Slaves of Obsession (36 page)

“Yes,” Judith said quietly. “I suppose the answer had to be terrible, whatever it was. It was foolish to have hoped it would be … something … bearable … someone easy to hate, and dismiss.”

There was nothing Hester could say to mitigate that. She turned to the other matter she needed to probe. “Mrs. Alberton, your husband and Mr. Casbolt received a very ugly letter requesting that they sell guns to a company which is known to be an intermediary who would sell them on to most undesirable quarters.”

Judith’s face registered no comprehension of why Hester should ask.

“They refused, but they asked my husband’s assistance in finding out who was making the request. The letter was anonymous, and threatening—”

“Threatening?” Judith said quickly. “Have you informed the police? Surely they must be responsible, then.…”

“Mr. Breeland has the guns that were stolen.”

“Oh … yes, of course. I’m sorry. Then why are you asking about these people?”

Again Hester told less than the truth.

“I am not quite certain. I just feel that the coincidence of time, and the fact that it was guns, may mean that they are connected somehow. We need all the knowledge we can possibly obtain.”

“Yes, I see. Of course. What can I tell you?” Judith made no demur at all. She leaned forward, her face watchful and intelligent.

Hester hated opening the subject, but it was a past loss, raised perhaps to avoid a present one.

“I believe you lost your brother in dreadful circumstances.…” She saw Judith wince and the color pale in her cheeks. Hester did not retreat. “Please tell me at least the main story. I don’t ask lightly.”

Judith looked down. “I am half Italian. I daresay you knew I was not entirely English. My father came from the south, about fifty miles from Naples. I had only one brother, Cesare. He was married and had three children. He and his wife, Maria, used to love sailing.”

Her voice was tight and low. “Seven years ago their boat was boarded by pirates off the coast of Sicily. The whole family was killed.” She swallowed convulsively. “Their bodies were found … later. I …” She shook her head minutely, little more than a shiver. “Daniel went out. I didn’t. He … he wouldn’t tell me the details. I asked … I was glad he refused. I saw in his face that it was terrible. Sometimes he dreamed … I heard him cry out in the night, and wake up,
his body rigid. But he would never say what had happened to them.”

Hester tried to imagine the crushing weight of horror that had remained with Alberton so vividly, and the love for his wife which had taken him to Sicily, and then kept him silent all the years between. And yet he still dealt in guns! Did he feel they were also used for good, to fight just causes, defend the weak, even keep a balance of power between otherwise violent forces?

Or was it simply the only business he understood, or the most profitable? They would probably never know. She wished to think it was one of the former.

“How long was he away?” she asked aloud.

“I don’t know. Almost three weeks,” Judith answered. “It seemed an age at the time. I missed him dreadfully, and of course I feared for him also. But he was determined to do everything he could to have the pirates found and punished. He pursued word of them from one place to another, but always they eluded him. And most of the forces of law were those who had no interest in catching them.” A fleeting love and sorrow filled her eyes. “Italy is a culture, a language, a great art, a way of life, but it is not a nation. One day it may be, if God is willing, but that day is not yet.”

“I see.”

Judith smiled. “No, you don’t. You are English, forgive me, but you have no idea at all. Neither had Daniel. He did all he could, and when he realized that they could simply disappear anywhere in hundreds of miles of coastline, thousands of islands anywhere between Constantinople and Tangiers, he came home again, angry, defeated, but prepared to care for me and for Merrit, and let justice be God’s, in whatever manner it may.”

There was nothing for Hester to add. Of course it was possible Alberton had made contact with gun buyers in the Mediterranean, pirates or otherwise, fighters for or against Italian unification. But there was no way she could find out. Probably Judith did not know; certainly she would not say.

“How did you know of the blackmail?” Judith asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Mr. Casbolt told me.” Hester realized that needed some explanation. “I was seeking his help regarding his knowledge of Mr. Breeland, and of the munitions business in general. He told me of the pressure to sell to the pirates, and why Mr. Alberton never would, whatever the threat or the price.”

Judith’s face relaxed into a smile. “He always understood. He knew Daniel before I did, you know? They were friends at school here in England, and one year he brought Daniel with him to Italy. That was where we fell in love.” She looked down for a moment. “Without Robert’s help I don’t know if I would be able to commit to Sir Oliver’s fee for representing Merrit, and that would be more than I could bear.” She raised her head quickly, her eyes wide, fear naked in them. “Mrs. Monk, do you think Sir Oliver is going to be able to save her? The newspapers are so certain she is guilty. I had no idea written words could hurt so much … that people who don’t even know you could be so passionately certain of what you are like, what is in your heart. I don’t go out, not at the moment, but I don’t know how I will be able to when the time comes. How will I face people when everyone I pass in the street may believe my daughter is guilty of …”

“Ignore them,” Hester replied. “Think only of Merrit. Those with any honesty will be ashamed of themselves when they discover their error. The others are not worth battling with, and there is nothing you can do about them anyway.”

Judith sat quite still. “Will you be there?”

“Yes.” There had been no decision to make.

“Thank you.”

Hester stayed another half hour, but as a matter of companionship. They talked of nothing important, carefully avoiding speaking of the case, or of love and loss. Judith showed her around the garden, vivid with color as the roses began their second flush. It was warm even in the shade, the heavy perfume of flowers dreamlike. It made Monday’s opening of the
trial harsher by contrast, as if this were so soon to end. For a long time neither of them spoke. Platitudes would insult the reality.

Monk went to see Breeland on Saturday. He had not found enough to help Rathbone beyond hope, doubt, issues to raise. He would continue seeking during the trial, but he was beginning to fear that there was no proof to find that Merrit was innocent. It might end in being no more than a matter of judgment.

There was one question to ask Breeland, the answer to which would do him no injury, so Monk had no hesitation in asking it.

Breeland was brought into a small square cell. He looked pale and thinner than when Monk had last seen him. His face had hollows around the eyes and a certain leanness to the cheeks where the muscles showed tight-clenched. He stood stiffly, looking at Monk with resentment.

“I have already told you everything I have to say,” he began before Monk had spoken at all. “You brought me back to stand trial and to prove my innocence. I assume your friend Rathbone will do his duty, although I have little confidence in his belief in my innocence. I trusted you, Monk, but I now fear my trust may have been misplaced. I think you would be pleased enough to see me hang, as long as Miss Alberton is acquitted and you are paid your fee for rescuing her. I apologize if I accuse you unjustly. I hope I do.”

Monk searched the smooth, chiseled face and saw no surface emotion, no fear, no weakness, no doubt in his own courage to face the ordeal now only two days away. He should have admired it. Instead it filled him with a strange fear of his own. He was not certain whether Breeland’s demeanor was more than human, or less. He could see none of his own vulnerabilities reflected there.

“I accept your apology,” he said coolly. “Certainly I would like Miss Alberton acquitted, and I admit I don’t give a damn whether you hang or not … provided you are guilty … 
whether you actually fired the gun doesn’t matter. If you corrupted Shearer, or anybody else, into doing it for you, that’s all the same to me. If you didn’t, and it had nothing to do with you, then I’ll fight as hard to clear you as I would any man.”

There was no flash of humor in Breeland’s face, not even the ghost of recognition of irony. Monk had a sudden thought that Breeland did not perceive himself except as a hero, or a martyr. Human foibles and absurdities eluded his grasp. Monk saw a vision of an endless desert of existence, always on the grand scale, stripped of the laughter and trivia that bring proportion to life and are the measure of sanity.

Poor Merrit.

He pushed his hands into his pockets. “How many guns did you buy?” he asked casually. “Exactly.”

“Exactly?” Breeland repeated, his eyebrows lifted. “To the gun? I didn’t count them. There was hardly time. I assumed every crate was full. Alberton was a stubborn man, with limited views and no moral or political understanding, but I never doubted his financial integrity.”

“How many guns did you pay for?”

“Six thousand. And I paid him the agreed amount per gun.”

“You paid Shearer?”

“I already told you that.” Breeland frowned. “For that amount of money you could build several streets’ worth of four-bedroom houses in any part of London. It seems obvious to me that Shearer double-crossed Alberton, shot him and the guards in a manner to make it look as if it were Union soldiers who did it, sold the guns to me, and escaped with the money. I am innocent, and Rathbone will be able to demonstrate that.”

Monk made no reply. Breeland was perfectly correct. Monk did not care whether he hanged or not … not at this moment.

10

O
N THE FOLLOWING
Monday the trial began of Lyman Breeland and Merrit Alberton, jointly accused of the Tooley Street murders. Oliver Rathbone was as well prepared as he was able to be, given the information he possessed. From what Monk had told him, he believed Breeland had not committed the crimes himself, but assuring the jury that he had not instigated them, and profited from them knowing what had occurred, was quite another matter. And Rathbone was aware of having a client who would not naturally elicit the sympathy of the jury.

He had spoken to both Merrit and Breeland on the Friday before. He had weighed whether to suggest to Breeland a softer manner, more expression of humility, even of regret for the tragedy of Alberton’s death, but he formed the belief that it would be a wasted attempt, perhaps even produce a pattern of behavior that was obviously false.

Now as the court was called to order and the proceedings began, Rathbone looked up at Breeland’s face in the dock, expressionless, staring straight ahead as if he had no interest in the people assembled there, no regard or respect for them, and Rathbone wished he had made some effort to warn him how dearly that could cost.

Merrit, on the other hand, looked young and frightened, and very vulnerable indeed. Her skin was pale, blue-shadowed around her eyes, and her hands were clenched on the rail so hard it would be easy to think she was holding on to it to save
herself from falling. As Rathbone watched her, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin a little, and looked up at Breeland. Very tentatively she reached out her hand and touched his arm.

The shadow of a smile moved his lips, but he did not speak to her. Perhaps he did not wish the court to witness any emotion in him. Perhaps he felt that love was a private thing, and he would not share it with those who had come to stare, and to judge.

Rathbone was acutely conscious of Judith Alberton, as were most of the people in the court. There was a beauty in her carriage, and in what could be glimpsed of her features. He saw people nudge each other as she came in, and several men were unable to keep the admiration, or the interest, from their expressions.

Rathbone wondered if she was accustomed to being stared at, or if it made her uncomfortable. She looked at Merrit, who was still turned towards Breeland, then across at Rathbone. It was only a glance before she sat down, and he could not see her eyes through the veil. He only imagined the desperation she must be feeling. All the help anyone could give her could not cross the barrier of loneliness she must face, the fear of what these days would bring.