Slaves of Obsession Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Judith looked at him with a slightly reproving smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “In your opinion?” Casbolt said quickly.

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

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

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

  “He was hanged,” Monk said without pleasure.

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

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

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