Slaves of Obsession

11

Monk was angry on the witness stand, but once the court had adjourned for the day and the heat of antagonism had died down, his feelings were different. Hester had gone with Judith Alberton. Casbolt had been there also, but perhaps a sense of decorum had prevented him from remaining too close to her.

The other, far uglier thought came unbidden-that perhaps he was beginning to suspect that Alberton himself had been involved in the sale of the extra five hundred guns to the pirates, and had been betrayed by them, and he could not bear Judith to know it. He did not want to face having to lie, nor did he know enough to tell her beyond doubt. Perhaps Alberton had intended that she should never know.

How much does one protect the people one loves? What is protection, and what is stifling, denial of their right to be themselves, to make their own choices? He would bitterly have resented such protection himself. He would have felt it belittled him and made him less than equal.

The sun was fading a little in the street, but the air was still hot from the day. The slanted light was hazy and the dust rose in clouds from the dry cobbles.

Monk had looked at Breeland from the witness-box and wondered what he felt, what emotions there were under his cold exterior. He had never been able to read him except perhaps on the battlefield at Manassas. There his passion, his dedication and his disillusion had all been naked. But he was an acutely private man. He seemed driven to speak of his ideals to rid America of slavery, but whatever more personal, human emotions he felt he could not show. It was almost as if his fire were all in the mind, nothing in the heart or the blood.

Was it actually an evasion of real feeling, a way of making sure the object of his passion never asked of him anything he could not govern, direct, guard from hurting him?

Love was not like that. No choice could be made between the giving and the taking. He saw that in Philo Trace’s eyes as he looked at Judith Alberton. Trace held no hope of receiving anything from her more than friendship, and perhaps he would not have withdrawn his help from her if she had refused even that. Whether he could have escaped from it was irrelevant. He had not tried to. There was no meanness of spirit in him, no self-regarding, at least where she was concerned.

But was Monk thinking of Philo Trace or what he himself had learned of love?

He crossed the street and continued walking. He passed a muffin seller, barely aware of her.

He had never intended to love Hester. He had realized very early in their acquaintance that she had the power to hurt him, to demand of him a depth of commitment he had no intention of giving. All the life he could remember he had avoided such a loss of his freedom.

And he had lost it anyway. She had effectively taken it from him, whether he wished it or not.

That was not true. He had chosen to embrace the fullness of living, instead of playing on the edge and lying to himself that he was retaining control, when all he was doing was abstaining from experience, running away from himself.

He despised cowardice as much as he did self-deception.

He hailed the next hansom and gave the driver his address in Fitzroy Street. He could not go back on his decision, whatever it cost.

He had been home for nearly an hour when Hester came in. She looked tired and frightened. She hesitated even before she took off her jacket. It was linen, of the dusty blue-gray she liked so well. Her eyes searched his anxiously.

He knew what disturbed her, more even than her fear for Judith or Merrit Alberton. It was his evasion over the last few days, the distance he had opened between them. He must bridge it now, whatever the result.

“How is she?” he asked. The words were trivial. He could have asked her anything. What mattered was that he met her eyes.

She saw the difference. It was almost as if he had touched her with the old intimacy. Something inside her warmed like a flower opening.

“She is frightened for Merrit,” she answered. “I hope Oliver can make as powerful an argument as Deverill did. I wish Breeland would reach out to Merrit. She looks so alone there.” Again it was not the words that mattered, but the softness in her mouth, the fact that her eyes did not even flicker away from his.

“He believes in his cause,” he said, wishing beyond almost anything else that he could avoid this moment, that somehow it would go away. “He can see a million slaves and the moral wrong of their state, the mass injustice and cruelty-but he doesn’t dare to look at the loneliness or the need of one human who needs him. It is too … personal, too intimate, too close under his own skin.”

She unfastened the pin that secured her hat and took off the hat itself, all the time watching him. She knew he had not yet reached the point of what he was saying.

“Does he love Merrit?” she asked.

“Is that what matters?”

She stood quite still. She did not know why, her puzzlement was in her eyes, but she sensed he was asking for reasons deeper than the mere words he used, or the personal question.

“It’s part of it,” she said carefully. “The issues he fights for matter as well.”

“And Philo Trace?” he went on. “He loves Judith. I suppose you’ve seen that?”

A smile touched her mouth, then vanished. “Of course I’ve seen it. It’s so plain even she has seen it. Why?”

“And does she care that he’s a Southerner, fighting for the slave states?”

Her eyes widened a little. “I have no idea. Why do you ask? You like him? So do I.” “But you abhor slaving.…”

The shadow was at the back of her eyes. She knew he still had not said what he needed to, although she could not guess what it would be. Would the warmth go from her then? Would these be the last few seconds he would ever look at her and see that undisguised tenderness in her face, and the honesty? Could he stretch the minutes out, make them last so he would never forget?

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I learned something about myself when I went down to the river looking for Shearer.” Now there was no going back.

She understood. She saw the fear in him. She knew the darkness already. She could not have forgotten that first, terrible, drowning fear in Mecklenburg Square, the horror which had nearly destroyed him. It was her courage which had made him fight.

Now she came forward, standing just in front of him, so closely he could smell the perfume of her hair and skin.

“What did you find out?” she asked, only the slightest tremor in her voice.

“One of the shipping companies knew me. The man expected me to be wealthy.…” This was every bit as difficult as he had expected. Her clear eyes allowed no evasions or euphemisms. If he lied now he would never be able to regain what he lost.

“As a policeman?” Her face was white, her voice catching in her throat. He knew she envisioned corruption. She was shaking her head a little, denying the possibility.

“No!” he said quickly. “Before that. As a banker.”

She did not understand. It was time to put it into unmistakable words, words that could not be misunderstood or evaded anymore.

“Doing business with men who had made their money out of slaving … and it seems I knew it.” He must say it all. Easier now than raising the subject again later. “I was bargaining for Arrol Dundas, my mentor. I don’t know whether I told him that that was where the money came from … or not. Perhaps I misled him.”

For a moment she was silent. Time ballooned out to seem like eternity.

“I see,” she said at last. “Is that why you’ve been … away … these last few days?”

“Yes …” He wanted her to know how ashamed he was, he needed her to know it, but the words were too trite. None of them meant enough for the bitter weight of regret now that he should have allowed himself to be without honor. He had degraded his own worth.

She smiled, but her eyes were filled with sadness. She reached out her hand and touched his cheek. It was a soft gesture. It did not dismiss what he had done, or excuse it, but it set it in the past.

“You’ve looked back enough,” she said quietly. “If you profited from it, it’s gone now.”

He wanted to kiss her, to be as close as people can be, to hold her tightly and feel her answering strength, but he had created the gulf and it must be she who crossed it, otherwise he would never be sure she had wished to, that he had not precipitated it.

She looked at him a moment longer, weighing what he thought, what he felt, then she was satisfied. Her eyes filled with warmth and, smiling, she put her arms around him and kissed his lips.

Relief washed over him in a warm, sweet tide. He had never been more grateful for anything in his life. He responded to her with a whole heart.

Rathbone began his defense when the trial resumed in the morning. He wore an air of confidence he was far from feeling. There was still no trace of Shearer and no sign of where he had gone. Of course, with his shipping connections that could be anywhere in Europe-or the world, for that matter.

But juries liked a person they could see and whose guilt had been shown them, not a reasonable alternative who was nothing more than a name.

He must repair the damage Deverill had done, the emotional impression he had created in the jurors’ minds. He began by calling Merrit to the stand. He watched her walk across the floor of the court. Everyone in the room must have been aware of how nervous she was. It was there in the pallor of her face, in the slight misstep as she climbed up to the witness-box, and in the quaver of her voice as she took the oath.

Again Hester sat beside Judith. Monk had given his evidence and was free to return to searching for more information about Shearer, anything at all, however tiny, that would give proof of the theory that it was he alone who had planned the robbery and the murder, knowing he would sell the guns to Breeland, but without Breeland’s foreknowledge.

Rathbone began very gently leading Merrit through her story, starting as late in events as the day of the murders itself. He did not wish to open the subject of their early acquaintance, in case Deverill should pry out of it the appearance that Breeland had courted her not for herself but purely as a means to corrupt her into helping him obtain the guns. It might not be difficult to do, given her loyalty to him, her passion against slavery and how much she had already committed herself to the cause, and could not now retreat.

Beside Hester, Judith sat a little forward, her black, lace-gloved hands knotted together in her lap. She was listening to every word, watching every gesture, each expression of the face. Hester knew she was seeking meanings, hope, wrestling with fear, trying to outguess the future. She had been there too many times herself.

On Judith’s other side, Robert Casbolt, his evidence also given, was offering silent support. He was too wise to mouth comforting words that could have no meaning. Everything lay in the balance. It all depended on Rathbone, and Merrit.

“You quarreled with your father that evening,” Rathbone was saying, looking up at Merrit on the stand. “What about … precisely?”

She cleared her throat. “His selling guns to the Confederates instead of to the Union,” she answered. “I believed he should have found a way to get out of his bond to sell them to Mr. Trace, even though he had promised to. He should have given back the money Mr. Trace had paid in advance.”

“Did he still have that money?” Rathbone asked curiously.

“I …” It was very obvious she had never considered that possibility. “I … don’t know. I assumed …”

“That he had not paid for the guns with it?” he asked. “But he did not manufacture the guns, did he?”

“No …”

“Then it may not have been possible.”

“Well … I suppose … I thought he bought them first.” Involuntarily she glanced at Casbolt as she spoke, then back to Rathbone. “But if he still owed anything, I am sure he would have made some way … I mean, when Lyman … Mr. Breeland, paid for them in full, as he could, then anything my father owed could have been paid-couldn’t it.” She spoke with confidence, sure she had the solution.

“If indeed Breeland did have the money,” Rathbone agreed.

Hester knew what he was doing-demonstrating for the jury Merrit’s trust, her naivete, and her transparent belief that the dealings were legitimate. She did not yet see how he was going to extricate Breeland from the suspicion of deceit.

“But he did!” Merrit said urgently. “He actually paid it to Mr. Shearer, at Euston, when we took the guns.”

“Did you see that?” Rathbone enquired.

“Well … no. I was in the carriage. But Mr. Shearer would not have handed over the guns without the money, would he!” That was a challenge, not a question.

“I think it excessively unlikely,” Rathbone agreed with a smile. “But may we return to your parting from your father? You accused him of being in favor of slavery, is that right?”

She looked abashed. “Yes. I wish now that I hadn’t said those things, but I believed them then. I was terribly angry.”

“And you believed that Lyman Breeland wanted to purchase the guns for a highly honorable cause, far more honorable than that of Mr. Trace?”

Her chin lifted sharply. “I knew it. I was in America. I witnessed the most terrible battle. I saw …” She gulped. “I saw so many men killed. I had never realized it would be so dreadful. Until you have seen a battle, heard it, smelled it … you can have no idea of what it is really like. We don’t begin to know what our soldiers endure for us.”

There was a murmur of appreciation around the room, even of awe.

Rathbone allowed the jury to see her remorse just long enough that he did not seem to be doing it deliberately, then he continued.

“After your quarrel, where did you go, Miss Alberton?”

“I went upstairs to my bedroom, packed a few personal belongings-toiletries, a change of costume-and I left the house,” she replied.

“A change of costume?” He smiled. “You were wearing an evening gown?”

“A dinner dress,” she corrected him. “But not suitable for travel, of course.”

Deverill looked exaggeratedly weary. “My lord …”

“Oh, yes, it does matter,” Rathbone said with a smile. He turned back to Merrit. “And then you left for Mr. Breeland’s rooms?”

She flushed very slightly. “Yes.”

“That must have been a very emotional time for you, and required courage and decision.”

“My lord!” Deverill protested again. “We do not doubt that Miss Alberton has extraordinary courage. An attempt to arouse our sympathy-”

“It has nothing whatever to do with courage, or sympathy, my lord,” Rathbone interrupted. “It is purely practical.”

“I am glad to hear it,” the judge said dryly. “Proceed.”

“Thank you. Miss Alberton, what did you do just when you arrived at Mr. Breeland’s rooms?”

She looked confused.

“Did you talk together? Eat something, perhaps? Change your clothes to the ones you had brought?”

“Oh … we spoke for a little, of course, then he stepped out for a few moments while I changed my clothes.”

Deverill murmured under his breath.

“And the watch?” Rathbone asked.

Suddenly there was utter silence in the room.

“I …” Her face was white.

Deverill was on the point of interrupting again.

Rathbone wondered if he should remind Merrit that she had sworn to tell the truth, but he was afraid that she would consider the truth a small price to pay not to betray Breeland.

“Miss Alberton?” the judge prompted.

“I don’t remember,” she said, looking at Rathbone.

He knew she was lying. In that moment she had recalled very clearly, but she would not say so. He changed the subject.

“Was Mr. Breeland expecting you, Miss Alberton?”

“No. No … he was very surprised to see me.” The color washed up her face. She was acutely conscious of the fact that she had gone uninvited. It seemed to Hester, seeing her discomfort, that Breeland had not welcomed her as a lover might, but rather as a young man would who had been taken very much by surprise and been obliged extremely hastily to rearrange his plans. She hoped that was not lost upon the jury.

Rathbone was standing elegantly in the open space of the court, his head a little bent, the light shining on his fair hair.

Hester glanced up at Breeland. He also looked self-conscious and uncomfortable, although it was not so easy to know for what cause.

“I see. And after you had greeted each other, you had explained your presence, and he had permitted you to change your clothes, what did you do then?” Rathbone asked.

“We discussed what we should do,” she replied. “Do I have to tell you what we said? I am not sure I can remember.”

“It is not necessary. Were you together all the time?”

“Yes. It was not so very long. At a little before midnight a messenger arrived with a note saying that my father had changed his mind and would sell Lyman the guns after all, and we should go straight to the Euston Square station with the money.”

“Who wrote this note?”

“Mr. Shearer, my father’s agent.”

“Surely it surprised you? After all, your father had been adamant, only a few hours before, that it was completely impossible for him to change his mind. It was a matter of honor,” Rathbone pointed out.

“Yes, of course I was surprised,” she agreed. “But I was too happy to question it. It meant he had seen the justice of the Union cause after all; he was on the right side. I thought perhaps … perhaps my argument meant something to him.…”

Rathbone smiled ruefully. “And so you went to the station with Mr. Breeland?”

“Yes.”

“Would you describe that journey for us, Miss Alberton?”

Step by step, in tedious detail, she obliged. They adjourned for lunch, and then resumed. By midafternoon, when she had completed her account, anyone still listening might well have felt as if they themselves had made the train journey to Liverpool, stayed in a boardinghouse and embarked upon the steamer to cross the Atlantic.

“Thank you, Miss Alberton. And just to make sure we have not misunderstood you, was Mr. Breeland out of your company at any time during the night of your father’s death?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“And did you see your father after you left home, or go anywhere near the warehouse in Tooley Street?”

“No!”

“Oh … one thing more, Miss Alberton …”

“Yes?”

“Did you actually see Shearer at the Euston Square station? I assume you do know him by sight?”

“Yes, I do. I saw him very briefly, talking to one of the guards.”

“I see. Thank you.” He turned to Deverill, inviting him to take his turn.

Deverill considered carefully, perhaps more to test Rathbone than in actual indecision. Merrit had already made it plain she would defend Breeland to the last degree, and the more she did so the more the jury respected her, whether they believed her or not. They did not think she was lying, except perhaps about leaving the watch in Breeland’s rooms, but they may well have thought her duped and used by a man unworthy of her. He would alienate them if he made that any more publicly apparent than it already was.

It was a difficult night. The tension made sleep difficult, in spite of exhaustion. Monk had been up and down the river all day, and intended to resume the day after as well, determined to find something. Hester did not ask him for an account of progress; she needed to keep hope alive, for Judith’s sake.

On Friday Rathbone called Lyman Breeland to the stand. This was the most dangerous gamble of the whole defense, but he had no choice. Not to have called Breeland would have demonstrated his fears, not only to Deverill but more important, to the jury. Deverill would have made the most of it in his summing up.

Above all Rathbone would have liked to separate Merrit from Breeland in the jurors’ minds, even in the legal charge, but that was morally impossible. He had already done too much with the watch. He had undertaken to defend Breeland, and he must do so to the very best of his ability.

Standing in the witness-box with shoulders squared and chin high, Breeland swore that he would tell the truth, and gave his name and his rank in the Union army.

Rathbone drew from him the bare facts of his journey to England and the reason for it. He did not ask him why he was prepared to go to such lengths in his cause; he knew Breeland would tell them anyway, spontaneously and with a passion that would ring through whether they wanted to believe him or not.

“And you presented yourself to Daniel Alberton in the hope of purchasing the guns you needed?” Rathbone asked, meeting Breeland’s eyes and willing him to keep his answers brief. That they might also be respectful was beyond his hope, in spite of his efforts to convince Breeland that antagonizing everyone now might cost him his life, the balance was so fine. Breeland had replied simply that he was innocent and that should be enough.

Rathbone had dealt with martyrs before. They were exhausting, and seldom open to reason. They had a single view of the world and did not listen to what they did not wish to hear. In some ways their dedication was admirable. Perhaps it was the only way to accomplish certain goals, noble ones, but it left a trail of wreckage behind. Rathbone had no intention that Merrit Alberton should be part of Breeland’s destruction.

Breeland agreed with unexpected brevity that he had indeed gone to see Alberton in hope of purchasing guns, and when he had met with resistance and learned that the reason for it was a commitment to Philo Trace, he had done all in his power to change Alberton’s mind by convincing him of the Union’s morally superior cause.

“And during this time you made the acquaintance of Miss Merrit Alberton?”

“Yes,” Breeland agreed, a flicker of warmth at last lighting his face. “She is a person of the deepest compassion and honor. She understood the Union cause and espoused it herself immediately.”

Rathbone would have wished he had phrased it in more romantic terms, but it was better than he had foreseen. He must be careful not to lead Breeland so his emotions seemed coached.

“You found you had in common the most important values and beliefs?”

“Yes. My admiration for her was greater than I had expected to feel for any woman so young and so unacquainted with the actuality of slavery and its evils. She has an extraordinary gift for compassion.” His face softened as he said it and for the first time there was something like a smile on his lips.

Rathbone breathed a sigh of relief. The jurors’ expressions relaxed. At last they saw the human man, the man in love, with whom they could identify, not the fanatic.

He did not look at Merrit, but he could imagine her eyes, her face.

“But in spite of all both you and Miss Alberton could do to change his mind,” he continued, “Mr. Alberton did not agree to go back on his word to Mr. Trace, and sell you the guns instead. Why did you not simply go to another supplier?”

“Because he had the finest modern guns available immediately, and in quantity. I could not afford to wait.”

“I see. And what plans did you make as a result of this, Mr. Breeland?”

Breeland sounded slightly surprised.

“None. I confess, I was very angry with his blindness. He seemed incapable of seeing that there was a far greater issue at stake than one man’s business reputation.” The hard edge had returned to his voice and he directed his attention entirely towards Rathbone. Merrit seemed to have gone from his mind. He leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness-box. “He could see nothing but the narrow view, his own word and what Philo Trace thought of him. He was a man without vision. No matter what I told him of the evils of slavery.” He waved his hand in a small dismissive gesture. “And all your gentlemen here have no idea what a cancer of the human soul it is when you have seen human beings treated with less dignity than a good man treats his cattle.” His voice rang with the fire of his anger; his face burned with it. Rathbone could easily see why Merrit had fallen in love with him. What was less easy to see was what tenderness or patience he could give her in return, what laughter or tolerance or simple joy in daily life, what gratitude for little things-above all, perhaps, what forgiveness for failing and understanding of its needs. He had no compassion for weakness.

But Rathbone was in his middle forties; Merrit was sixteen. Perhaps she had years ahead before she would come to realize the value of such things. Now Breeland was a hero, and heroes were what she wanted. She knew his vulnerabilities and loved him the more for them. She did not see his limitations.

“We have heard that you quarreled with Mr. Alberton on the night of his death, and on leaving his house you told him that you would win in the end, regardless of what he might do. What did you mean, Mr. Breeland?”

“Why, that the Union cause was just and in the end would prevail against any ignorance or self-interest,” Breeland replied clearly, as if the answer should have been obvious. “It was not a threat, simply a statement of the truth. I did not harm Mr. Alberton, as God is my judge!”

Rathbone kept his voice calm, almost matter-of-fact, as if he had barely heard Breeland’s denial or the passion in him.

“Where did you go after you left Mr. Alberton’s house?”

“Back to my rooms.”

“Alone?”

“Of course.”

“Did you make any agreement with Miss Alberton that she would follow you?”

Breeland opened his mouth to respond instinctively, then changed his mind. Perhaps Breeland remembered Rathbone’s warnings about the sympathies of the jury. “No,” he said gravely. “I had no wish to come between Miss Alberton and her family. My intentions towards her were always honorable.”

Rathbone knew that he was on dangerous ground, full of pitfalls. He wished he could have avoided asking at all, but the omission would be so glaring it would have done more harm.

“You went to your rooms. Mr. Breeland, had you, for any reason, taken back from Miss Alberton the watch you gave her as a keepsake?”

Breeland did not hesitate. “No.” His gaze was unflinching.

Rathbone had not meant to look at the jury, but in spite of himself he did. He saw the coldness in their faces. They believed Breeland, but they did not like him for it. In some subtle way he had enlarged a gulf between himself and Merrit. Her loyalty was to him; his was to his cause. It was not what he had said which jarred; it was the manner in which he said it, and perhaps it was also what he did not say.

“Have you any idea how the watch came to be in Tooley Street?” Rathbone asked.

“None at all,” Breeland responded. “Except that it was not dropped by either Miss Alberton or myself. She arrived at my apartments at about half-past nine, and remained there with me until we both left a little before midnight, when the note came from Shearer that Mr. Alberton had changed his mind and was willing to sell the guns to the Union after all. Then we left together and went to the Euston Square station, and from there to Liverpool.” He summed up the entire story in a few sentences, leaving Rathbone less to draw from him than he had intended, but it was spontaneous and spoken with such force that perhaps it was better than a carefully guided response would have been.

“Were you surprised by the note from Shearer?” Rathbone began, then was aware of Deverill rising to his feet. “I apologize, my lord,” he said quickly. “The note that purported to come from Shearer?”

“I was amazed,” Breeland conceded.

“But you did not doubt it?”

“No. I knew the justice of my cause. I believed that Alberton had at last realized it himself, and that the issue of freedom from slavery was far greater than the business dealings, or the reputation for honor, of any one man. I admired him for it.”

There was total silence in the room. Rathbone felt as if a kind of darkness had descended over him. He drew in his breath with difficulty. Breeland had in a few moments laid bare his philosophy and shown them an indifference to the individual which was like a breath of ice, a road whose end could not be known.

Rathbone looked at the jury and saw that they did not yet perceive the fullness of what Breeland had said, but Deverill did. Victory was in his eyes.

Rathbone heard his voice in the high-ceilinged room as if it were someone else’s, echoing strangely. He must continue, play it out to the very last word.

“Did you show the note to Miss Alberton?”

“No. I had no reason to. It was important to pack up my few belongings and leave as quickly as possible. He had allowed us very little time to get to the Euston Square station.” Breeland was quite unaware of there having been any change. Nothing was altered in him, not the set of his shoulders, his hands gripping the rail, the confidence in his voice. “I told her what it said, and she was overjoyed … naturally.”

“Yes … naturally,” Rathbone repeated. Detail by detail he took Breeland through the ride to the station, a description of the place, of the guards, of Shearer himself, of the train and all the passengers in the carriage they shared. It coincided with Merrit’s description so honestly he began for a moment to feel hope again. All the events and people were recognizable as the same she had seen, and yet with a sufficiently different perception, a different use of words, that it was clear they were not copied from each other, or rehearsed.

He even noticed a couple of jurors nodding, candor in their expressions, acceptance. Perhaps they too had made the journey from Euston to Liverpool and knew the truth of what Breeland was saying.

In the afternoon he took him more briefly through the voyage across the Atlantic and his short stay in America.

Deverill interrupted to ask if any of this was relevant.

“I do not doubt, my lord, that Mr. Breeland bought the guns for the Union army, or that he believes unequivocally in its cause. It is not difficult to see why any man might wish to abolish slavery in his own land, or any other. Nor do we doubt that he fought at Manassas, probably bravely, as did many others.” He lowered his voice. “That he would pay any price whatever for Union victory is only too tragically clear. That he should sacrifice others to it is the substance of our charge.”

“It is not my aim to prove that,” Rathbone argued, knowing he was telling less than the truth, and that Deverill knew it also. “I wished to show that his treatment of Miss Alberton was always honorable and quite open, even when Monk and Trace were in Washington, because he knew he was innocent of any crime and had no cause to fear them.”

Deverill smiled. “I apologize. You were so far from it I had not realized that was your aim. Please continue.”

Rathbone was foundering, and they both knew it. But he could not now retreat. He took Breeland through his confrontation on the battlefield with Monk and Trace, and his acceptance of returning to England.

“You offered no resistance?”

“No. Many men can fight the physical battle in America,” Breeland answered. “Only I can answer here for my actions, and fight the moral cause by persuading you here in England that our cause is just and our behavior honorable. I bought guns openly and paid a fair price for them. The only person I deceived was Philo Trace, and that is the fortune of war. He would expect it of me, as I would of him. We are enemies, even if we treat each other politely if we chance to meet in London. We are not barbarians.”

He cleared his throat. “I am not afraid to answer for my acts before a court of law, and I wish you to think of my people as the just and brave men they are.” He lifted his chin slightly, staring straight ahead of him. “The time will come when you will have to choose between the Union and the Confederacy. This war will not cease until one side has destroyed the other. I will give everything I have, my life, my freedom if necessary, to ensure that it is the Union that wins.”

Rathbone looked up at Merrit and saw the flash of pride in her face, and that it cost her an effort. He thought he also saw a deepening shadow of loneliness.

There was a very slight murmur of applause from somewhere in the back of the court, instantly hushed.

Deverill’s smile widened, but there was also a flicker of uncertainty in it. He wanted the jury to think he was confident, perhaps that he perceived something they did not. It was a game of bluff and double bluff.

Rathbone could play it too. At the moment it was all he had.

“I cannot imagine that there is any man here who does not share your sentiments,” he said very clearly. “It is not our war, and we grieve for your country, and we hope profoundly that some better solution may be found than the slaughter of armies and the ruin of the land. We have no desire to take the freedom of an innocent man who is serving his people in such a cause.” He bowed very slightly, as if the battle against slavery were the question at issue.

His achievement was short-lived. Deverill rose to cross-examine Breeland, swaggering very slightly into the center of the floor. He began with a broad, dramatic gesture.

“Mr. Breeland, you speak with great passion about the Union cause. No one here could mistake your dedication to it. Would it be true to say you hold it dearer to you than anything else?”

Breeland faced him squarely, with pride. “Yes, it would.”

Deverill considered for a moment. “I believe you, sir. I am not sure I could be so wholehearted myself.…”

Rathbone knew what was coming next. He even considered interrupting, diverting the jury for a few moments by pointing out that what Deverill had said was hardly a question, and not relevant to the case. But it would be delaying the inevitable. It would emphasize the fact that he had not wished Breeland to answer. He remained in his seat.

“I think …” Deverill resumed, turning sideways to look up at Merrit. “I think that rather than declare the justice of my cause, and my own innocence, I should have been tempted to protest my love for a young woman who had given up everything-home, family, safety, even her own country-to follow me into a foreign land, at war with itself … and to expend my energy in doing all I could to see that she did not hang for my crimes, at the age of sixteen … barely yet a woman, on the verge of her life.…”

The effect was devastating. Breeland blushed crimson. One could only guess what anger and shame consumed him.

Merrit was white with misery. Perhaps never in her life again would she face such a terrible understanding, or humiliation.

Judith bent her head slowly, as if a weight had become too much to endure.

Philo Trace’s lips were twisted with a pity he could not reach across and express.

Casbolt also stared at Judith.

The jurors were torn as to whether they would look at Merrit or not. Some wished to grant her privacy by averting their gaze, as if they had unintentionally intruded upon someone caught naked in an intimate act. Others glared at Breeland in undisguised contempt. Two looked up at Merrit with profound compassion. Perhaps they had daughters her age themselves. There was no condemnation in their faces.

Rathbone forced himself to remember that he was charged equally to defend Breeland and Merrit. He could not take advantage of this, and let Breeland hang to accomplish Merrit’s acquittal, but at that moment he wished he could.

Deverill did not need to add more. Whatever the facts, and those he could not shake, he had stifled any possible act of mercy. The jury would want to convict Breeland, not for the murders, but because he did not love.

While Rathbone was struggling in the courtroom, Monk was trying to trace Shearer’s actions on the night of Alberton’s death and for the few days before. The only way to clear Breeland of the charge would be to prove that he had not conspired with Shearer. The times of the quarrel at Alberton’s home, the delivery of the note to Breeland’s rooms, and his arrival at the Euston Square station all made it impossible for him to have been at Tooley Street, but they did not prove that he had not either deliberately corrupted Shearer into committing the murders or at the least conspired with him and taken advantage of it.

He began at Tooley Street again, with the surviving warehousemen. It was a dusty, warm day with scurries of wind making little eddies over the cobbles.

“When did you last see Shearer?” Monk asked the man with the sandy hair to whom he had spoken before.

The man’s face creased in concentration. “Not rightly sure. ’E was ’ere two days afore that. Tryin’ ter ’member if ’e was ’ere that day. Don’t think so. In fact I’m certain, ’cos we ’ad a nice load o’ teak in, an’ it weren’t anything as ’e ’ad ter be ’ere for. Dunno w’ere ’e was, but Joe might know. I’ll ask ’im.” And he left Monk standing in the sun while he did so.

“At Seven Sisters, ’e was,” he said on his return. “Went up ter see a feller abaht oak. Can’t see as it’s got anything ter do wi’ guns.”

Neither could Monk, but he intended to follow every movement of Shearer regardless. “Do you know the name of the company in Seven Sisters?”

“Bratby an’ summink, I think,” Bert replied. “Big firm, ’e said. On the ’Igh Street, or just off it. What does it ’ave ter do with poor Mr. Alberton’s death? Bratby’s deals in oak an’ marble an’ the like, not guns.”

“I’d like to know where Shearer was from then onward,” Monk said frankly. There was no point being evasive. “He was at the Euston Square station to pass over the guns to Breeland at just after half-past midnight, and no one has seen him since, for certain.”

“So where is ’e?”

“I should dearly like to know. What does he look like?”

“Shearer? Ordinary sort o’ bloke, really. ’Bout your ’eight, or a bit less, I s’pose. Lean. Not much ’air, but darkish. Got green eyes, that’s different, an’ a spot on ’is cheek, ’bout ’ere.” He demonstrated, touching his cheekbone with his finger. “An’ lots o’ teef.”

Monk thanked him, and after a few more questions which elicited nothing of worth, he took his leave and spent the next hour and a half taking a hansom to Seven Sisters. He found the firm of Bratby amp; Allan just off the main street.

“Mr. Shearer?” the clerk asked, pushing his hand through his hair. “Yes, we know ’im, right enough. What would that be about, sir, if I may ask?”

Monk had already considered his reply. “I’m afraid he has not been seen for several weeks, and we are concerned that some harm has come to him,” he said gravely.

The clerk did not look much concerned. “Pity,” he said laconically. “S’pose people ’o? work on the river ’ave haccidents, like. Not certain wot day it was, but I can look at me books an’ see, if you want?”

“Yes, please.”

The clerk put his pencil behind his ear and went to oblige. He returned several moments later carrying a ledger. “ ’Ere,” he said, putting it down on the table. He pointed with a smudged finger and Monk read. It was quite clear that Shearer had been at Bratby amp; Allan on the day before Alberton’s death, until late in the afternoon, negotiating the terms of sale of timber and the possibility of transporting it south to the city of Bath.

“What time did he leave here?” Monk asked.

The clerk thought for a moment. “ ’Alf after five, as I recollect. I s’pect you’ll be wantin’ ter know w’ere ’e went next?”

“If you know?”

“I don’t, but then I could give yer a guess, like.”

“I would be grateful.”

“Well ’e’d go ter a cartin’ company what ’as yards close by. Stands ter reason, don’t it?” The clerk was pleased with his status as an expert. It pleased his self-respect quite visibly.

Monk gritted his teeth. “Indeed.”

“And there’s not many as goes as far as Bath,” the clerk went on. “So if I was you, I’d try Cummins Brothers, down the road from ’ere a bit.” He pointed to his left. “Or there’s B. amp; J. Horner’s the other way. an’ o’ course the biggest is Patterson’s, but that’s not ter say they’re the best, an’ Mr. Shearer likes the best. Don’t stand no nonsense, ’e don’t. ’Ard man, but fair … more or less.”

“So who is the best?” Monk said patiently.

“Cummins Brothers,” the clerk replied without hesitation. “Costly, but reliable. Yer should ask ter see Mr. George, ’e’s the boss, an’ Mr. Shearer’d go to the top. Like I said, an ’ard man, but good at ’is business.”

Monk thanked him and asked for precise directions to the premises of Cummins Brothers. Once there he requested Mr. George Cummins and was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before being shown into a small room very comfortably appointed. George Cummins sat behind his desk, the light shining through his thin white hair, his face pleasantly furrowed.

Monk introduced himself without evasion and told him honestly what he had come for.

“Shearer,” Cummins said with surprise. “Disappeared, you said? Can’t say I expected that. He seemed in good spirits when I last saw him. Expecting a nice profit on a big deal. Something to do with America, I think.”

Monk felt a quickening of interest. He controlled it to protect himself from hope, or forcing circumstances to fit his wishes.

“Did he elaborate on that at all?”

Cummins’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Just what is your business, Mr. Monk? And why do you want to know where Shearer is? I consider him a friend, have done for years. I’m not speaking about him to just anyone until I know why.”

Monk could not tell him the truth, or it might prejudice any evidence Cummins could give. He must be honest, and yet evasive, something he had learned to do well.

“The deal with the American went badly wrong, as you may be aware,” he replied gravely. “No one appears to have seen Shearer since then. I am a private enquiry agent acting on behalf of Mrs. Alberton, who is concerned that some harm may also have come to Mr. Shearer. He was a loyal employee of her late husband for many years. She feels some responsibility to ascertain that he is alive and well, and not in need of assistance. And of course, he is sadly missed, especially now.”

“I see.” Cummins nodded. “Yes, of course.” He frowned. “Frankly, I can’t understand him not being there. I confess, Mr. Monk, you have me worried now. When I didn’t see or hear from him, I took it he was away on a trading matter. He does go to the Continent now and then.”

“When did you last see him?” Monk pressed. “Exactly.”

Cummins thought for a moment. “The night before Alberton was killed. But I suppose you know that, and that’s why you’re here. We talked about moving some timber to Bath. As I said, he was in good spirits. We had dinner together, at the Hanley Arms, next to the omnibus station on Hornsey Road.”

“What time did you leave?”

Cummins looked anxious. “What is it you’re thinking, Mr. Monk?”

“I don’t know. What time?”

“Late. About eleven. We … we dined rather well. He said he was going back to the city.”

“How? Cab?”

“Train, from Seven Sisters Road Station. It’s just down the bottom of the street from the Hanley Arms, then along a bit.”

“How long would the journey take?”

“That time of night? Not many stops: Holloway Station, through Copenhagen Tunnel, then into King’s Cross. Best part of an hour. Why? I wish you’d tell me what it is you’re thinking!”

“Anyone see you together, swear to what time he left?”

“If you want. Ask the landlord of the Hanley Arms. Why?” Cummins’s voice was sharp with alarm.

“Because I believe he was at the Euston Square station at half-past one,” Monk answered, rising to his feet.

“What does that mean?” Cummins demanded, standing also.

“It means he couldn’t have been at Tooley Street,” Monk replied.

Cummins was startled. “Did you think he was? Good God! You … you didn’t think he did that? Not Walter Shearer. He was a hard man, wanted the best, but he was loyal. Oh, no …” He stopped. He knew from Monk’s face there was no need to say more. “It was the American!” he finished.

“No, it wasn’t,” Monk replied. “I don’t know who the hell it was. Will you swear to this?”

“Of course I will! It’s the truth.”

Monk checked with the landlord of the Hanley Arms, but he received the answer he expected, and corroboration from the landlord’s wife. He retraced Shearer’s steps to the Euston Square station, and found thirty-two minutes unaccounted for. No one could have gone south to Tooley Street, murdered three men and loaded six thousand guns in that time. But he could have stopped at King’s Cross and walked from there to the Euston Square station to claim a wagon load of guns already stored there and waiting.

He recounted all these things to Rathbone that evening.

In the morning Rathbone asked for the court to be delayed for sufficient time for the landlord of the Hanley Arms to be called, and it was granted him.

By early afternoon all evidence had been given and both Deverill and Rathbone had made their summations. No one knew who had murdered Daniel Alberton or the two guards in Tooley Street, but it was quite clear it could not have been either Breeland or Shearer-acting for Breeland, or with his knowledge. Rathbone could not say how Breeland’s watch had come to be in the yard, or account for the movement of the guns from Tooley Street or to Euston Square, but a mystified and unhappy jury returned a verdict of not guilty.

Judith was weak with relief. For her the immediate fact that Merrit was free from the threat of death was sufficient. She allowed herself to have a few moments’ respite from grief.

Hester stood in the crowded hallway outside the courtroom watching as Merrit came towards her mother, hesitantly at first. Philo Trace was standing a dozen yards to the left of them. He did not wish to be included in the circle, but it was nakedly apparent in his face how much it mattered to him that Judith should be happy. His eyes were soft as he looked at her, oblivious to everyone else coming and going.

Robert Casbolt was closer, pale-faced, exhausted by the emotional turmoil of the trial, but now also, if not relaxed, at least no longer struggling to rescue Merrit.

Lyman Breeland stood back. It was impossible to tell from the stunned pallor of his face what he felt. He was free, but neither his character nor his cause had been understood as he would have liked. He was at least sensitive enough to the pain that had been experienced not to come forward now. Of this immediate reunion he was not a part. They were left with the grief, and the anger, all the things that had had to be unsaid, even unthought, until the battle was over.

Merrit’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was the sight of her mother in black, the color and vitality in her stifled, drained away by loss and then by fear.

Judith held her arms out.

Silently, Merrit stepped forward and they clasped each other, Merrit sobbing, letting go of all the terror and pain that she had held so desperately in control over the last month since Hester had first told her of her father’s death.

Philo Trace blinked hard several times, then turned and walked away.

Robert Casbolt remained.

Rathbone came out of the courtroom door, smiling. Horatio Deverill was a couple of steps behind him, still looking surprised but not exhibiting any ill will. They passed Breeland without apparently noticing him.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Deverill asked, shaking his head. “I really thought I had you, on intent if not facts. I’m still not sure I wasn’t caught by sleight of hand somehow.”

Rathbone merely smiled.

Merrit and Judith parted and Judith thanked Rathbone formally, and moved a little apart with him. Merrit turned towards Hester.

“Thank you,” she said very quietly. “You and Mr. Monk have done far more for me than I can ever express to you in words.” There was still confusion and unhappiness in her face.

Hester knew what it was. The victory of acquittal was deeply shadowed by the disillusion of Breeland’s isolation from her. Now that the immediate danger was over she had to face a decision. They were not forced together by common circumstances any longer. Suddenly it was a matter of choice. That she had to make it at all was painful enough, and her misery was clear.

“It was a very mixed blessing, wasn’t it?” Hester replied equally quietly. She did not wish anyone else to hear their exchange, and with as many conversations as there were going on, it was not difficult to submerge themselves in the sea of voices.

Merrit did not answer. She still did not wish to commit herself to saying aloud that the certainty was gone. The crusade was glorious, but it was not really love, not enough for a marriage.

“I’m sorry,” Hester said, and she meant it profoundly. She had mourned dreams herself, and knew the pain of it.

Merrit lowered her eyes. “I don’t understand him,” she said under her breath. “He didn’t ever really love me, did he? Not as I loved him.”

“He probably loves you as much as he is able to.” Hester searched her mind to find the truth.

Merrit looked up. “What shall I do? He’s an honorable man, I always knew he wasn’t guilty! Not just of actively being there, but of persuading Shearer to do it either.”

“Are you sure he wouldn’t have taken the guns even if he had known that they were tainted by murder?” Hester asked.

Merrit gulped. “No …” she whispered. “He believes the cause is great enough to justify any means of serving it. I … I don’t think I can share that belief. I know I can’t feel it. Maybe my idealism isn’t strong enough. I don’t see the great vision. Perhaps I’m not as good as he is.…” That was almost a question; the pleading for an answer was in her eyes. Even now she was half convinced the fault was hers, that it was she who lacked a certain nobility that would have enabled her to see things as he did.

“No,” Hester said decisively. “To see the mass and lose the individual is not nobility. You are confusing emotional cowardice with honor.” She was even more certain as she found the words. “To do what you believe is right, even when it hurts, to follow your duty when the cost in friendship is high, or even the cost in love, is a greater vision, of course. But to retreat from personal involvement, from gentleness and the giving of yourself, and choose instead the heroics of a general cause, no matter how fine, is a kind of cowardice.”

Merrit still looked doubtful. Part of her understood, but she had not found words to explain it to herself. She frowned, struggling to make final the realization she had been trying not to see for days.

“I couldn’t love anyone who would put me before what he believed was right. I mean … I could love him, but not with a whole heart, not the same way.”

“Neither could I,” Hester agreed, seeing the momentary relief in Merrit’s eyes, then the confusion return. “I would want him to do what was right, no matter how it would hurt. That’s the difference. I would want the cost to me to tear him apart … not to add to his sense of glory.”

Merrit trembled on the edge of tears. “I … I really believed … you can’t leave it behind so easily, can you?”

“No.” Hester touched her arm very gently. “Of course not. But I think going with him, pretending all the time, watching the reality grow sharper, would be even more difficult.”

Breeland was coming towards them. He looked a trifle awkward, uncertain what to say now that the tension had passed. He had the guns; he was proved innocent and acquitted. Perhaps he did not even understand the chill in the air.

Judith turned to watch, but she remained where she was.

“Thank you for your efforts on our behalf, Mrs. Monk,” Breeland said stiffly. “I am sure you did it because you believed it to be right; nevertheless we are grateful.”

“You are mistaken,” Hester said, meeting his eyes. “I had no idea whether it was right or not. I did it because I care for Merrit. I hoped she was innocent, and I believed it as long as I could, because I wanted to. Fortunately, I still can.”

“That is the sort of reasoning a woman is free to have, I suppose,” he said with faint disapproval. “But it is too emotional.” A very small smile touched his lips. “I do not wish to be ungracious.” He turned to Merrit. “Perhaps you would prefer to remain some time with your mother before we return to Washington. I understand that. I can wait at least a week, then I should rejoin my regiment. I have very little reliable news of what is happening at home. At least now my honor is vindicated and England will know that the officers of the Union are upright in their dealings. I may well be sent back to purchase more arms.”

There was a moment of silence before Merrit replied with her voice level, but it was apparent it cost her all the strength of will she possessed.

“I am sure your honor is vindicated, Lyman, and that for you that is the most important thing that could have happened. I am happy it is. I am equally certain that you deserve it. However, I do not wish to return to Washington with you. I thank you for the offer. I am sure you do me great honor, but I do not believe we should make each other happy, therefore I cannot accept.”

He looked as if he had not grasped what he had heard. It was incomprehensible to him that she could have changed from the girl who had adored him so completely to the young woman who now made such a considered judgment that, incredibly, amounted to a rejection.

“You would make me very happy,” he said with a frown. “You have all the qualities any man could wish for, and what is more, you have shown them under the greatest pressure. I cannot imagine I could find any woman I should admire more than I do you.”

Merrit drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Hester saw the resolve flicker in her face.

“Love is more than admiration, Lyman,” Merrit said with tremendous difficulty, gasping to control her breath. “Love is caring for someone when they are wrong, as well as when they are right, protecting their weakness, guarding them until they find strength again. Love is sharing the little things, as well as the big ones.”

He looked stunned, as if she had struck him, and he had no idea why.

Then quite slowly he bowed and turned and walked away.

She gave a little gulp, drew in her breath to call him back, and remained silent.

Judith came and put her arms around her, allowing her to weep with deep, wrenching sobs that were the end of a dream, and already just a thread of relief.