Slaves of Obsession

3

MONK STARED DOWN in horror at Alberton until the sound of Casbolt choking brought him abruptly to the realization that they must act. He turned around to see Casbolt was haggard, apparently incapable of moving. He looked as if he might faint.

Monk went over to him. He took him by the shoulders, forcing him to turn away. His body under Monk’s hands was rigid and yet curiously without balance, as if the slightest blow would knock him over.

“We … we should do something.…” Casbolt said hoarsely, stumbling and leaning heavily on Monk. “Get … someone … Oh God! This is …” He could not complete the sentence.

“Sit down,” Monk ordered, half easing him to the ground. “I’ll look around and see what I can. When you’re fit to, you go for the police.”

“M-Merrit?” Casbolt stammered.

“I don’t think there’s anyone else here,” Monk answered. “I’m going to look. Stay where you are!”

Casbolt did not reply. He seemed too stunned to move unaided.

Monk turned back and walked across the cobbled yard to the bodies of the two men lying close to each other. The nearest one was strongly built, thickset, and although it was hard to tell in his doubled-up position, Monk guessed he was of less-than-average height. His head and what was left of his face were covered with blood. The hair still visible was light brown with no gray in it. He could have been in his thirties.

Monk swallowed hard and moved to the next body. This second man seemed older; his hair was sprinkled with gray, his body leaner, his hands gnarled. His clothes had been pulled away from his shoulders at the back, and there was an almost bloodless cut on his skin below and to the side of his neck. It was T-shaped. It must have been made after death.

Monk walked back to the first man and looked more carefully. He found the same thing on his shoulder, half obscured by the way he had fallen, although there was so little bleeding this cut also must have been made after his heart had stopped. It was a curious, savage thing to do to a dead man. Was there great hatred behind it? Or some other bitter purpose? It had to matter, or why would anyone waste time remaining here to do it? Surely after such a murder one would escape as quickly as possible?

At first Monk had been too appalled to touch the flesh to see if it was still warm. He must do it now.

He glanced across at Casbolt, who was sitting on the ground, staring at him.

He bent and touched the dead man’s hand. It was growing cold. He touched the shoulder under the jacket and shirt. There was still a trace of warmth in the flesh. They must have been killed two or three hours ago, at perhaps about two in the morning. Alberton must have arrived not long after midnight. The other two must be the watchmen normally employed.

The relief would be coming soon. He could hear the sound of carts in the street beyond the gates, and now and then voices. The world was awakening and beginning its day. He stood up and walked over to where Daniel Alberton lay, curled over in the same grotesque position. The shooting here had been neater. More of his face was recognizable. The same T-shaped mark was cut into his shoulder.

Monk was startled at how angry he felt, and how grieved. He realized only now how much he had liked the man. He had not expected such a sense of loss. He understood why Casbolt was so shattered he could barely move or speak. They had been lifelong friends.

Nevertheless he must make Casbolt get mastery of himself and go to find the nearest constable on duty, and have him fetch a senior officer and the mortuary wagon for the bodies. He turned and began to walk back. He was almost up to Casbolt when his foot kicked something solid in the mud over the cobbles. At first he thought it was a stone and he barely glanced at it. But a gleam of light caught his eye and he bent to look. It was metal, yellow and shining. He picked it up and brushed off the caked mud. It was a man’s watch, round and simple, with engraving on the back.

“What is it?” Casbolt asked, looking up at him.

Monk hesitated. The name on the watch was “Lyman Breeland” and the date was “June 1, 1848.” He put it back exactly where it had been.

“What is it?” Casbolt repeated, his voice rising. “What have you got?”

“Breeland’s gold watch,” Monk said quietly. He wished he could offer more compassion, but nothing he said would alter the horror of it, and they needed to act. “You had better gather your strength and go and fetch the police.” He looked closely at Casbolt’s white face to judge if he was up to it. “There’s bound to be a constable on the beat somewhere near here. Ask. There are people about. Someone’ll know.”

“The guns!” Casbolt cried, staggering to his feet, swaying for a moment, then going at a shambling run towards the great double wooden doors of the warehouse.

Monk followed after him and had almost caught up with him when Casbolt yanked at the handle and it swung open. Within the visible part of the warehouse there was nothing at all, no boxes, crates, or anything else.

“They’re gone,” Casbolt said. “He’s taken them … every last one. And all the ammunition. Six thousand rifled muskets and above half a million cartridges to go with them. Everything Breeland wanted and five hundred more besides!”

“Go and find the police,” Monk told him steadily. “We can’t do anything here. It’s not just robbery, it’s triple murder.”

Casbolt’s jaw fell. “Good God! Do you think I give a damn about the guns? I just wanted to know if it was he who did this. They’ll hang him!” He turned and walked away, stiff-legged, a little awkwardly.

When he was out of the yard and the main gate closed, Monk began again to examine the whole place, this time more closely. He did not go back to the bodies. The sight of them, beyond all human help, sickened him, and he did not feel there was anything he could learn from them. Instead he looked closely at the ground. He began at the entrance, it being the one place any vehicle must have come. The yard was cobbled, but there was a definite film of mud, dust, smudges of soot from nearby factory chimneys, and the dried remnants of old manure. With care it was possible to trace the most recent wheel tracks of at least two heavy carts coming in, probably backing around and turning so their horses faced the exit and the wagons were tail to the warehouse doors.

He paced out roughly where the horses would have stood, possibly for as long as two hours, to load six thousand guns, twenty to a box, and all the ammunition. Even using the warehouse crane it would have been an immense task. That would explain what the men were doing for the two hours between midnight and their deaths—they had been forced to load the guns and ammunition first.

He found fresh manure squashed flat by at least two sets of wheels.

Would they have left any carts outside waiting?

No. They would draw attention. They might be remembered. They would have brought them all in at the same time and had them wait idle in the yard. It was large enough.

Obviously, Breeland had had accomplices, ready and only waiting for the word. Who had the message come from? What had it said? That they were ready, wagons obtained, even a ship standing by to take them out on the morning tide? The police would look into that. Monk had no idea when the river tides were. They changed slightly every day.

He walked all around the yard, and then the inside of the warehouse, but he found nothing more that told him anything beyond what was already obvious. Someone had brought at least two wagons, more probably four, sometime last night after dark, probably about midnight, and killed the guards and Alberton, and taken the guns. One of them had been Lyman Breeland, who had dropped his watch during the physical exertion of loading the cases of guns. It was conceivable it had been in some other exertion, a fight between his own men, or with the guards, or even with Alberton. The varieties of possibility did not alter the facts that mattered. Daniel Alberton was dead, the guns were gone, so was Breeland, and it appeared as if Merrit had gone with him, whether or not she had had any idea what he planned. If she was now with him willingly or as a hostage there was also no way to tell.

Monk heard wheels stop outside and the yard gate opened. A very tall, thin policeman came in, his limbs gangling, his expression at once curious and sad. His face was long and narrow, and looked as if by nature it was more suited to comedy than this present stark death. He was followed by an older, more stolid constable, and behind him an ashen-faced Casbolt, shivering as if with cold, although it was now broad daylight and the air mild.

“Lanyon,” the policeman introduced himself. He looked Monk up and down with interest. “You found the bodies, sir? Along with Mr. Casbolt here …”

“Yes. We had cause to believe something was wrong,” Monk explained. “Mrs. Alberton called Mr. Casbolt because her husband and daughter had not returned home.” He knew the procedure, what they would need to know, and why. He had been in similar positions himself often enough, trying to get the facts that mattered from shocked and bereaved people, trying to weed out the truth from emotion, preconceptions, threads of half observations, confusion and fear. And he knew the difficulties of witnesses who say too much, the shock that makes one need to talk, to try to convey everything one has seen or heard, to make sense of it long before there is any, to use words as a bridge simply not to feel drowned by the horror.

“I see.” Lanyon still regarded Monk closely. “Mr. Casbolt says you used to be in the police yourself, sir. Is that right?”

So Lanyon had never heard of him. He was not sure whether he was pleased or not. It meant they started without preconceptions now. But what about later, if he heard Monk’s reputation?

“Yes. Not for five years,” he said aloud.

For the first time Lanyon gazed around, his eyes ending inevitably on the crumpled bodies twenty yards away.

“Best look at them,” he said quietly. “Surgeon’s on his way. Do you know when Mr. Alberton was last seen alive?”

“Late yesterday evening. His wife says he left home then. It will be easy enough to confirm with the servants.”

They were walking towards the bodies of the two guards. They stopped in front of them and Lanyon bent down. Monk could not avoid looking again. There was a peculiar obscenity in the grotesqueness of their positions. The sun was high enough to shed warmth into the yard. There were one or two small flies buzzing. One settled in the blood.

Monk found himself almost sick with rage.

Lanyon made a little growling sound in his throat. He did not touch anything.

“Very odd,” he said softly. “Looks more like a sort of execution than an ordinary murder, doesn’t it? No man sits like that because he wants to.” He reached out his hand and touched the skin at the side of the nearest man’s neck, half under the collar. Monk knew he was testing the temperature, and that he would come to the same conclusion he had earlier. He also knew he would find the T-shaped incision.

“Well …” Lanyon said with an indrawn breath as he uncovered the cut. “Definitely an execution, of sorts.” He looked up at Monk. “And the guns were all taken, Mr. Casbolt said?”

“That’s right. The warehouse is empty.”

Lanyon stood up, brushing his hands down the sides of his trousers and stamping his feet a little, as if he were cold or cramped. “And they were the best-quality guns—Enfield P1853 rifled muskets—and a good supply of ammunition to go with them. That right?”

“That’s what I was told,” Monk agreed. “I didn’t see them.”

“We’ll check. There’ll be records. And daytime staff. The constable will keep them outside for the moment, and the new watch, if there is one.” He glanced at the bodies again. “The night shift can’t tell us, poor devils.” He led the way over to where Alberton lay. Again he bent down and looked closely.

Monk remained silent. He was aware of the constable and Casbolt in the distance, examining the warehouse itself, the doors, the tracks in the thin film of mud, crisscrossing where the wagons had backed and turned, where they must have loaded the cases of guns.

Lanyon interrupted his thoughts.

“What does T stand for?” he said, biting his lip. “T for thief? T for traitor, perhaps?” He stood up frowning, his long face full of anger and sadness. He was a plain man, but there was something likable in him that dominated one’s impression. “This Mr. Breeland who wanted to buy the guns is American, that right?”

“Yes. From the Union.”

Lanyon scratched his chin. “We heard the Union army executes its soldiers something like this, when it has to. Very nasty. Can’t see the need for it, myself. Ordinary firing squad seems good enough to me. I suppose they have their reasons. Why didn’t Mr. Alberton sell him the guns? Was he a Southern sympathizer, do you know?”

“I don’t think so,” Monk answered. “He’d just committed himself to sell them to the Southern buyer and he wouldn’t go back on his word. I don’t believe for him there is any question of ideological difference between the sides, just his own honor in keeping a promise.” He found that oddly difficult to say. He saw Alberton alive in his mind, and then the crumpled figure on the ground, its face almost unrecognizable.

“Well, it cost him dear,” Lanyon said quietly.

“Sir!” the constable called out. “I got summink ’ere!”

Lanyon turned.

The constable was holding up the watch.

Lanyon walked over, Monk close behind him. He took the watch from the constable and looked at it carefully. The name in script was very clear to read.

“Looks like someone found this already,” he said, glancing at Monk.

“I did. I cleared the name, then put it back.”

“And I presume you would have told us?” Lanyon observed with a sharp glance. He had very clear, pale blue eyes. His hair was straight and tended to stick out.

“Yes. If you hadn’t retrieved it yourselves. I assumed you would.”

Lanyon said nothing. He took a piece of chalk out of his pocket and marked the cobbles, then gave the watch to the constable, telling him to look after it.

“Not that it matters much where it was,” he remarked.

“Except that it can’t have been there long,” Monk pointed out. “If it had been in a corner, it might have lain there for days.”

Lanyon eyed him curiously. “You doubt it was Breeland?”

“No,” Monk was honest. “We went to his rooms. He’s cleared everything out, almost an hour or less before they must have come here, judging by how long it would take to load the crates and how long since the men were killed.”

“Yes. Mr. Casbolt told me. That’s what brought you here. And it seems Miss Alberton has disappeared from home as well.” He did not add any conclusion.

“Yes.”

Casbolt moved forward.

“Sergeant, Mrs. Alberton doesn’t yet know anything except that her daughter is missing. She doesn’t know about …” He gestured towards the bodies, but did not look at them. “May we … may Monk and I go and tell her, rather than … I mean …” He swallowed convulsively. “Can you leave her at least until tomorrow? She will find this … she will be devastated. They were devoted … both her husband and her daughter … and by a man who had been a guest in her home.”

Lanyon hesitated only a moment. “Yes, sir. I know of no reason why not. Poor lady. It looks pretty plain this was a robbery carried out in a particularly vicious manner.” He shook his head. “Though why they did this to them I don’t know. Seems as if Breeland felt he’d been betrayed, but from what you say the Confederate got there first. Maybe there was something in the deal we don’t know about. We’ll look into it, but it doesn’t make any difference to the murders. People get cheated in business every day. Yes, Mr. Casbolt, you and Mr. Monk go and tell Mrs. Alberton the news, and stay there and look after her. But I shall need to speak to you again, later in the day.”

“Thank you,” Casbolt said with profound emotion.

Outside in the street Monk turned to him. “I don’t know why you said I should go with you, but you should tell Mrs. Alberton alone. You’re her cousin. I am almost a stranger. And anyway I would be more use here than anywhere else.” He had already stopped as he spoke. Casbolt’s carriage was still waiting, the driver peering anxiously up and down. The street was busy with laborers, dockers and other workmen arriving for their duties. A cart laden with bricks passed one way, a heavy wagon of coal the other.

Casbolt shook his head impatiently. “We can’t help Daniel now.” His voice was hoarse. His eyes looked as if he had seen hell and the image of it was stamped on him forever. “We must think of Judith, and of Merrit. The police may believe she went willingly with Breeland, or they may think she is a hostage.” He shook his head minutely. “But if they have already left England, there is nothing they can do. America is consumed in its own civil war. There will be little or no point in anyone here making representations to Washington to have Breeland deported to face a charge of triple murder. He will be the hero of the hour. He has just taken the Union enough guns to arm nearly five regiments. They will simply refuse to believe he obtained them by murder.” He licked dry lips. “And there is still the matter of the blackmail. Please … come with me. See what Judith would like. Isn’t that the least we can do?”

“Yes,” Monk said softly, more moved than he wished to be. He dreaded going to tell Judith Alberton that her husband was dead. He had been filled with relief that this time it was not his task. He understood only too well why Lanyon was willing to allow Casbolt to do it. And now it was inescapable. He could alter nothing about what had happened, but Casbolt was right, he might be able to help with Merrit in a way the police could not, and it was impossible to refuse. It did not even seriously occur to him to try.

They rode in silence from the warehouse through the morning streets away from the heavy industrial area with its traffic and smoke, the grime-stained shirts and cravats of men in grays and browns moving towards other yards, factories and offices. Still without speaking, they entered the smarter city streets with men in dark suits, traders, clerks, and paperboys calling the morning news.

Too soon they arrived at Tavistock Square. Monk was not ready yet to face Judith, but he knew delaying would not help. He got out of the carriage behind Casbolt and followed him up the steps.

The front door opened before Casbolt could touch the bell. The butler, pale-faced, ushered them in.

“Mrs. Alberton is in the withdrawing room, sir,” he said to Casbolt, barely acknowledging Monk’s presence. He must have seen from Casbolt’s face the nature of the news he brought. “Shall I fetch her maid, sir?”

“Yes, please.” Casbolt’s voice was little above a whisper. “I am afraid the news is … terrible. You might also send word for Dr. Gray.”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do?”

“I could use a brandy, and I daresay Mr. Monk could also. It has been the worst morning of my life.”

“Did you find Mr. Alberton, sir?”

“Yes, I am afraid he is dead.”

The butler drew in his breath and swayed for a moment, then regained his self-control. “Was it the American gentleman, sir, over the guns?”

“It looks like it, but say nothing to anyone yet. Now I must go and—”

He got no further. Judith opened the withdrawing room door and stood staring at them. She read in Casbolt’s agonized face what she must already have dreaded.

He stepped forward as if to catch her should she fall, but with an effort so intense it was plain to see, she steadied herself and remained upright.

“Is he … dead?”

Casbolt seemed to be beyond words. He merely nodded.

She breathed out very slowly, her face ashen. “And Merrit?” Her voice cracked.

“No sign of her.” He took her by the arm, gently, but almost supporting her weight. “There is no reason to suppose any harm has come to her,” he said clearly. “That is why I brought Monk. He may be able to help us. Come in and sit down. Hallows will send for Dr. Gray and bring us some brandy. Please … come in.…” He turned her as he spoke, half leading her into the room, and Monk followed after, closing the door. He felt like an intruder in an intensely private grief. Casbolt was family, perhaps all she had left now. They had known each other since childhood. Monk was an outsider.

Judith stood in the middle of the floor, and it was not until Casbolt guided her to a chair that she finally sank into it. She looked devastated, hollow-eyed, her skin bloodless, but she did not weep.

“What happened?” she asked, looking at Casbolt as if to lose sight of him would somehow be to abandon all help or hope.

“We don’t know,” he answered. “Daniel and the two guards at the warehouse were shot. It was probably very quick. There will have been no pain.” He did not say anything about the extraordinary positions they had been in, or the T-shaped cuts in their flesh. Monk was glad. He would not have told her either. If she did not ever have to know, so much the better. If it became public, it would be later, when she was stronger.

“And the guns and ammunition were all gone,” Casbolt added.

“Breeland?” she whispered, searching his face. He was sitting close to her and she reached toward him instinctively.

“It looks like it,” he replied. “We went to his rooms first, looking for him,” he went on. “For Merrit, really, and he was gone, all his belongings, everything. He received a message and packed and left within a matter of minutes, according to the doorman.”

“And Merrit?” There was terror in her voice, in her eyes, the slender hands clenched in her lap.

He reached out and rested his fingers over hers. “We don’t know. She was at his rooms and left with him.”

Judith started to rock sideways, shaking her head in denial. “She wouldn’t! She can’t have known! She would never …”

“Of course not,” he said softly, tightening his hand on hers. “She won’t have had the faintest idea of what he intended to do, and it may be he will never tell her. Don’t think the worst; there is no occasion to. Merrit is young, full of hotheaded ideals, and she was certainly swept off her feet by Breeland, but she is still at heart the girl you know, and she loved her father, in spite of the stupid quarrel.”

“What will he do to her?” There was agony in her eyes. “She’ll ask him how he got the guns. She knows her father refused to sell them to him.”

“He’ll lie,” Casbolt said simply. “He’ll say Daniel changed his mind after all, or that he stole them … she wouldn’t mind that because she believes the cause is above ordinary morality. But she wouldn’t ever countenance violence.” His voice rang with conviction, and for a moment there was a flicker of hope in Judith’s face. For the first time she turned to Monk.

“He obviously had allies,” Monk said to her. “Someone came to his rooms with a message. He could not have moved the guns by himself. There must have been at least two of them, more likely three.” He did not mention the forced help at gunpoint he believed had been the case. “Merrit may have been looked after by someone else during that time.”

“Could …” She swallowed and took a moment to regain her composure. “Could she just have eloped with Breeland, and neither of them had anything to do with the … the guns?” She could not bring herself to say “murder.” “Could that have been the blackmailer?”

Casbolt was startled. He glanced questioningly at Monk and then back at Judith.

“He didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “Daniel did. I knew there was something wrong, and I asked him. I don’t believe he ever kept secrets from me.” The tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

Casbolt looked wretched and helpless. He was gaunt with shock and exhaustion himself. Suddenly, Monk felt an overwhelming sympathy for him. He had lost his closest friend, and with the theft of the guns, also a great deal of money. He had seen the bodies themselves in all their grotesque horror, and now he had to try to support the widow who had lost not only her husband but also her child. It would be days before she even thought of her share of the financial loss, if she ever did.

“I’m sorry you had to know.” Casbolt found his voice. “It was all very silly. Daniel befriended the young man because the poor creature was ill and alone. He paid his bills, nothing more.”

“I know …” she said quickly.

“It is just a matter of reputation,” he went on. “He wanted to protect you from the distress, but he would never have sold guns to the blackmailers because of where they would be used.” His eyes were gentle, full of understood pain. After all, her brother had been his cousin and friend also. “And I don’t believe he would have paid anything,” he added bitterly. “Once you pay a blackmailer you have tacitly admitted that you have something to hide. It never stops. That’s why I brought Mr. Monk now. Perhaps we could still use his help.…” He left it hanging, for her to answer.

“Yes,” she said, shaking. “Yes, I suppose we still need to find them. I’m afraid I … I hardly thought of it.” She turned to Monk.

“I’ll do whatever you want, Mrs. Alberton,” he promised. “But now I’d like to go with the police and see what’s happening in their investigation. That is the first thing to know.”

“Yes …” Again the hope flashed in her eyes. “Maybe … Merrit …” She did not dare to put it into words.

It was plain in Casbolt’s face that he held no such illusion, but he could not bring himself to tell her so.

“Yes,” he added, nodding to Monk. “I’ll stay here. You should see what Lanyon has found. Go with him. Please consider yourself still on retainer to do that. Help us in any way you can. Make your own judgments … anything at all. Just keep us informed … please?”

“Of course.” Monk rose to his feet and excused himself. He was immensely relieved to escape the house of tragedy. Judith’s grief was painful to be so close to, even though he would carry the knowledge of it with him wherever he went. Even so, to involve himself in some physical action was a kind of relief, and he strode towards Gower Street, where he could find a hansom and go back to the warehouse. From there he would start to look for Lanyon.

He began in Tooley Street with the constable who had been posted outside the warehouse gates and was perfectly willing to tell him that Lanyon had questioned people closely. Then he set off in the direction of Hayes Dock, which was the closest point on the river with a crane at hand from which they could transfer the guns to barges.

Of course it was possible they could have gone instead to the railway terminus, or across London Bridge back to the north side of the river. But movement by water seemed the obvious choice, and Monk followed the policeman’s directions to the dock, although he did not expect to find Lanyon still there.

The place bustled with life now, teeming with carts and wagons laden with all kinds of goods. The shops were open for business and men and women carried bundles in and out. They seemed to be of every possible nature, groceries, ships’ supplies, ropes, candles, clothes for all weather, both on land and at sea.

He walked quickly along the waterfront, traveling south, downriver. Gulls wheeled and circled, their harsh cries clear above the sound of the incoming tide against the stones, the wash of passing barges, lighters and the occasional heavier ship, and the shouts of men to each other as they worked at loading and hauling. The smells of salt, fish and tar were thick in his nostrils and with them came sudden memory of the distant past, of being a boy on the quayside in Northumberland. There he was by the sea, not a river, looking out at an endless horizon, a small stone pier, and hearing the lilt of country voices.

Then it was gone again, and he was at Hayes Dock, and the tall, thin figure of Lanyon was unmistakable, his straight, fairish hair standing up like a brush in the wind. He was talking to a heavyset man with a dark, grimy face and hands almost black. Monk knew without asking that he was a coal backer, carrying sacks up the twenty-foot ladders from the holds of ships, across as many as half a dozen barges to the shore, and up or down more ladders, depending on the tide and the loading of the ship. It was a backbreaking job. Usually a man was past doing it anymore by the time he was forty. Often injury had taken its toll long before that. Monk could not remember how he knew. It was another of the many things lost in the past.

But that was irrelevant now.

Lanyon saw him and beckoned him over, then resumed his questioning of the coal backer.

“You finished at nine yesterday evening, and you slept on the deck of that barge there, under the awning?” He smiled as if he were repeating the words to clarify them.

“S’right,” the coal backer agreed. “Drunk, I was, an’ me ol’ woman gave me an ’ard time of it. Always goin’ on, she is. Never gives it a rest. an’ the kids screamin’ an’ wailin’. I jus’ kipped down ’ere. But I weren’t so tired I din’ ’ear them comin’ in an’ loadin’ them boxes, an’ the like. Dozens of ’em, there were. Went on fer an hour or more. Crate arter crate, there was. An’ nobody said a bleedin’ word. Not like normal folks, wot talks ter each other. Jus’ back an’ for’ard, back an’ for’ard with them damn great crates. Must ’a bin lead in ’em, by the way they staggered around.” He shook his head gloomily.

“Any idea what time that was?” Lanyon pressed.

“Nah … ’ceptin’ it were black dark, so this time o’ the year, reckon it were between midnight an’ about four.”

Lanyon glanced at Monk to make sure he was listening.

“W’y?” the coal backer asked, running a filthy hand across his cheek and sniffing. “Was they stolen?”

“Probably,” Lanyon conceded.

“Well, they’re long gorn nah,” the man said flatly. “Be t’other side o’ the river past the Isle o’ Dogs, be now. Yer’ve no chance o’ getting ’em back. Wot was they? Damn ’eavy, wotever they was.”

“Did the barge go up the river or down?” Lanyon asked.

The man looked at him as if he were half-witted. “Down, o’ course! Ter the Pool, mos’ like, or could ’a bin farver. Ter Souf’end fer all I knows.”

Barges were passing them all the time on the water. Men called to each other. The cry of gulls mixed with the rattle of chains and creak of winches.

“How many men did you see?” Lanyon persisted.

“Dunno. Two, I reckon. Look, I were tryin’ ter get a spot o’ kip … a little peace. I din’t look at ’em. If folks wanna shift stuff around ’alf the night in’t none o’ my business—”

“Did you hear them say anything at all?” Monk interrupted.

“Like wot?” The coal backer looked at him with surprise. “I said they didn’t talk. Said nuffin’.”

“Nothing at all?” Monk insisted.

The man’s face tightened and Monk knew he would now stick to his story, true or not.

“Did you notice what height they were?” he asked instead.

The man thought for a moment or two, making Monk and Lanyon wait.

“Yeah … one of ’em were shortish, the other were taller, an’ thin. Very straight ’e stood, like ’e ’ad a crick in ’is back, but worked real ’ard … the bit I saw,” he amended. “Made enough noise, clankin’ around.”

Lanyon thanked him and turned to walk back towards the road along the river edge. Monk kept level with him.

“Are you sure it was the wagon from the warehouse?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lanyon said without hesitation. “Not many people about in the middle of the night, but a few. And I sent men in other directions as well. Searched around in other yards, just in case they moved them only a short way. Not likely, but don’t want to overlook anything.” He stepped off the curb to avoid a pile of ropes. They passed Horsleydown New Stairs, and ahead of them, close together, were four more wharfs before they had to bear almost a quarter of a mile inland to go around St. Saviour’s Dock, then back to the river’s edge and Bermondsey Wall, and more wharfs.

The Tower of London was sharp gray-white on the far bank, a little behind them. The sun was bright in patches on the water, thin films of mist and smoke clouding here and there. Ahead of them lay the Pool of London, thick with forests of masts. Strings of barges moved slowly with the tide, so heavy laden the water seemed to lap at their gunwales.

Behind them were the dark, disease-infested, crumbling buildings of Jacob’s Island, a misnamed slum which had suffered two major outbreaks of cholera in the last decade, in which thousands had died. The smell of sewage and rotting wood filled the air.

“What do you know about Breeland?” Lanyon asked, increasing his stride a little as if he could escape the oppression of the place, even though they were following the curve of the river into Rotherhithe and what lay ahead was no better.

“Very little,” Monk answered. “I saw him twice, both times at Alberton’s house. He seemed to be obsessed with the Union cause, but I hadn’t thought of him as a man to resort to this kind of violence.”

“Did he mention anyone else, any friends or allies?”

“No, no one at all.” Monk had been trying to remember that himself. “I thought he was here alone, simply to arrange purchase—as was the man from the Confederacy, Philo Trace.”

“But Alberton had already promised the guns to Trace?”

“Yes. And Trace had paid a half deposit. That was why Alberton said he couldn’t go back on the deal.”

“But Breeland kept trying?”

“Yes. He didn’t seem to be able to accept the idea that for Alberton it was also a matter of honor. He was something of a fanatic.” Should he have been able to foresee that Breeland was so closely poised to violence that a final refusal would break his frail links with decency, even perhaps sanity? Had preventing this been his moral task, even though it was not the one for which he had been hired?

Lanyon seemed to be deep in thought, his narrow face tight with concentration. They walked quickly. It was half a mile around the dock, and they had to avoid bales and crates, piles of rope, chains, rusty tin, men heaving loads from the towering wharf buildings across to where barges lay, riding the slurping water, bumping and scraping sides as the wash of a passing boat caught them.

The dockers were men of all ages and types. It was labor anyone could do if his strength permitted it. It surprised Monk that he knew that. Somewhere in the past he had been to places like this. He knew the different sorts of men as he saw them: the bankrupt master butchers or bakers, grocers or publicans; lawyers or government clerks who had been suspended or discharged; servants without references, pensioners, almsmen, old soldiers or sailors, gentlemen on hard times, refugees from Poland and other mid-European countries; and the usual fair share of thieves.

“It must have been very well planned,” Lanyon interrupted his thoughts. “Everything worked to time. The question is, did he stage the quarrel just to keep himself informed about Alberton’s movements and whether or not the guns had already gone? Did he know perfectly well that Alberton wouldn’t change his mind?”

That had not even occurred to Monk. He had assumed the quarrels were as spontaneous as they had seemed. Breeland’s indignation had sounded entirely genuine. Could any man act so superbly? Breeland had not struck him as a man with sufficient imagination to simulate anything.

Lanyon was waiting for an answer, looking sideways at Monk curiously.

“It was certainly planned,” Monk admitted reluctantly. “He must have had men ready to help, with a wagon. They must have known the river and where to hire a barge. Perhaps that was the message he received which made him leave his lodgings and go that night. I had wondered where Merrit Alberton fitted in, if it was her leaving home that precipitated it.”

Lanyon grunted. “I’d like to know her part in it too. How much idea had she as to the kind of man Breeland really is? What is she now—lover or hostage?”

“She’s sixteen,” Monk replied, not knowing really what he meant.

Lanyon did not answer. They were back at the water’s edge. On both sides of the river tall chimneys spewed out black smoke which drifted upwards, staining the air. Massive sheds had wheels vaulting up through their roofs like the paddles of unimaginably huge steamers. Monk remembered from somewhere in the past that the London docks could take about five hundred ships. The tobacco warehouses alone covered five acres. He could smell the tobacco now, along with tar, sulfur, the saltiness of the tide, the stench of hides, the fragrance of coffee.

All around were the noises of labor and trade, shouts, clanging of metal on metal, scrape of wood on stone, the slap of water and whine of wind.

A man passed them, his face dyed blue with the indigo he unloaded. Behind him was a black man with a fancy waistcoat, such as a ship’s mate might wear. A fat man with long gray hair curling on his collar carried a brass-tipped rule, dripping spirit. There was a stack of casks a dozen yards away. He had been probing them to test their content. He was a gauger—that was his work.

A whiff of spice was sharp and sweet for a moment, then Monk and Lanyon were negotiating their way around a stack of cork, then yellow bins of sulfur, and lead-colored copper ore.

Somewhere twenty yards away, sailors were singing as they worked, keeping time.

Lanyon stopped a brass-buttoned customs officer and explained who he was, without reference to Monk.

“Yes, sir,” the customs man said helpfully. “Wot was it about, then?”

“A triple murder and robbery from a warehouse in Tooley Street last night,” Lanyon said succinctly. “We think the goods were loaded onto a barge and sent downriver. Probably got this far about one or two in the morning.”

The customs man bit his lip dubiously. “Dunno, meself, but yer best chance’d be to ask the watermen, or mebbe even river finders. They often work by night as well, lookin’ fer bodies an’ the like. Never tell what the river’ll fetch up. Not lookin’ fer bodies too, are yer?”

“No,” Lanyon said grimly. “We have all the bodies we need. I was going to try the watermen and river finders. I thought you would know of any ships bound for America from the Pool, especially any that might have gone this morning.” There was a wry expression on his lugubrious face, as if he were aware of the irony of it.

The customs man shrugged. “Well, if there was, I reckon your murderer and thief is long gone with it!”

“I know,” Lanyon agreed. “It’ll do me no good. I just have to be sure. He may have accomplices here. It took more than one man to do what was done last night. If any Englishman helped him, I want to catch the swine and see him hang for it. The American might be able to find some justification, although not in my book, but not our men. They’ll have done it for money.”

“Well, come with me into my office, an’ I’ll see,” the customs man offered. “I think the Princess Maude might have gone on the early tide, and she was bound that way, but I’d ’ave ter check.”

Lanyon and Monk followed obediently, and found that two ships had left, bound for New York, that morning. It took them until early afternoon to question the dockers, sackmakers, and ballast heavers before being satisfied that Alberton’s guns had not gone on either vessel.

With a feeling of heavy disappointment they went to the Ship Aground for a late lunch.

“What in hell’s name did he do with them, then?” Lanyon said angrily. “He must intend to ship them home. There’s no other use he would have for them!”

“He must have taken them further down,” Monk said, biting into a thick slice of beef and onion pie. “Not a freighter, something fast and light, especially for this.”

“Where? There’s no decent mooring along Limehouse or the Isle of Dogs, not for something to sail the Atlantic with a load of guns! Greenwich maybe? Blackwall, Gravesend, anywhere down the estuary, for that matter?”

Monk frowned. “Would he take a barge that far? I know it’s late June, but we can still get rough weather. I think he’d get it into a decent ship and up anchor as soon as possible. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Lanyon agreed, taking a long draft from his ale. The room around them was packed with dockers and river men of one sort or another, all eating, drinking and talking. The heat was oppressive and the smells thick in the throat. “I suppose that leaves us nothing to do but try the watermen and the finders. Watermen first. Anyone working last night might have seen something. There’ll have been someone around; there always is. It’s just a matter of finding him. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Customs man had a good point. Why bother?”

“Because Breeland didn’t do it alone,” Monk replied, finishing the last of his pie. “And he certainly didn’t bring a barge over from Washington!”

Lanyon shot him a wry glance, humor in his thin face. He finished his meal as well, and they stood up to leave.

It took them the rest of that afternoon and into the evening to work their way as far as Deptford, to the south of the river, and the Isle of Dogs, to the north, going back and forth in the small ferryboats used by the watermen, questioning all the time.

The following morning they started again, and finally crossed from the West India Port Basin in Blackhurst, just beyond the Isle of Dogs, over the Blackwall Reach to Bugsby’s Marshes, on the bend of the river beyond Greenwich.

“Ain’t nuffin’ ’ere, gents,” the waterman said dolefully, shaking his head as he pulled on the oars. “Yer must ’a bin mistook. Jus’ marsh, bog, an’ the like.” He fixed Monk with a critical, sorrowful eye, having already examined his well-cut jacket, clean hands and boots that fit him perfectly. “Yer in’t from ’round ’ere. ’Oo tol’ yer there was anyfink worth yer goin’ ter the Bugsby fer?”

“I’m from right around here,” Lanyon said sharply. “Born and raised in Lewisham.”

“Then yer oughter ’ave more sense!” the waterman said unequivocally. “I’ll wait for yer an’ take yer back. Less yer wanter change yer mind right now? ’Alf fare?”

Lanyon smiled. “Were you out on the river the night before last?”

“Wot of it? Do some nights, some days. Why?” He leaned on the oars for a minute, waiting till a barge went past, leaving them rocking gently in its wake.

Lanyon kept his smile half friendly, half rueful, as if he were an amateur experimenting at his job and hoping for a little help. “Three men were murdered up on Tooley Street, beyond Rotherhithe. A shipload of guns was stolen and brought in a barge downriver. Don’t know how far down. Beyond this, anyway. We think they may have been loaded on board a fast, light ship somewhere about here, bound for America. If they were, you would have seen them.”

The waterman’s eyes widened as he started to pull again. “A ship for America! I never saw no ship anchored ’ere. Mind, it could ’a bin around the point, opposite the Victoria Docks. Still, I’d ’a thought I’d see the masts, like.”

Monk felt disappointment unreasonably bitter. How far down the river could they go? There were no watermen in the estuary. Unlikely to be anyone at all around before dawn. Although if Breeland had gone that far, negotiating a heavily laden barge through the Pool of London at night, along Limehouse Reach, around the Isle of Dogs and past Greenwich, it would have been well into the early morning by then, and full daylight by the time he reached anything like open water.

“Did you see anything?” he pressed, aware of how the urgency in him was making his voice harsh.

“Saw a barge come down ’ere, big black thing it were, low in the water,” the man replied. “Too low, if yer ask me. Lookin’ fer trouble. I dunno why fellas take risks like that. Better ter ’ire another barge than risk losin’ the lot. Greed, that’s wot it is. Seen some o’ the wrecks ter prove it. Ask some o’ them finders! More men drowned through greed than anyfink else.”

Lanyon stiffened. “A heavy-laden barge?”

“That’s right. Went on down the river, but I never saw no ship.”

“How close were you to it?” Lanyon pressed, leaning forward now, his face eager. Gulls wheeled and circled overhead. The heavy mud smell of the water was thick in the air. The low marshes lay ahead of them.

“Twenty yards,” the waterman replied. “Reckon they ’ad yer guns?”

“What did you notice? Tell me everything! It’s the men I’m after. They murdered three Englishmen to get what they took. One of them anyway was a good man with a wife and daughter; the other two were decent enough, worked hard and honestly. Now, describe that barge!”

“Do you wanter go ter the Marshes or not?”

“Not. Tell me about the barge!”

The waterman sighed and leaned on his oars, letting the boat drift gently. The tide was on the turn and he could afford to allow the slack current to carry him. He was concentrating, trying to picture the barge in his mind again.

“Well, it were very low in the water, piled ’igh wi’ cargo,” he began. “Couldn’t see what it were ’cos it were covered over. It weren’t proper light, but there was streaks in the sky like, so I could make out the shape of it plain. an’ o’ course it ’ad riding lights on it.” He was watching Lanyon. “Two men, I saw. Could ’a bin more, but I jus’ saw two at any time … I think. One were tall an’ thin. I ’eard ’im yell at the other one, an’ ’e weren’t from ’round ’ere. Mind, I got proper cloth ears w’en it comes ter speech. I dunno a Geordie from a Cornishman.”

Neither Lanyon nor Monk interrupted him, but they glanced at each other for an instant, then back at the waterman sitting slumped over his oars, his eyes half closed. The boat continued to drift very gently in the slack water.

“I don’ remember the other one sayin’ much. Tall one seemed ter be in charge, like, givin’ the orders.”

Lanyon could not contain himself. “Did you see his face?”

The waterman looked surprised; his eyes suddenly opened very wide and he stared past Lanyon at the river beyond. “No—I never saw ’is face clear. It were still afore dawn. They must ’a come down the river pretty good if they was from north o’ Rother’ithe. But ’e ’ad a pistol in ’is belt, I can see that clear as if ’e were in front o’ me now. An’ ’e ’ad blood on ’is hands, smeared like.…”

“Blood?” Lanyon said sharply. “Are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure,” the waterman replied, his eyes steady, his face set grimly. “I saw it red w’en ’e passed under the riding light, an’ summink dark on ’is shirt an’ trousers, splattered. I never took no thought ter it then.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Yer reckon it were ’im as killed your three men in Tooley Street, then?”

“Yes,” Lanyon said quietly. “I do. Thank you, you have been extremely helpful. Now I need to find out where the barge went back to, whose it is, and what happened to the other man. Someone took it back up the river again.”

“Never seen it come back. But then I were gorn ’ome by then, mebbe.”

Lanyon smiled. “We’ll go back too, if you please. I’ve no desire to get out at Bugsby’s Marshes. It looks disgusting.”

The waterman grinned, although his face was still pale and his hands were clenched tight on the oars. “Told yer.”

“Just one more thing,” Monk said quietly as the man leaned his weight on the oars to turn the boat. The tide was beginning to run the other way, and suddenly he needed to put his back into it. Monk could almost feel the pull on his own muscles as he watched.

“What’s that?”

“Did you see any sign of a woman … a young girl? Or she could even have been dressed as a boy, perhaps?”

The waterman was startled. “A woman! No, I never seen a woman on one o’ them barges. What would a woman be doing out ’ere?”

“A hostage, perhaps. Or maybe willingly, going to board the seagoing ship farther down the river.”

“I never saw ’er. But then them barges ’as cabins, sort o’. She could ’a bin below.… Gawd ’elp ’er. Wish I’d ’a known. I’d ’a done summink!” He shook his head. “There’s river police!” His expression betrayed that that would have been a last resort, but in times of extremity he would have abandoned his own principles and turned to them.

Lanyon shrugged ruefully.

Monk said nothing, but settled in his seat for the journey back to Blackwall, and then eventually to the city, to tell Mrs. Alberton that Breeland had got away and there was nothing he and Lanyon, or anyone else, could do about it.

Monk arrived at Tavistock Square early in the evening. He was not surprised to find Casbolt there. And in truth he was relieved to see him. It was easier to tell him such bare facts as he had, simply because his emotion could not possibly be as deep or his bereavement as dreadful as Judith’s.

He was shown into the withdrawing room immediately. Casbolt was standing by the empty hearth, the fireplace now covered with a delicate tapestry screen. He looked pale, as if his composure cost him great effort. Judith Alberton stood by the window as if she had been gazing out at the roses just the other side of the glass, but she turned as Monk came in. The hope in her face twisted inside him with pity, and with guilt because he could do nothing to help. He brought no news that was of any comfort.

The atmosphere was electric, as if the air even inside the room were waiting for thunder.

She stared at him, as if to guess from his face what he would say, trying to guard herself from pain, and yet she could not let go of all hope.

He cleared his throat. “They put the guns on a barge and took them downriver as far as Greenwich. They must have had a ship waiting, and loaded them there.” He looked at Judith, not at Casbolt, but he was acutely conscious of him watching, hanging on every word. “There was no sign of Merrit,” he added, dropping his voice still further. “The last witness we spoke to, a waterman near Greenwich, saw two men, one tall and upright with an accent he couldn’t place, and a shorter, heavier man, but no woman. Sergeant Lanyon, who is in charge, won’t give up, but the best we can hope for is that he finds the barge owner and proves his complicity. He could prosecute him as an accomplice.”

He thought of adding something about there being no evidence that Merrit had come to any harm, then knew it would be stupid. Nothing would have been easier than to take Merrit along and dump her body as soon as they were clear of the estuary. Judith must surely have thought of that too, if not now, then she would soon, in the long days ahead.

“I see …” she whispered. “Thank you for coming to tell me that. It cannot have been easy.”

Casbolt moved toward her. “Judith …” His face was gray, twisted with pity.

She held up her hand quite gently, but as if to keep him from coming any closer. Monk wondered whether if he touched her she would not be able to keep her control. Sympathy might be more than she could bear. Perhaps any emotion would be too much.

She walked forward very slowly to Monk. Even in this state of distress she was remarkably beautiful, and quite unlike any other woman he had ever seen. With that large mouth she should have been plain, but it was sensuous, quick to smile in the past, now tightly controlled on the edge of tears, speaking all her vulnerability. Her high, slanted cheekbones caught the light.

“Mr. Monk, where do you believe Lyman Breeland has gone?”

“To America with the guns,” he said instantly. He had no doubt of it at all.

“And my daughter?”

“With him.” He was not so certain, but it was the only possible answer to give her.

She kept her composure. “Willingly, do you believe?”

He had no idea. There were all sorts of possibilities, most of them ugly. “I don’t know, but none of the people we spoke to saw anything of a struggle.”

She swallowed with an effort. “She may also have been taken with him as a hostage, may she not? I cannot believe she would have had any willing part in her father’s death, even if she did not disapprove of stealing the guns. She is hotheaded and very young.” Her voice cracked and nearly broke. “She does not think things through to the end, but there is no malice in her. She would never condone … murder.” She forced herself to use the word, and the pain of it was sharp in her voice. “Of anyone.”

“Judith!” Casbolt protested again, his agony for her naked in his face. “Please! Don’t torture yourself! There is no way we can know what happened. Of course Merrit would not willingly have any part in it … in violence. She almost certainly knows nothing of it. And she is obviously in love with Breeland.”

He was standing very close to her now, but he refrained from making any attempt to touch her, no matter how slightly. “People do many extraordinary things when they are in love. Men and women will sacrifice anything at all for the person they care for.” His voice was husky, as if he spoke through continual fear so intense it had become physical. “If Breeland loves her, he will never harm her, no matter what else he may do. You must believe that. The most evil man can still be capable of love. Breeland is obsessed with winning his war. He has lost all sight of the morality you and I would hold a necessity of civilized life, but he may still treat the woman he loves with tenderness and consideration, and even give his life to protect her.” At last he did touch her, gently, with trembling hands. “Please, do not fear he will harm her. She has chosen to go with him. She almost certainly has no idea what he has done. He will keep it from her, for her sake. She will never know. Perhaps when she reaches America she may even write and tell you she is well and safe. Please … don’t despair!”

She turned to him at last, the very faintest smile on her lips.

“My dear Robert, you have been a strength to me as you always have, and I love you for it. I trust you as I do no one else at all. But I must do what I believe to be right. Please do not try to dissuade me. I am quite determined. I shall value you even more, if that were possible, if you could support me, but regardless, I must do this. You have already done a great deal for us, and were the situation not so desperate I would ask no more, but my child is in a danger from which I can do nothing to protect her. At the very best, she has eloped with the man who murdered her father, and he may or may not wish her harm. But he is an evil man, and even if he believes he loves her, he cannot be the man she would wish.”

“Judith …” Casbolt began to protest.

She ignored him. Perhaps she did not even hear. “At worst he has no care for her, and simply took advantage of her love for him to take her with him as hostage, and if he fears the British police will pursue him, he will use her to effect his escape. When she is no longer of use to him, he … he may kill her also.”

Casbolt drew in his breath in a gasp.

Monk did not argue. It was true, and it would be cruelty to allow her to doubt it and then have to gather her courage to face it again.

“Mr. Monk, will you go to America and do everything you can to bring Merrit back home … by force if persuasion will not move her?”

“Judith, that is most …” Casbolt tried again.

“Difficult,” she said for him, but without moving her eyes from Monk’s face. “I know. But I must ask you to do everything that can be done. I will pay all I have, which is considerable, to see her free of Breeland and back home.”

Casbolt tightened his fingers on her arm. “Judith, even if Mr. Monk were to succeed, and bring her back, willingly or unwillingly, he is a man, and traveling with him would compromise her so she would be effectively ruined in England. If you—”

“I have thought of that.” She put her hand over his, curling her fingers to tighten the pressure very slightly. “Mr. Monk has a brave and most unusual wife. We have already met her and heard something of her experience on the battlefields of the Crimea. She could not lack the courage, the spirit or the practical ability to go to America with him and help him persuade Merrit to return. Once Merrit knows what Breeland is, she will need all the help we can give her.”

Casbolt closed his eyes, the muscles clenched in his jaw, a nerve jumping on his temple. When he spoke his voice was only just audible.

“And what if she already knows, Judith? Have you thought of that? What if she loves Breeland enough to forgive him? It is possible to love enough to forgive anything.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

“Do you want her brought home even then?” he asked. “Believe me, if I could find any way not to have to say this to you, and still care for you, be honest to your happiness, I would. But Merrit may not be as free to return to England as you think.”

Her lips trembled for a moment, but she did not look away from him. “If she had any willing part in her father’s death, however indirectly, then she must come back here and answer for it. Loving Breeland, or believing in the Union cause, is no excuse.” She turned again to Monk but she did not move from Casbolt’s side or release herself from his arm. “I will pay passage for you and your wife to America, and all expenses while you are there, and whatever your charge is for your time and your skill, if you will do all within your power to bring my daughter back. If you are able to arrest Lyman Breeland as well, and bring him to stand trial for the murder of my husband and the two men who died with him, then so much the better. Justice requires that, but I am not seeking vengeance. I want my daughter safe, and free of Breeland.”

“And if she does not wish to come?” he asked.

Her voice was low and soft. “Bring her anyway. I do not believe that when she realizes the full truth she will wish to remain with him. I know her better sometimes than she knows herself. I carried her in my own body and gave birth to her. I have watched her and loved her since she first drew breath. She is full of passions and dreams, undisciplined, too quick to judge, and sometimes very foolish. But she is not dishonorable. She is looking for a dream to follow, to give herself to … but this is not it. Please, Mr. Monk, bring her back.”

“And if she answers to the law, Mrs. Alberton?” he asked. He had to know.

“I do not believe she is guilty of any evil, only perhaps of stupidity and momentary selfishness,” she answered. “But if she is guilty of those, then she must answer. There is no happiness in running away.”

“Judith, you don’t know what you are saying!” Casbolt protested. “Let Monk go after Breeland, by all means. The man should swing on the end of a rope! But not Merrit! Once she is here, you cannot protect her from whatever the law may do. Please … reconsider what it may mean for her.”

“You speak as if you think her guilty,” she returned, hurt now and angry with him.

“No!” He shook his head, denying it. “No, of course not. But the law is not always fair, or right. Think of what she might suffer, before you do anything so hasty.”

She looked at Monk, her eyes wide, pleading.

“I shall ask my wife,” he replied. “If she is willing, we will go and see if we can find Merrit. And if we can, we shall learn the truth from her of what happened and how much she knew. Will you trust me to make my own decision as to whether she would be best served by coming home or remaining in America, with Breeland or alone?”

“She cannot do either!” she said desperately, her voice at last beginning to crack. “She is sixteen! What can she do alone? Finish up in the streets! She went with Breeland, unmarried to him.” Her hand tightened on Casbolt’s, still holding her. “What decent man would care for her? Breeland is at best a murderer, at worst … a kidnapper as well. Bring her back, Mr. Monk. Or … or, if she is guilty … take her to Ireland … somewhere where she is not known, and I will go and join her there. I will come for her …”

Casbolt’s fingers clenched so tightly on hers she winced, but he did not speak. He stared at Monk, beseeching him for a better answer.

But there was none.

“I will speak to my wife,” Monk promised again. “I shall return tomorrow with her answer. I … I wish I could have brought you something better.” It was an idle thing to say, and he knew it, but he meant it so fiercely the words were spoken before he weighed their emptiness.

She nodded, the tears at last spilling down her cheeks.

He said nothing more, but turned and took his leave, going out into the summer night with his head already full of plans.