Slaves of Obsession wm-11 Page 10

  “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.

  4

  Hester had scarcely seen Monk over the last two days. He had come home late and exhausted, too worn out even to eat, and had washed and gone to bed almost straightaway. He had risen early, eaten a solitary breakfast of tea and toast, and been gone again before eight. He had told her nothing, except that he had no hope of catching up with Breeland, who must be far out into the Atlantic by now.

  She could do little to help, except not ask questions he could not answer and keep the kettle singing softly on the hob.

  When he came home from Judith Alberton’s a little after nine o’clock on the second evening she knew immediately that something vital had changed. He was still white-faced with distress, and so weary he moved slowly, as if his body ached. His mouth was dry, and his first glance, after greeting her, was at the kettle. He sat down and loosed his bootlaces and was obviously waiting to talk. Impatiently his eyes followed her as she made him tea, urging her to hurry. And yet he did not begin until she brought the pot, cup and milk on a tray. Whatever he had to say was not simple, nor unmixed good or bad. She found herself hurrying for her own sake as much as his.

  He began by telling her about following the trail of evidence down the river as far as Greenwich, and the inevitable conclusion that the guilty had escaped. The purpose of stealing the guns was to get them to America. Why would Breeland waste even an hour?

  But she knew from his face, the urgency in his voice in spite of his words, that there was something else, something further to say.

  She waited impatiently.

  He was looking at her as if trying to weigh in his mind her reactions.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “What else?”

  “Mrs. Alberton wants us to go to America and do everything we can to bring Merrit home-regardless of the circumstances-or her own wishes.”

  “Us? Who is us?” she said instantly.

  His smile was tired, wry. “You and me.”

  “You … and me?” She was incredulous. “Go to America?” Even as she said it she could see a glimmer of sense, tiny, a spark of light in the darkness.

  “If I find her,” he explained, “if I can persuade her to come back, or must bring her by force, I shall need help from someone else. And I shall need someone to chaperon her. I can’t arrive in England alone with her.” He was watching her as if he could read not just her words but her thoughts, and the emotions which lay deeper than that, perhaps what she refused to think.

  The idea was overwhelming, even with the reasoning that sounded so eminently sensible. To America! Across the Atlantic to a country already in armed conflict with itself. No word of pitched battles had reached England, but without a miracle, it would be only a matter of time before it became war.

  Yet she also saw in his eyes that he had made his own decision already, not in his mind, perhaps, but deeper than that. He had thought of plans, ways to persuade her. Was it for the adventure of it, the challenge, for a sense of justice, of anger for Daniel Alberton, for the arrogance of Breeland? Or out of a misplaced guilt, because it was Daniel Alberton who had asked him to help, and he had failed? It hardly mattered that it had been Breeland and not the blackmailer who had ruined him.

  Or was it pity for Judith Alberton, who, in one dreadful night, had lost everything she loved most?

  It was for Judith that Hester answered.

  “All right. But are you sure Merrit didn’t have anything to do with it, even unwittingly? I think she was very deeply in love with Breeland. She thought of him as some kind of warrior saint.” She frowned. “I suppose you are sure it was Breeland? It couldn’t possibly have been the blackmailer … could it? After all, the price of his silence was guns.”

  “No.” He lowered his eyes, as if protecting some inner hurt. “I found Breeland’s watch in the warehouse yard. It couldn’t have been there long; there was just a little mud on it, near where the cart tracks were. It would have been seen by anyone in daylight, and picked up. And since Alberton refused to sell him the guns, he would have no legitimate reason to be in the yard.”

  She felt a dizzy sort of coldness sweep through her.

  “Breeland’s watch?” she repeated his words. “What does it look like?”

  “Look like?” He was puzzled. “A watch! A round, gold watch that you wear on a chain.”

  “How do you know it was his?” she persisted, knowing argument was futile but still compelled to try.

  “Because it had his name on it, and the date.”

  “What date?”

  A flicker of impatience crossed his face. He was too tired and too hurt for quibbles. “What does it matter?”

  “What date?” she insisted.

  He was staring at her; his shoulders sagged with exhaustion and disappointment. “June 1, 1848. Why? Why are you making an issue over it, Hester?”

  She had to tell him. It was not something she could conceal, allow him to go to America unknowing.

  “It wasn’t Breeland who dropped it,” she said very quietly. “He gave it to Merrit for a keepsake. She showed it to me the evening we had dinner there. She said she would never let it out of her sight.”

  He looked at her as if he barely comprehended what she was saying.

  “I’m sorry,” she added. “But she must have been there, whether it was willingly or not.” Another thought occurred to her. “Unless he took the watch from her and dropped it himself, on purpose.…”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  But she saw in his eyes that he had thought of the answer before she said it.

  “To incriminate her … so we wouldn’t go after him … a sort of warning that he had her wi
th him … a hostage.”

  He sat silently, turning it over in his mind.

  She waited. There was no point in detailing the possibilities. He could think of them all as well as she could, perhaps better. She poured more tea for both of them, well steeped, and now not quite so hot.

  “Mrs. Alberton knows he might hold her hostage,” he said at last. “She wants us to try anyway.”

  “And if she went willingly?” she asked. It had to be faced.

  “She knows Merrit is hotheaded and idealistic and acts before she thinks, but she doesn’t believe that in any circumstances whatever she would condone murder.” Now he was looking at her, searching her eyes to read in them if she agreed.

  “I hope she’s right,” she answered.

  “You don’t think so?” he said quickly.

  “I don’t know. But what else could any woman say of her own child?”

  “Do you want me to refuse?”

  “No.” The answer slipped out before she had time to weigh it, surprising her more than it did him. “No,” she repeated. “If it were me, I think I would rather have the truth than live with hope of the best, and fear of the worst, all my life. If I loved someone, I would like to think I would have the faith to put it to the test. Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think, or you. It’s what Mrs. Alberton wants.”

  “She wants us to go to America and bring Merrit back, willingly or unwillingly, and Breeland too, if we can.”

  She was startled. “Breeland too!”

  “Yes. He’s guilty of triple murder. He should stand trial and answer for it.”

  “That’s all?” In spite of herself there was a lift of desperate sarcasm in her voice. “Just that?”

  He smiled, his eyes wide and steady. “Just that. Shall we?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes … we shall.”

  The following day, Sunday, June 29, Hester packed the few things it would be necessary for them to take, almost entirely clothes and toiletries. Monk returned to Tavistock Square to give Judith Alberton their answer. It was a sort of relief to know that at least it was the one she wished.

  He found her alone in the study, not concealing the fact that she had been waiting for him. She was wearing black unrelieved by any ornament and it accentuated the pallor of her skin, but her hair still had the same warmth of color, and the sun streaming through the window caught the brightness of it.

  She wished him good morning with the usual formal phrases, but her eyes never left his and the question was in them, betraying her emotion.

  “I spoke to my wife,” he said as soon as she had resumed her seat and he had sat opposite the desk. “She is willing to go and to do all we can to bring Merrit back here.” He saw her relax, almost smile. “But she was concerned that Merrit may be implicated in the crime,” he went on, “even by association, and that it may, after all, not be what you wish to happen. That would be beyond our control.”

  “I know that, Mr. Monk,” she said levelly. “I believe in her innocence. I am prepared to take that risk. And I am perfectly aware that I am taking it for her, as well as for myself.” She bit her lip. Her hands on the desktop were slender, white-knuckled. She wore no jewelry but her wedding ring. “If she were older, perhaps I would not, but she is still a child, in spite of her opinion to the contrary. And I am prepared to live with the fact that she may hate me for it. I have thought about it all night, and I believe absolutely that in spite of the risks of coming back to England, the dangers if she remains in America with Breeland are greater, and there will be no one else to fight for her there.”

  She lowered her eyes from his. “Apart from that, she must face what Breeland has done, and if she had a part in it, however small or unintended, she must face that also. One cannot build happiness upon lies … as terrible as this.”

  There was nothing for him to say. He could not argue, and even to agree seemed somehow impertinent, as if he were qualified to share in her pain. That would belittle it.

  “Then we shall go as soon as arrangements can be made,” he replied. “My wife is already packing cases.”

  “I am very grateful, Mr. Monk.” She smiled at him faintly. “I have the money here, and the name of the steamship company. I am afraid it is in Liverpool. That is where they sail most frequently for New York … every Wednesday, to be precise. It will require haste to catch the next ship, since this is Sunday. But it can be done, and I beg you not to delay. In the hope that you would accept, I telegraphed the steamship company yesterday reserving a cabin for you.” She bit her lip. “I can have it canceled.”

  “We shall go tomorrow morning,” he promised.

  “Thank you. I also have money for your use while in America. I do not know how long it will take you to accomplish your task, but there should be sufficient for a month. It is all I can supply at such short notice. My husband’s affairs are naturally not disposed of yet. I have sold some jewelry of my own.”

  “A month should be more than enough,” he said quickly. “I hope we shall find her long before that. And either she will be eager to come home, if she was not aware of Breeland’s acts or if he is holding her against her will, or, if she is not, then we shall have to take her as soon as possible, in case Breeland finds a way to make it more difficult for us. Whatever the circumstances, these will be adequate funds.”

  “Good.” She passed a large bundle of money across the desk. There was no hesitation in her, as if it had not crossed her mind that he would be anything but honest.

  “I should sign a receipt for this, Mrs. Alberton,” he prompted.

  “Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” She reached for a piece of notepaper and picked up a pen. She dipped it in the inkwell and wrote, then passed the paper to him to sign.

  He did so, then gave it back.

  She blotted it and put it away in the top drawer of the desk without glancing at it. He could have written anything.

  There was a knock on the door, and a moment later it opened.

  “Yes?” she said with a frown.

  “Mr. Trace is here, ma’am,” the butler said anxiously. “He is eager to speak to Mr. Monk.”

  Her brow smoothed out. The mention of Trace’s name seemed not to displease her. “Ask him to come in,” she requested, then turned to Monk. “I trust you are agreeable?”

  “Of course.” He was curious that Trace should still be in touch with the Alberton household, since the guns were now gone and he must be aware of it.

  Trace came in a moment later, noticing Monk, but only just. His attention was entirely upon Judith. The distress in his face was too palpable to be feigned. He did not ask her how she was, or express sympathy, but it was naked to read in his face with its dark eyes and curious, sensitive asymmetry. Monk was startled by it. When Trace spoke, his words were ordinary, no more than the formalities anyone might have offered.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Alberton. I am very sorry to intrude on you, especially now. But I am most concerned not to miss Mr. Monk. Mr. Casbolt told me of your intention to employ him to go after Breeland, and I intend to go also.” This time he looked at Monk for a moment, as if to ascertain that he had accepted the task. He was apparently satisfied.

  Judith was startled. “Do you? It was not so much after Breeland, but to bring back my daughter that I wish Mr. Monk to go. But of course if he could bring him back also that would be most desirable.”

  “I will help any way I can,” Trace said intently, his voice charged with emotion. “Breeland deserves to hang, but of course that is far less important than saving Miss Alberton from him, or from further grief.” He stood, slender and very straight, a little self-conscious of his hands, as if he were not quite sure what to do with them. He sought her company, and yet he was not comfortable in it.

  It was at that moment, watching the tension in him, the earnestness in his face, hearing the edge to his voice, that Monk realized Philo Trace was in love with Judith. Possibly his offer had very little to do with the guns.

  Monk was not
sure if he wanted him along or not. He would rather have had complete autonomy. He was used to working alone, or with someone who was junior to him and whom he knew.

  On the other hand, Trace was American and might still have friends in Washington. Certainly he would know the land, and would be familiar with transport by both train and ship. More important still, he would know the manners and customs of the people and be able to facilitate events where Monk might find it impossible.

  He studied the man as he stood in the sunlit room, his face turned to Judith, waiting for her decision, not Monk’s. He looked more of a poet than a soldier, but there was a self-discipline in him under the charm, and the grace of his slender body suggested a very considerable strength.

  “Thank you,” Judith accepted. “For my part I should be very grateful, but you must counsel with Mr. Monk whether you join with him or not. I have given him the freedom to do as he thinks best, and I think that is the only circumstance in which he could undertake such a task.”

  Trace looked at Monk, the question in his eyes. “I fully intend to go, sir,” he said gravely. “Whether I go with you or just behind you is a matter for your choice. But you will need me, that I swear. You think we speak the same language and so you will be able to make yourself understood. That is only partly true.” A shadow of humor crossed his face, sad and self-mocking. “I have discovered that to my cost over here. We use the same words, but we don’t always mean the same things by them. You don’t know America, the state we are in at the present. You can’t understand the issues.…”

  A sudden uncontrollable pain pulled at his lips. “No one does, least of all ourselves. We see our way of life dying. We don’t understand. Change frightens us, and because we are frightened we are angry, and we make bad judgments. A civil war is a terrible thing.”