Slaves of Obsession Read online

  “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 & 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 & 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. & 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 sha
ll 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.”