant was a tall man, middle-aged, with thin hair. There was no expression in his face but polite interest.

Monk breathed a sigh of relief.

“Mornin’, sir,” the sergeant said pleasantly. “What can I do to help you?”

“Good morning,” Monk replied. “I need some information about an incident that happened in your area some months ago. A friend of mine is threatened with involvement in a scandal. Before I undertake to protect him, if I can, I should like to be certain of the facts. All I am looking for is what is recorded.” He smiled. “But from an unimpeachable source.”

The sergeant’s polite skepticism was replaced by a certain understanding.

“I see, sir. And which particular incident would that be?” A look crossed his eyes as if he might already have a good idea, at least of its nature, if not specifically which occasion.

Monk smiled apologetically. “The death of Alexander Gilmer in Little Sutton Street. I am sure you will have records of it and someone who knows the truth.” It was at times like these he missed the authority he used to have when he could simply have demanded the papers.

“Well, sir, the records are here, sure enough, but they won’t be open to the public, like. I’m sure you’ll understand that, Mr.…?”

“I’m sorry. Monk, William Monk.”

“Monk?” Interest flared in the sergeant’s eyes. “Would you be the Mr. Monk as worked on the Carlyon case?”

Monk was startled. “Yes. That was a few years ago now.”

“Terrible thing,” the sergeant said gravely. “Well, I s’pect since you used to be one of us, like, we could tell you all we know. I’ll find Sergeant Walters as was on the case.” And he disappeared for several minutes, leaving Monk to look around at the various wanted posters on the walls, relieved that the sergeant knew of him only since the accident.

Sergeant Walters was a thin, dark man with an enthusiastic manner. He took Monk to a small, chaotic room with books and papers piled everywhere, and cleared a chair by lifting everything off it and putting it all on the floor. He invited Monk to sit down, then perched on the windowsill, the only other space available.

“Right!” he said with a smile. “What do you wanter know about Gilmer, poor devil?”

“Everything you know,” Monk said. “Or as much as you have time and inclination to tell me.”

“Ah! Well.” Walters settled himself more comfortably. It seemed he often sat on the sill. This was apparently the normal state of the room. How he found anything was a miracle.

Monk leaned back hopefully.

Walters stared at the ceiling. “About twenty-nine when he died. Tubercular. Thin. Haunted sort of look to his face, but good features. Not surprised artists wanted to paint him. That’s what he did, you know? Yes, I suppose you do know.” He seemed to be waiting for confirmation.

Monk nodded. “I was told that.”

“Only saw him when he was dead,” Walters went on. He spoke quite casually, but his eyes never left Monk’s face, and Monk formed the very clear impression that he was being measured and nothing about him taken for granted. He could imagine Walters writing notes on him the moment he was gone, and adding them to the file on Gilmer, and that Walters would know exactly where in this chaos the file was.

Monk already knew the name of the artist from Casbolt, but he did not say so.

“Fellow called FitzAlan,” Walters went on when Monk did not speak. “Quite famous. Found Gilmer in Edinburgh, or somewhere up that way. Brought him down here and took him in. Paid him a lot. Then grew tired of him, for whatever reason, and threw him out.” He waited to see Monk’s reaction to this piece of information.

Monk said nothing, keeping his expression bland.

Walters understood, and smiled. It was a measuring of wits, of professionalism, and now they both acknowledged it.

“He drifted from one artist to another,” Walters said with a little shake of his head. “Downhill all the time. Be all right for a while, then he seemed to quarrel and get thrown out again. Could’ve left of his own choice, of course, but since he had nowhere to go, and his health was getting worse, seems unlikely.”

Monk tried to imagine the young man, alone, far from home and increasingly ill. Why would he keep provoking such disagreements? He could not afford it, and he must have known that. Was he a man of ungoverned temper? Had he become an unusable model, the ravages of his disease spoiling his looks? Or were the relationships those of lovers, or by then simply user and used, and when the user grew bored the used was discarded for someone else? It was a sad and ugly picture, whichever of these answers was true.

“How did he die?” he asked.

Walters watched him very steadily, his eyes almost unblinking. “Doctor said it was consumption,” he replied. “But he’d been knocked around pretty badly as well. Not exactly murder, not technically, but morally I reckon it was. I’d find a way to beat the daylights out of any man who treated a dog like that man’d been used. I don’t care what he did to get by or what his nature was.” Under the calm of his manner there was an anger so hot he dared not let it go, but Monk saw it behind his eyes, and in the rigid set of his shoulders and in his arms where the fingers were stiff on the windowsill, knuckles white.

He had found Walters instantly agreeable. Now he liked him the more.

“Did you ever get anybody for it?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

“No. But I haven’t stopped looking,” Walters replied. “If you find anybody in your … help for your friend … I’d be obliged.” He looked at Monk curiously now, trying to assess where his loyalties lay and exactly what sort of “friend” he had.

Monk himself was not sure. The blackmail letter Alberton had shown him was comparatively innocuous. It was awkwardly worded, made up from pieces cut from newspapers and pasted onto a sheet of very ordinary paper one might buy at any stationer’s. It had stated that the payments could be interpreted as purchase of several forms, and in light of the way in which Gilmer had died, public knowledge of it would ruin Alberton’s standing in society. No suggestion had been made that either Alberton or Casbolt was responsible for Gilmer’s death. Possibly the blackmailer was afraid they could prove themselves elsewhere at the time. More likely such a threat was unnecessary. He thought he could obtain what he wanted without going so far.

“If I find out,” Monk promised, “I shall be happy to assist you to dispense justice. I gather it was a male brothel where he was found?”

“That’s right,” Walters agreed. “And before you ask me what he was doing there, I’ll tell you that I don’t know. The owner said he took pity on him and fetched him in off the streets, an act of charity.” There was no irony in his eyes, and his look dared Monk to differ. “Could be true. Gilmer, poor devil, was in little state to be any use as a worker, and he had neither strength nor money to be a client, assuming he was that way inclined, which no one seems to know. We’ve just got it down officially as death by natural causes. But we all know damned well that someone beat him pretty badly too. Could have had them for assault if the poor sod hadn’t died anyway.”

“Any idea who it was that beat him?” Monk asked, hearing the edge in his own voice. “Privately, even if you couldn’t prove it?”

“Ideas,” Walters said darkly. “Not much more. Clients in places like that don’t leave their names on a list. Some of them have some pretty sordid tastes that they can’t exercise at home and aren’t keen to have known.”

“Think it was a client?”

“Sure of it. Why? Your friend one of them?” The sneer in Walters’s voice was too bitter to hide.

“He says not. If you tell me when Gilmer died, exactly, I may be able to ascertain where my friend was.”

Walters took out his notebook and rifled through it.

“Between eight and midnight on September twenty-eighth last year. Is your friend being blackmailed over Gilmer’s death?”

“No, over having given him some money, which is open to misinterpretation.”

“Nobody gave him much, poor devil.” Walters shrugged. “Got himself into debt pretty badly. Thought it might have been one of his creditors beat him to teach him to pay up more promptly. We went and interviewed the man we suspected.” He smiled, showing his teeth. It was more of a snarl, although there was definitely pleasure in it. “Somewhat vigorously,” he added. “But he said Gilmer had paid everything he owed. Didn’t believe that for a moment, but the bastard could unarguably prove where he was all that night. He spent it in jail! Only time I was sorry to see him there.”

“Do you know how much it was?” Monk enquired. He knew exactly how much Alberton had said he gave Gilmer.

“No. Why?” Walters said quickly. “Do you know something about it?”

Monk smiled at him. “I might. How much was it?”

“Told you, I don’t know. But it was over fifty pounds.”

Alberton had paid sixty-five. Monk was unreasonably pleased. He realized only now how profoundly he had wanted to find Alberton honest.

“That answer you?” Walters was staring at him.

“No,” Monk said quickly. “It confirms what I thought. My friend claimed to have paid it. It looks as if he did.”

“Why?”

“Compassion,” Monk said immediately. “Are you thinking it was for services rendered? I’d like to meet the boy that commands that much!”

Walters grinned. His eyes opened wide. “Looks like a good man caught in an unpleasant situation.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Monk agreed. “Thank you for your help.”

Walters straightened up. “Hope it turns out to be true,” he said pleasantly. “I’d like to think someone helped him … whatever he was.”

“Did you know of him when he was alive?” Monk rose slowly also.

“No. Learned the rest when we were looking into his death. Got too much to do to investigate prostitution, if they aren’t causing a public nuisance.” He shrugged. “Anyway, most of the time the ‘powers that be’ would rather we didn’t draw attention to it, and they’d certainly rather we didn’t take names and addresses.” He did not need to explain what he meant. “But let me know if you find out who did that to him, will you?”

“I will,” Monk promised, picking his way through the piles of papers to the door. “Because I’d like you to meet up with him … and because I owe it to you.”

It was early afternoon, and far too hot to be comfortable, when Monk reached the large house in Kensington which was Lawrence FitzAlan’s studio. The midsummer sun beat on the pavements, shimmering back in waves that made the vision dance. The gutters were dry and the unswept manure was pungent in the air.

The maid who answered the door was remarkably pretty, and Monk wondered if FitzAlan painted her as well. He had already decided how he would approach the artist, and had no compunction whatever in lying. Perhaps based quite unfairly on Walters’s anger, he had formed a dislike of FitzAlan.

“Good afternoon,” he said as charmingly as he could, and he knew that was very effective indeed; he had used it often enough. “I should very much like to have a portrait painted of my wife, and so I have naturally come to the finest artist I know of. May I make an appointment to see Mr. FitzAlan at his earliest convenience? Unfortunately, I am in London only a short while before returning to Rome for a month or two.”

She looked at him with interest. With his dark hair and lean face he filled her idea of a mysterious Italian very well. She invited him into an ornate hall in which were several expensive pieces of statuary, and went to tell her master of the visitor.

FitzAlan was a flamboyant man with a high sense of his own talent, which Monk could see, having glanced at the canvases in his studio, was very real. Five were turned face out in various places, hung or stacked so they were well displayed, although to the casual eye they appeared to be placed with no regard. The draftsmanship was excellent, the play of light and shade dramatic, the faces arresting. In spite of himself Monk found his eye going to them instead of to FitzAlan.

“You are an art lover!” FitzAlan said with satisfaction.

Monk could imagine him playing this scene with every visitor, always the slight surprise in his voice, as though the world were peopled with Philistines.

Monk forced himself to meet FitzAlan’s gaze. The artist was not tall, but he was a big man, broad-shouldered, in his fifties and now running to paunch. His gingerish hair had faded but there was still plenty of it, and he wore it affectedly long. It was a proud face, strong-featured, self-indulgent.

It galled Monk to flatter him, but it was necessary if he were to remain long enough to learn what he wanted to.

“Yes. I apologize for my discourtesy, but your paintings took my eye, regardless of my intention to be civil. Forgive me.”

FitzAlan was pleased. “You are forgiven, my dear sir,” he said expansively. “You wish for a portrait of your wife?”

“Rather more than that, actually. A friend of mine saw a very remarkable painting of a young man, done by you,” Monk replied, making himself smile disarmingly. “But he was unable to purchase it because the owner, very naturally, would not sell. I wondered if you had any others of the same subject I might tell him of. He is very anxious to possess one. In fact, it is something of an obsession with him.”

FitzAlan appeared suitably flattered. He tried to hide it, but Monk had assumed that his hunger for praise was far from filled even by the fame he already enjoyed.

“Ah!” he said, standing still as if thinking hard, only the brilliance of his eyes and the slight smile giving him away. “Let me see. Not certain which young man that might be. I paint anyone whose face intrigues me, regardless of who they are.” He was watching Monk’s reaction. “Can’t be bothered to paint pretty pictures to make famous men look better than they do.” He said it with pride. “Art, that is the master … not fame or money, or being liked. Posterity won’t give a damn who the subject was, only how they were on canvas, how they spoke to the soul of the man who looked at them decades later—centuries, maybe.”

Monk agreed with him. It was an acute and honest perception—but it galled him to say so.

“Of course. That is what divides the artist from the journeyman.”

“Can you describe the subject?” FitzAlan asked, basking in the praise.

“Fair-haired, thin-faced, with a spiritual air, almost haunted,” Monk replied, trying to visualize how Gilmer must have looked in the earliest days of his modeling, before his health deteriorated.

“Ah!” FitzAlan said quickly. “Think I know who you mean. I’ve got a couple upstairs. Been keeping those against the day when they’d be appreciated for what they are.”

Monk controlled his anger with difficulty. He coughed, raising his hand to his face to conceal the revulsion he felt for a man who could speak so casually about a youth he had known and used, and whom he must have heard was dead.

“Excuse me,” he apologized, then continued. “I should like very much to see them.”

FitzAlan was already going to the door, leading the way back into the hall, past a naked marble Adonis and up the stairs to a larger room obviously used for storage. He went without hesitation to two canvases, concealed by other, later ones, and turned them so Monk could see and admire.

And much as it cut him, he did admire them. They were brilliant. The face that stared out from the colored oils was passionate, sensitive, already shadowed by some vision beyond the pedestrian needs of life. Perhaps even at this time he had known he was consumptive and would not have long to savor the joys or the grief he then knew. Had they been the sweeter for that, the more poignant? FitzAlan had caught all that was precious and swift to pass in the eyes, the lips, the almost translucent pallor of the skin. It was a disturbing painting. It flashed through Monk’s mind to ask Alberton for the price of it as his reward. It hurt him to think he would never see it again after these few moments. It was a reminder of the sweetness of life, never to waste or disregard a moment of its gift.

“You like it,” FitzAlan said unnecessarily. Monk could not have denied it. Whatever sins lay in the soul of the painter, the picture was superb. He recalled his purpose. “Who is he?” It was not difficult to ask. It seemed the only natural thing to do.

“Just a vagrant,” FitzAlan replied. “A young man I saw in the street and took in, for a while. Wonderful face, isn’t it?”

Monk turned away from FitzAlan in order to hide his own emotion. He could not afford to have his loathing show.

“Yes. What happened to him?”

“No idea,” FitzAlan said with slight surprise. “Nobody else will paint him like that, I assure you. He was consumptive. That look won’t be there anymore. That’s what is so valuable, the moment! The knowledge of mortality. It’s universal, the perception of life and death. It’s a hundred and fifty guineas. Tell your friend.”

That was half the price of a good house! FitzAlan certainly did not underestimate his own worth. Even so, Monk found ideas racing through his mind as to how he might acquire the picture. He would never have that sort of money to spend in such a way. He would probably never have it at all. He might be able to bargain down a good deal, but still not into his financial possibilities. Was there some trade? He would profoundly have liked to force FitzAlan into it, twist him until something hurt enough for him to be glad to give up the picture in exchange for relief.

“I’ll tell him,” he said between his teeth. “Thank you.”

Monk spent the rest of that day, and the next two as well, tracing Gilmer’s fairly rapid decline from one artist to another, each of lesser skill than the last, until finally he was destitute and on the street. In each case he had seemingly quarreled and left in some anger. No one had wished him well or given him any assistance. In the end, roughly the middle of the previous summer, he had been taken in by the master of a male brothel.

“Yeah, poor devil,” he said to Monk. “On ’is last legs, ’e were. Thin as a rake an’ pale as death. I could see as ’e were dyin’.” His scarred face was pinched with pity as he sat in the overstuffed chair in his crowded parlor. He was an extraordinarily ugly man with a humpbacked, misshapen body, but with beautiful hands. Who or what he might have been in other circumstances Monk would never know, but it crossed his mind to wonder. Had he been drawn to this, or taken it up out of greed? He chose to think it was the former.

“Did he tell you anything about himself?” Monk enquired.

The man looked at him narrowly. Monk had not asked his name. “A bit,” he answered. “What’s it to you?”

“Did he work for you?”

“When ’e was well enough … which weren’t often.”

Monk could understand it, but he was still disappointed.

“ ’E did the laundry,” the man said wryly. “Wot was you thinking?”

To his amazement Monk was blushing.

The man laughed. “ ’E weren’t o’ that nature,” he said firmly. “Yer can turn boys, but ’is age it’s ’arder, an’ beside that, the way ’e looked like death, an’ coughed blood, no one’d fancy ’im anyway. Whether you believe it or not, I took ’im in because I was sorry for ’im. I could see it wouldn’t be for long. ’E’d bin ’ard enough used as it was.”

“Any idea who knocked him around?” Monk tried to keep the anger out of his voice, and failed.

The man looked at him with a slight squint. “Why? Wot yer goin’ ter do about it?”

There was no point in being less than honest. The man had already seen his feelings. “Depends upon who it is,” he replied. “There are several people who would be happy to make life very difficult for whoever it was.”

“Startin’ wi’ you, eh?”

“No, I’m not the first. I’m several steps along the line. He quarreled with many of the artists he worked for. Was it one of them?”

“I reckon so.” The man nodded slowly. “But ’e didn’t rightly quarrel with them. The first one just got bored and threw him out. Found it more profitable ter paint women for a while. The second couldn’t afford to keep him. The third and fourth both asked favors of him like wot I sell—at an ’igh price. ’E weren’t willing—that’s why they threw ’im out. an’ by then ’e were losing ’is looks an ’e got iller an’ iller.”

“Was it one of them?”

The man sized up Monk carefully, the dark face, the lean bones, broad-bridged nose, unblinking eyes.

“Why? Yer gonna kill ’im?”

“Nothing so quick,” Monk replied. “There’s a police sergeant who would like to exact a slow vengeance … through the law.”

“An’ you’d tell ’im so ’e could?”

“I would. If I were sure it was the right one.”

“Customer o’ mine took a fancy to ’im an’ weren’t minded ter take no fer an answer. I’d ’ave ’ad ’im beat ter within an inch of ’is life, meself, but I can’t afford ter. Get a name fer that, an’ I’ll be out o’ business, an’ all me boys wi’ me.”

“Name?”

“Garson Dalgetty. A gent, but a right sod underneath it. Told me ’e’d ruin me if I laid an ’and on ’im. And ’e could!”

“Thank you. I’ll not say where I got this information. But I want a favor in return.”

“Yeah? Why don’t that surprise me none?”

“Because you’re not a fool.”

“Wot’s yer favor?”

Monk grinned. “Not your trade! I want to know if Gilmer told you of anyone giving him money to pay his debts, and I mean giving, not paying.”

The man was surprised. “So you know about that, do yer?”

“The man who gave it told me. I wondered if it was the truth.”

“Oh, yeah. Very generous, ’e were.” He rocked a little in his red chair. “I never asked why. But ’e kept it up till Gilmer come ’ere, an’ after. Stopped when ’e died.”

Monk realized with a jolt what the man had said.

“He went on incurring debts?”

“Medicine, poor sod. I couldn’t afford that.”

“Who was it?”

“Yer said yer knew.”

“I do. But do you?”

The man’s ugly face lit with bitter amusement. “Blackmail, is it? No, I don’t. Gilmer would never tell me, an’ I never asked.”

“Who did know?”

“God … and the devil! How do I know? Don’t suppose it would be that ’ard ter find out, if yer put yer mind ter it. I never wanted ter.”

Monk stayed a little longer, then thanked the man and took his leave, choosing not to look to either the right or the left as he went out. He had found compassion in the man, and he wanted to know nothing of his trade.

The man had been perfectly correct in saying that it would not be difficult to trace the payments, now that Monk knew they were made regularly. It took him the rest of that day, and required no skills beyond ordinary knowledge of banking and common sense. Any number of other people could have done the same.

He also wrote a note to Sergeant Walters, telling him the name of the man he was seeking was Garson Dalgetty.

Leaving Clerkenwell, he wondered why Alberton had not mentioned that he had made Gilmer an allowance of five guineas a month. It was not an enormous amount. It would get him a little extra food, enough sherry and laudanum to ease his worst distress, no more. It was an act of charity, nothing to be ashamed of, very much the opposite. But was it all it seemed?

He did not bother to trace any gift made by Casbolt. Alberton’s gift was enough for his purposes. If he found no blackmailer in that, he could go back to Casbolt again.

The next thing he would do was trace the gun dealers through whom Alberton was requested to make the payment. But before that he would report to Alberton, as he had promised.

The evening went far from the way Monk had planned. He arrived at the house in Tavistock Square and was received immediately. Alberton looked anxious and tired, as if some negotiations of his own had not been easy.

“Thank you for coming, Monk,” he said with a brief smile, welcoming him into the library. “Do sit down. Would you like a glass of whisky, or something else?” He gestured to the crystal-and-silver tantalus on a side table.

Monk was seldom treated as if he were a social equal, even in the most delicate cases. He had found that the more embarrassed people were by their need, the less did they wish to unbend to those whose help they asked. Alberton was a pleasant exception. Nevertheless he declined, wishing not only to keep a totally clear head, but also to be seen to.

Alberton did not take anything either. It seemed the invitation was purely hospitable, not a desire to excuse indulging himself.

Monk began to tell him briefly what he had learned of Gilmer and his life and death. He was giving an account of his visit to FitzAlan when the butler knocked on the door.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he apologized. “But Mr. Breeland is here again, and very insistent. Shall I ask him to wait, sir, or … or have one of the footmen show him out? I am afraid it could prove most unpleasant, and bearing in mind that he has been a guest …”

Alberton looked at Monk. “I’m sorry,” he said bleakly. “This is a very awkward situation. You met young Breeland the other evening. As you must have observed, he is fanatical in his cause and cannot see any other point of view. I am afraid he will wait until I do speak to him, and to tell you the truth, I would rather my daughter did not meet with him again, as she may do if I do not see him straightaway.” There was tenderness and exasperation in his face. “She is very young and full of ideals. She is rather like he is. She can see the justice of only one cause, and nothing at all of any other.”

“By all means see him,” Monk agreed, rising to his feet. “I can very easily wait. I really have little to say anyway. I came because you asked me to report regardless.”

Alberton smiled briefly. “Actually, I think that was rather more Robert than I, but I can see his purpose. One can feel helpless, out of control, if one has no idea what is happening. All the same, I should be obliged if you would remain while I see Breeland, if you would? Another presence here may calm his excess a trifle. I really thought I had made myself plain before.” He turned to the butler, who was still waiting patiently. “Yes, Hallows, ask Mr. Breeland to come in.”

“Yes, sir.” Hallows withdrew obediently, but for an instant, before he masked it, his opinion of Breeland’s importunity was clear in his face. Monk imagined Hallows would wait well within call.

Lyman Breeland appeared a moment later, as if he had been on the butler’s heels. He was dressed very formally in a dark, high-buttoned suit and well-cut boots with a fine polish.

He was quite clearly disconcerted to see Monk present.

Alberton observed it. “Mr. Monk is my guest,” he said coolly. “He has no interest in armaments and is not a rival for anything you would wish. But I have told you before, Mr. Breeland, the guns that interest you are already sold—”

“No, they are not!” Breeland interrupted him. “You are in negotiation. You have not been paid, and believe me, sir, I know that. The Union has its ways of gaining information. You have been given a deposit, but the Rebels are short of funds, and you may be fortunate to see the second half of your price.”

“Possibly,” Alberton said with a distinct chill. “But I have no reason to suppose those I deal with are not men of honor, and whether they are or not, it is not your concern.”

“I have the money in full,” Breeland said. “Tell Philo Trace to produce the same! See if he can.”

“I have given my word, sir, and I do not withdraw it,” Alberton replied, his face set in hard lines, his anger unmistakable.

“You are conniving at slavery!” Breeland’s voice rose. His body was stiff, his shoulders high. “How can any civilized man do that? Or have you passed beyond civilization into decadence? Do you no longer care where your comforts come from or who pays for them?”

Alberton was white to the lips. “I don’t set myself up as a judge of men or of nations,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I should? Maybe I should require every prospective purchaser to justify himself before me and account for every shot he will take with any gun I sell him. And since that is manifestly preposterous, then perhaps I should not sell guns at all?”

“You are reducing the argument to absurdity!” Breeland countered, splashes of pink in his cheeks. “The moral difference between the attacker and the defender is clear enough to any man. So is the difference between the slave owner and the man who would free everyone. Only a sophist of the utmost hypocrisy would argue differently.”

“I could argue that the Confederate who wishes to set up his own government according to his belief in what is right has more justification to his cause than the Unionist who would oblige him to remain in a union he no longer wishes,” Alberton replied. “But that is not the issue, as you well know. Trace came to me before you did, and I agreed to sell him armaments. I do not break my word. That is the point, Mr. Breeland, and the only point. Trace has not misled me or deceived me in any way that would cause me to renege on my commitment to him. I have no guns to sell you; that is the sum of the situation.”

“Give Trace back his deposit,” Breeland challenged him. “Tell him you are no slaver! Or are you?”

“Insults offend me,” Alberton said grimly, his face dark. “They do not change my mind. I agreed to see you because I was afraid you would not leave my house until I had. There is nothing more for us to discuss. Good evening, sir.”

Breeland did not move. His face was pale, his hands clenched at his sides. But before he could find the words to retaliate, the door opened behind him, and Merrit Alberton came in.

Her gown was deep pink, her fair hair elaborately coiled but now in some disarray. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brilliant. She ignored Monk, glanced only briefly at Breeland, but deliberately stood close beside him. She addressed her father.

“What you are doing is immoral! You have made a mistake in offering the guns to the Confederates. You would never have thought of doing it were they rebels against England!” Her voice was rising higher and sharper all the time in her indignation. “If we still had slavery here, would you sell guns to slave traders so they could shoot at our army, and navy, even our men and women in their own homes, because we wanted all people to be free? Would you?”

“That is hardly a comparison, Merrit—”

“Yes, it is! The Rebels keep slaves!” She was shaking with emotion. “They buy men and women, and children, and use them like animals! How could you sell guns to people like that? Have you no morality at all? Is it just money? Is that it?” Almost unconsciously she was moving even closer to Breeland, who was watching with an almost impassive face.

“Merrit—” Alberton began.

But she cut him off. “There’s no argument can justify what you are doing! I am so ashamed of you I can hardly bear it!”

He made a gesture of helplessness. “Merrit, it is not so simple as—”

Again she refused to listen. She still seemed unaware of Monk’s presence. Her voice rose even more shrilly as her outrage drove her on. “Yes, it is! You are selling guns to people who keep slaves, and they are at war with their countrymen who want to prevent that and set the slaves free.” She flung her arm out furiously. “Money! It’s all about money, and it’s pure evil! I don’t know how you, my own father, can even try to justify it, let alone be part of it. You are selling death to people who will use it in the worst possible cause!”

Breeland moved as if to put his hand on her arm.

At last Alberton’s temper gave way. “Merrit, be quiet! You don’t know what you are talking about! Leave us alone.…”

“I won’t! I can’t,” she protested. “I do know what I am talking about. Lyman has told me. And so do you, that’s the worst of it! You know, and still you are prepared to do it!” She took a step towards him, ignoring Monk and Breeland, her face crumpled, brows drawn down. “Please, Papa! Please, for the sake of all the enslaved, for the sake of justice and freedom, above all for your own sake, sell the guns to the Union, not to the Rebels! Just say you can’t support slavery. You won’t even lose any money … Lyman can pay you the whole amount.”

“It’s not about money.” Alberton’s voice was also louder now, and sharp with hurt. “For God’s sake, Merrit, you know me better than that!” He ignored Breeland as if he had not been present. “I gave my word to Trace and I won’t break it. I don’t agree with slavery any more than you do, but I don’t agree with the Union’s forcing the South to remain part of it under their government either, if they don’t want to! There are lots of different kinds of freedom. There’s freedom from hunger and the bondage of poverty as well as the sort of slavery you’re talking about. There’s—”

“Sophistry!” she said, her face flooding with color. “You’re happy enough to live here and make your own way. You aren’t standing for Parliament to try to change our lives to stop hunger and oppression. You’re a hypocrite!” It was the worst word she could think of, and the bitterness of it was in her eyes and her voice.

Breeland stared coldly at Alberton. It seemed at last he understood that he would not change his mind. If all that Merrit had said did not affect him, there was nothing else for him to add.

“I am sorry that you have seen fit to act against us, sir,” he said stiffly. “But we shall prevail, nevertheless. We shall obtain what we need in order to win, whatever sacrifice it requires of us and whatever the cost.” And with only a glance at Merrit, as if knowing she would understand, he turned on his heel and strode out. They heard his footsteps move sharply across the wooden floor of the hall.

Merrit stared at her father, her eyes hot and wretched. “I hate everything you stand for!” she said furiously. “I despise it so much I am ashamed that I live under your roof or that you paid for the food in my mouth and the clothes on my back!” And she too ran out, her feet light and rapid, heels clattering across the floor and up the stairs.

Alberton looked at Monk.

“I am profoundly sorry, Monk,” he said miserably. “I had no idea you would be subjected to such unpleasantness. I can only apologize.”

Before he could add anything further, Judith Alberton appeared at the door. She looked a little pale, and quite obviously she had overheard at least the last part of the argument. She glanced at Monk, embarrassed, then at her husband.

“I am afraid she is in love with Mr. Breeland,” she said awkwardly. “Or she thinks she is.” She watched Alberton with anxiety. “It may take a little while, Daniel, but she will think better of this. She’ll be sorry she spoke so …” She faltered, uncertain what word she could use.

Monk took the opportunity to excuse himself. He had said all he had meant to about his enquiry. The Albertons should be permitted privacy in which to resolve their difficulties.

“I shall keep you informed of everything else I hear,” he promised.

“Thank you,” Alberton said warmly, holding out his hand. “I … I am very sorry for this unpleasantness. I am afraid emotions run very high in this American affair. I think we have barely seen the beginning of it.”

Monk feared he was correct, but he said no more, wishing them good night and allowing the butler to show him out.

He woke confused, wondering for a moment where he was, struggling to separate the persistent noise from the last shreds of his dream. He sat up quickly. It was daylight, but shadowy and thin. The noise continued.

Hester was awake. “Who can it be?” she asked anxiously, sitting upright, her hair falling around her shoulders. “It’s quarter to four!”

Monk climbed out of bed and grasped his dressing gown. He put it on hastily and went through to the front of the house, where the knocking was now louder and more persistent. He had not bothered with boots or trousers. Whoever it was seemed so desperate they were determined to wake someone even if it meant disturbing the entire neighborhood.

Monk fumbled for a moment with the lock and then opened the door.

Robert Casbolt stood on the step in the thin dawn light, his face unshaven, his hair rumpled.

“Come in.” Monk stepped back, holding the door wide.

Casbolt obeyed without hesitation, and began speaking even before he was over the threshold.

“I’m sorry to disturb you in such a frantic manner, but I’m terribly afraid something irreparable may have happened.” His words stumbled as if he could barely control his tongue. “Judith—Mrs. Alberton sent me a note. She is beside herself with worry. Daniel left shortly after you did and he has not returned. She said Breeland was there yesterday evening and was very angry indeed … even threatening. She is terrified that … I’m sorry.” He brushed his hand across his face as if to clear his vision and steady himself. “What is worse is that Merrit has disappeared too.” He stared at Monk with horror in his eyes. “She seems to have gone straight up to her room after the quarrel with her father. Judith assumed she would stay there, in temper, and probably not come down until morning.”

Monk did not interrupt.

“But when she was unable to sleep with anxiety over Daniel,” Casbolt went on, “she went to Merrit’s room—and found her gone. She was nowhere in the house, and her maid looked and said a bag and some of her clothes were gone … a costume and at least two blouses. And her hairbrush and combs. For God’s sake, Monk, help me look for them, please.”

Monk tried to collect his thoughts and form some clear plan as to what to do first. Casbolt seemed close to the edge of hysteria. His voice was erratic and his body so tense his hands clenched and unclenched as if stillness were unbearable.

“Has Mrs. Alberton called the police?” Monk asked.

Casbolt shook his head very slightly.

“No. That was the first thing I suggested, but she was afraid if Merrit has gone to Breeland that she would be involved in scandal and it would ruin her. She …” He took a deep breath. “Honestly, Monk, I think she is afraid Breeland has done Daniel some harm. Apparently when he left the house he was in a terrible rage, and said that he would win one way or another.”

“That is true,” Monk agreed. “I was there when he said it.” He remembered with a chill the passion in Breeland’s voice. It was the fire of the artist who creates from nothing a great vision for the world, the explorer who ventures into the unknown and opens the way for lesser men, the inventor, the thinker, the martyr who dies rather than deny the light he has seen … and the fanatic who sees any act justified by the cause he serves.

Casbolt was right to be afraid of Breeland; so was Judith Alberton.

“Yes, of course I’ll come with you,” he answered. “I’ll go and dress, and tell my wife. I’ll be five minutes, or less.”

“Thank you! Thank you very much.”

Monk nodded, then went hastily back to the bedroom.

Hester was sitting up with a shawl around her.

“Who is it?” she asked before he had closed the door.

“Casbolt,” he answered, taking off his dressing gown and putting on his shirt. “Alberton went out shortly after I left and hasn’t come home, and Merrit is missing. It looks as if she might have gone after Breeland. Stupid child!”

“Can I help?”

“No! Thank you.” He fastened his shirt with clumsy fingers, moving too hastily, then reached for his trousers.

“Be careful what you say to her,” Hester warned.

He would have been delighted to put Merrit Alberton over his knee and spank her until she was obliged to eat off the mantelpiece for a week. It must have shown in his face, because Hester stood up quickly and came to him.

“William, she is young and full of ideals. The harder you argue with her, the more stubborn she will be. Fight with her, and she’ll do the last thing she really wants to rather than be seen to give in. Plead for her help, her understanding, earn her mercy, and she’ll be reasonable.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was sixteen once,” she said a trifle tartly.

He grinned. “And in love?”

“It is a natural state of affairs.”

“Was he a gun buyer for a foreign army?” He put his jacket on. There was no time to shave.

“No, actually he was a vicar,” she replied.

“A vicar? You … in love with a vicar?”

“I was sixteen!” There was warm color in her cheeks.

He smiled and kissed her quickly, feeling her respond after only an instant’s hesitation.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “Breeland may be …”

“I know.” And before she could add anything further he went out and back to where Casbolt was standing near the door impatiently.

Casbolt’s carriage was waiting outside in the street, and he climbed in ahead of Monk, shouting at the driver sitting huddled on the box. The summer dawn was hardly cold, but too chilly to wait in, and the man had been woken barely halfway through his sleep.

The carriage lurched forward and reached a good speed within moments. It was altogether fourteen minutes since Casbolt had interrupted Monk’s dream.

“Where are we going?” Monk asked as they rolled over the cobbles and were flung together by the swerve around a corner.

“Breeland’s rooms,” Casbolt answered breathlessly. “I nearly went straight there without you, but for the cost of a street or so out of my way, I could have you with me. I don’t know what we should find there. It may need more than one of us, and I formed the opinion you are a good man to have beside me in a scrap—if it should come to that. God knows what is in Merrit’s mind. She must have lost all sense of … everything. She hardly knows the man! He …” He gasped as they were bumped again and the carriage swerved the other way, this time throwing him half on top of Monk.

“He could be anything!” he went on. “The man’s a fanatic, prepared to sacrifice everything and everybody to his damned cause! He’s madder than any of our own military men, and God help us, they are insane enough.” His voice was rising with a wild note in it. “Look at some of their antics in the Crimea. Any price to be a hero—glory of victory, blood and bodies all over the place, and for what? Fame, an idea … medals and a footnote in history.”

They were clattering through a leafy square, the trees making a temporary darkness.

“Damn Breeland and his idiotic ideals!” he said in an explosion of fury. “He has no business preaching to a sixteen-year-old girl who thinks everyone else is as noble and as uncomplicated as she is.” There was a startling venom in his voice, a passion so deep it broke through his control and was raw in the air in the broadening light as they careered through the dawn streets.

Monk wished there were some help he could offer, but he knew that what Casbolt said was true. He deplored fatuous words, so he remained silent.

Suddenly the carriage drew up, Casbolt glanced out to make sure it was not a crossroads, apparently recognized where he was, and all but threw himself out.

Monk followed after him as he strode across the pavement to a doorway, opened it abruptly, and went inside. It was merely the outer entrance to a set of apartments, and the night doorman was sitting comfortably half asleep in a chair in the hallway.

“Breeland’s rooms!” Casbolt said loudly as the man started awake.

“Yes, sir.” He scrambled to his feet, fishing for his cap and setting it crookedly on his head. “But Mr. Breeland in’t ’ere. ’E’s gorn, sir.”

“Gone?” Casbolt looked staggered. “He was here last night. What do you mean ‘gone’? Where to? When will he be back?”

“ ’E won’t be back, sir.” The doorman shook his head. “ ’E’s gorn for good. Paid up an’ took ’is bags. Not that ’e ’ad but the one.”

“When?” Casbolt demanded. “What time did he go? Was he alone?”

The doorman squinted. “I dunno, sir. ’Bout ’alf-past eleven, or summink like that. Were before midnight, anyway.”

“Was he alone?” Casbolt persisted. His body was shaking and his face was white, a fine sweat on his brow.

“No, sir.” The doorman was definitely frightened now. “There were a young lady wif ’im. Very pretty. Fair ’air, much as I could see of it. She ’ad a bag wif ’er as well.” He swallowed. “Was they elopin’?” His breath caught in his throat and he coughed convulsively.

“Probably,” Casbolt replied, the pain naked in his voice.

The doorman controlled his coughing. “Are you ’er father? I din’t know, I swear ter Gawd!”

“Godfather,” Casbolt replied. “Her father may have come looking for her as well. Was there anyone else here?”

The doorman screwed up his face. “There were a message for Mr. Breeland, but it just come wi’ a reg’lar lad. Took it up ter Mr. Breeland, personal, an’ went orff again. An’ there were someone after that too, but I only just saw the back of ’im as ’e went up.”

“What time was the message?” Casbolt said, desperation rising in his voice.

“Jus’ afore ’e went orff.” The doorman was now thoroughly alarmed. “I gave Mr. Breeland a knock an’ ’e answered the door. The lad give ’im the message. Wouldn’t trust me ter do it. Sounds as ’e’d bin paid ter give it personal, like I said, an’ wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“About half-past eleven?” Monk interrupted.

“Yeah, or a bit later. Anyway, Mr. Breeland came out jus’ minutes arter that, wi’ ’is things in ’is bag and the young lady arter ’im, and paid me wot ’e owes, for me ter give the landlord, an’ orff ’e goes. An ’er wif ’im.”

“May we see his rooms?” Casbolt asked. “It may tell us something, although I have little hope.”

“Course, if yer want.” The doorman was more than amenable and started leading the way.

“Have you any idea what was in the note?” Monk asked, keeping pace with him. “Any idea at all? How did he look when he read it? Pleased, surprised, angry, distressed?”

“Pleased!” the doorman said immediately. “Oh ’e were right pleased. ’Is face lit up an’ ’e thanked the lad, give ’im sixpence!” He was clear the extravagance spoke volumes about his pleasure. “An’ in a terrible ’urry ter be gorn, ’e were.”

“But did he give you any idea where to?” Casbolt urged, so agitated he moved his weight from one foot to the other, unable to keep still.

“No. Jus’ said as ’e ’ad ter ’urry, be very quick, an’ ’e were. Out in ten minutes, ’e were.” He came to the door of Breeland’s room and opened it, stepping back to allow them in.

Casbolt went straight past him and turned around slowly, staring.

Monk followed. The room seemed stripped of all personal belongings. He saw only a little crockery, a bowl for water, a ewer and a pile of towels. There was a Bible and a few scraps of waste paper on the dressing table. There was nothing left to indicate who had occupied the room only a few hours before.

Casbolt went straight to the dressing table, rifling through, then around pulling out the drawers. He yanked the bedclothes back right to the mattress, his actions growing wilder as he found not a thing beyond the landlord’s few furnishings.

“There’s nothing here,” Monk said quietly.

Casbolt swore, fury and desperation sharp-pitched in his voice.

“There’s no point in staying,” Monk cut across him. “Where else can we look? If Breeland’s gone, and Merrit is with him, perhaps Alberton went after them both? Where would they be most likely to head?”

Casbolt put his hands up to cover his face. Then his body stiffened and he stared at Monk wide-eyed. “The note! Merrit was with him, so it couldn’t have been from her. He was pleased by it—very pleased. The only thing he cares about is the damned guns! It must be to do with them.” He was moving towards the door already.

“Where?” Monk went after him out into the hallway.

“If he’s held Merrit to ransom, then the warehouse. That’s where the guns are,” Casbolt called, racing to the front door and out into the street. “It’s on Tooley Street!” he shouted to the driver, and pulled the door open, scrambling in a stride ahead of Monk. The carriage lurched forward and picked up speed, throwing Monk hard on the seat. It was moments before he was upright and had regained his balance.

They rode in silence, each consumed by fear of what they would find. It was clear daylight now and a few laborers were on their way to work. They passed wagons going to the vegetable market at Covent Garden, or others like it. It was all a familiar blur.

They crossed the river at London Bridge, the water already busy with barges, the smell of damp and salt coming in with the tide. The light was hard, a brittle reflection off the shifting surface.

They turned right, then pulled up sharply outside high, double wooden gates. Casbolt leapt out and ran across to them. He threw his weight against them and they swung wide, no lock or bar holding them.

Monk followed and burst into the warehouse yard. For an instant in the cold morning light he thought it was empty. The warehouse doors were closed, the windows blind. The cobbles were splattered with mud, clear tracks leading in several directions, as if something heavy had turned.

There were fresh horse droppings.

Then he saw them, dark, awkward mounds.

Casbolt stood paralyzed.

Monk walked across, his stomach cold, his legs shaking. There were two bodies lying close to each other, a third a little distance away, perhaps nine or ten feet. They were all in strangely contorted positions, as if they had been on the ground when someone had passed a broom handle under their knees and over their arms. Their hands and ankles were tied, preventing them from moving, and they were gagged. The first two were strangers.

Monk walked over to the third, his stomach sick. It was Daniel Alberton. He, like the others, had been shot through the head.