Slaves of Obsession wm-11 Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lanyon stiffened. “A heavy-laden barge?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Not. Tell me about the barge!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

  Lanyon shrugged ruefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And my daughter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Judith …” Casbolt began to protest.

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

  Casbolt drew in his breath in a gasp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She stared at him, her eyes wide.

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

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

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

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