by Anne Perry
Monk took the opportunity to excuse himself. He had said all he had meant to about his enquiry. The Albertons should be permitted privacy in which to resolve their difficulties.
“I shall keep you informed of everything else I hear,” he promised.
“Thank you,” Alberton said warmly, holding out his hand. “I … I am very sorry for this unpleasantness. I am afraid emotions run very high in this American affair. I think we have barely seen the beginning of it.”
Monk feared he was correct, but he said no more, wishing them good night and allowing the butler to show him out.
He woke confused, wondering for a moment where he was, struggling to separate the persistent noise from the last shreds of his dream. He sat up quickly. It was daylight, but shadowy and thin. The noise continued.
Hester was awake. “Who can it be?” she asked anxiously, sitting upright, her hair falling around her shoulders. “It’s quarter to four!”
Monk climbed out of bed and grasped his dressing gown. He put it on hastily and went through to the front of the house, where the knocking was now louder and more persistent. He had not bothered with boots or trousers. Whoever it was seemed so desperate they were determined to wake someone even if it meant disturbing the entire neighborhood.
Monk fumbled for a moment with the lock and then opened the door.
Robert Casbolt stood on the step in the thin dawn light, his face unshaven, his hair rumpled.
“Come in.” Monk stepped back, holding the door wide.
Casbolt obeyed without hesitation, and began speaking even before he was over the threshold.
“I’m sorry to disturb you in such a frantic manner, but I’m terribly afraid something irreparable may have happened.” His words stumbled as if he could barely control his tongue. “Judith-Mrs. Alberton sent me a note. She is beside herself with worry. Daniel left shortly after you did and he has not returned. She said Breeland was there yesterday evening and was very angry indeed … even threatening. She is terrified that … I’m sorry.” He brushed his hand across his face as if to clear his vision and steady himself. “What is worse is that Merrit has disappeared too.” He stared at Monk with horror in his eyes. “She seems to have gone straight up to her room after the quarrel with her father. Judith assumed she would stay there, in temper, and probably not come down until morning.”
Monk did not interrupt.
“But when she was unable to sleep with anxiety over Daniel,” Casbolt went on, “she went to Merrit’s room-and found her gone. She was nowhere in the house, and her maid looked and said a bag and some of her clothes were gone … a costume and at least two blouses. And her hairbrush and combs. For God’s sake, Monk, help me look for them, please.”
Monk tried to collect his thoughts and form some clear plan as to what to do first. Casbolt seemed close to the edge of hysteria. His voice was erratic and his body so tense his hands clenched and unclenched as if stillness were unbearable.
“Has Mrs. Alberton called the police?” Monk asked.
Casbolt shook his head very slightly.
“No. That was the first thing I suggested, but she was afraid if Merrit has gone to Breeland that she would be involved in scandal and it would ruin her. She …” He took a deep breath. “Honestly, Monk, I think she is afraid Breeland has done Daniel some harm. Apparently when he left the house he was in a terrible rage, and said that he would win one way or another.”
“That is true,” Monk agreed. “I was there when he said it.” He remembered with a chill the passion in Breeland’s voice. It was the fire of the artist who creates from nothing a great vision for the world, the explorer who ventures into the unknown and opens the way for lesser men, the inventor, the thinker, the martyr who dies rather than deny the light he has seen … and the fanatic who sees any act justified by the cause he serves.
Casbolt was right to be afraid of Breeland; so was Judith Alberton.
“Yes, of course I’ll come with you,” he answered. “I’ll go and dress, and tell my wife. I’ll be five minutes, or less.”
“Thank you! Thank you very much.”
Monk nodded, then went hastily back to the bedroom.
Hester was sitting up with a shawl around her.
“Who is it?” she asked before he had closed the door.
“Casbolt,” he answered, taking off his dressing gown and putting on his shirt. “Alberton went out shortly after I left and hasn’t come home, and Merrit is missing. It looks as if she might have gone after Breeland. Stupid child!”
“Can I help?”
“No! Thank you.” He fastened his shirt with clumsy fingers, moving too hastily, then reached for his trousers.
“Be careful what you say to her,” Hester warned.
He would have been delighted to put Merrit Alberton over his knee and spank her until she was obliged to eat off the mantelpiece for a week. It must have shown in his face, because Hester stood up quickly and came to him.
“William, she is young and full of ideals. The harder you argue with her, the more stubborn she will be. Fight with her, and she’ll do the last thing she really wants to rather than be seen to give in. Plead for her help, her understanding, earn her mercy, and she’ll be reasonable.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was sixteen once,” she said a trifle tartly.
He grinned. “And in love?”
“It is a natural state of affairs.”
“Was he a gun buyer for a foreign army?” He put his jacket on. There was no time to shave.
“No, actually he was a vicar,” she replied.
“A vicar? You … in love with a vicar?”
“I was sixteen!” There was warm color in her cheeks.
He smiled and kissed her quickly, feeling her respond after only an instant’s hesitation.
“Be careful,” she whispered. “Breeland may be …”
“I know.” And before she could add anything further he went out and back to where Casbolt was standing near the door impatiently.
Casbolt’s carriage was waiting outside in the street, and he climbed in ahead of Monk, shouting at the driver sitting huddled on the box. The summer dawn was hardly cold, but too chilly to wait in, and the man had been woken barely halfway through his sleep.
The carriage lurched forward and reached a good speed within moments. It was altogether fourteen minutes since Casbolt had interrupted Monk’s dream.
“Where are we going?” Monk asked as they rolled over the cobbles and were flung together by the swerve around a corner.
“Breeland’s rooms,” Casbolt answered breathlessly. “I nearly went straight there without you, but for the cost of a street or so out of my way, I could have you with me. I don’t know what we should find there. It may need more than one of us, and I formed the opinion you are a good man to have beside me in a scrap-if it should come to that. God knows what is in Merrit’s mind. She must have lost all sense of … everything. She hardly knows the man! He …” He gasped as they were bumped again and the carriage swerved the other way, this time throwing him half on top of Monk.
“He could be anything!” he went on. “The man’s a fanatic, prepared to sacrifice everything and everybody to his damned cause! He’s madder than any of our own military men, and God help us, they are insane enough.” His voice was rising with a wild note in it. “Look at some of their antics in the Crimea. Any price to be a hero-glory of victory, blood and bodies all over the place, and for what? Fame, an idea … medals and a footnote in history.”
They were clattering through a leafy square, the trees making a temporary darkness.
“Damn Breeland and his idiotic ideals!” he said in an explosion of fury. “He has no business preaching to a sixteen-year-old girl who thinks everyone else is as noble and as uncomplicated as she is.” There was a startling venom in his voice, a passion so deep it broke through his control and was raw in the air in the broadening light as they careered through the dawn streets.
Mo
nk wished there were some help he could offer, but he knew that what Casbolt said was true. He deplored fatuous words, so he remained silent.
Suddenly the carriage drew up, Casbolt glanced out to make sure it was not a crossroads, apparently recognized where he was, and all but threw himself out.
Monk followed after him as he strode across the pavement to a doorway, opened it abruptly, and went inside. It was merely the outer entrance to a set of apartments, and the night doorman was sitting comfortably half asleep in a chair in the hallway.
“Breeland’s rooms!” Casbolt said loudly as the man started awake.
“Yes, sir.” He scrambled to his feet, fishing for his cap and setting it crookedly on his head. “But Mr. Breeland in’t ’ere. ’E’s gorn, sir.”
“Gone?” Casbolt looked staggered. “He was here last night. What do you mean ‘gone’? Where to? When will he be back?”
“ ’E won’t be back, sir.” The doorman shook his head. “ ’E’s gorn for good. Paid up an’ took ’is bags. Not that ’e ’ad but the one.”
“When?” Casbolt demanded. “What time did he go? Was he alone?”
The doorman squinted. “I dunno, sir. ’Bout ’alf-past eleven, or summink like that. Were before midnight, anyway.”
“Was he alone?” Casbolt persisted. His body was shaking and his face was white, a fine sweat on his brow.
“No, sir.” The doorman was definitely frightened now. “There were a young lady wif ’im. Very pretty. Fair ’air, much as I could see of it. She ’ad a bag wif ’er as well.” He swallowed. “Was they elopin’?” His breath caught in his throat and he coughed convulsively.
“Probably,” Casbolt replied, the pain naked in his voice.
The doorman controlled his coughing. “Are you ’er father? I din’t know, I swear ter Gawd!”
“Godfather,” Casbolt replied. “Her father may have come looking for her as well. Was there anyone else here?”
The doorman screwed up his face. “There were a message for Mr. Breeland, but it just come wi’ a reg’lar lad. Took it up ter Mr. Breeland, personal, an’ went orff again. An’ there were someone after that too, but I only just saw the back of ’im as ’e went up.”
“What time was the message?” Casbolt said, desperation rising in his voice.
“Jus’ afore ’e went orff.” The doorman was now thoroughly alarmed. “I gave Mr. Breeland a knock an’ ’e answered the door. The lad give ’im the message. Wouldn’t trust me ter do it. Sounds as ’e’d bin paid ter give it personal, like I said, an’ wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“About half-past eleven?” Monk interrupted.
“Yeah, or a bit later. Anyway, Mr. Breeland came out jus’ minutes arter that, wi’ ’is things in ’is bag and the young lady arter ’im, and paid me wot ’e owes, for me ter give the landlord, an’ orff ’e goes. An ’er wif ’im.”
“May we see his rooms?” Casbolt asked. “It may tell us something, although I have little hope.”
“Course, if yer want.” The doorman was more than amenable and started leading the way.
“Have you any idea what was in the note?” Monk asked, keeping pace with him. “Any idea at all? How did he look when he read it? Pleased, surprised, angry, distressed?”
“Pleased!” the doorman said immediately. “Oh ’e were right pleased. ’Is face lit up an’ ’e thanked the lad, give ’im sixpence!” He was clear the extravagance spoke volumes about his pleasure. “An’ in a terrible ’urry ter be gorn, ’e were.”
“But did he give you any idea where to?” Casbolt urged, so agitated he moved his weight from one foot to the other, unable to keep still.
“No. Jus’ said as ’e ’ad ter ’urry, be very quick, an’ ’e were. Out in ten minutes, ’e were.” He came to the door of Breeland’s room and opened it, stepping back to allow them in.
Casbolt went straight past him and turned around slowly, staring.
Monk followed. The room seemed stripped of all personal belongings. He saw only a little crockery, a bowl for water, a ewer and a pile of towels. There was a Bible and a few scraps of waste paper on the dressing table. There was nothing left to indicate who had occupied the room only a few hours before.
Casbolt went straight to the dressing table, rifling through, then around pulling out the drawers. He yanked the bedclothes back right to the mattress, his actions growing wilder as he found not a thing beyond the landlord’s few furnishings.
“There’s nothing here,” Monk said quietly.
Casbolt swore, fury and desperation sharp-pitched in his voice.
“There’s no point in staying,” Monk cut across him. “Where else can we look? If Breeland’s gone, and Merrit is with him, perhaps Alberton went after them both? Where would they be most likely to head?”
Casbolt put his hands up to cover his face. Then his body stiffened and he stared at Monk wide-eyed. “The note! Merrit was with him, so it couldn’t have been from her. He was pleased by it-very pleased. The only thing he cares about is the damned guns! It must be to do with them.” He was moving towards the door already.
“Where?” Monk went after him out into the hallway.
“If he’s held Merrit to ransom, then the warehouse. That’s where the guns are,” Casbolt called, racing to the front door and out into the street. “It’s on Tooley Street!” he shouted to the driver, and pulled the door open, scrambling in a stride ahead of Monk. The carriage lurched forward and picked up speed, throwing Monk hard on the seat. It was moments before he was upright and had regained his balance.
They rode in silence, each consumed by fear of what they would find. It was clear daylight now and a few laborers were on their way to work. They passed wagons going to the vegetable market at Covent Garden, or others like it. It was all a familiar blur.
They crossed the river at London Bridge, the water already busy with barges, the smell of damp and salt coming in with the tide. The light was hard, a brittle reflection off the shifting surface.
They turned right, then pulled up sharply outside high, double wooden gates. Casbolt leapt out and ran across to them. He threw his weight against them and they swung wide, no lock or bar holding them.
Monk followed and burst into the warehouse yard. For an instant in the cold morning light he thought it was empty. The warehouse doors were closed, the windows blind. The cobbles were splattered with mud, clear tracks leading in several directions, as if something heavy had turned.
There were fresh horse droppings.
Then he saw them, dark, awkward mounds.
Casbolt stood paralyzed.
Monk walked across, his stomach cold, his legs shaking. There were two bodies lying close to each other, a third a little distance away, perhaps nine or ten feet. They were all in strangely contorted positions, as if they had been on the ground when someone had passed a broom handle under their knees and over their arms. Their hands and ankles were tied, preventing them from moving, and they were gagged. The first two were strangers.
Monk walked over to the third, his stomach sick. It was Daniel Alberton. He, like the others, had been shot through the head.
3
Monk stared down in horror at Alberton until the sound of Casbolt choking brought him abruptly to the realization that they must act. He turned around to see Casbolt was haggard, apparently incapable of moving. He looked as if he might faint.
Monk went over to him. He took him by the shoulders, forcing him to turn away. His body under Monk’s hands was rigid and yet curiously without balance, as if the slightest blow would knock him over.
“We … we should do something.…” Casbolt said hoarsely, stumbling and leaning heavily on Monk. “Get … someone … Oh God! This is …” He could not complete the sentence.
“Sit down,” Monk ordered, half easing him to the ground. “I’ll look around and see what I can. When you’re fit to, you go for the police.”
“M-Merrit?” Casbolt stammered.
“I don’t think there’s anyo
ne else here,” Monk answered. “I’m going to look. Stay where you are!”
Casbolt did not reply. He seemed too stunned to move unaided.
Monk turned back and walked across the cobbled yard to the bodies of the two men lying close to each other. The nearest one was strongly built, thickset, and although it was hard to tell in his doubled-up position, Monk guessed he was of less-than-average height. His head and what was left of his face were covered with blood. The hair still visible was light brown with no gray in it. He could have been in his thirties.
Monk swallowed hard and moved to the next body. This second man seemed older; his hair was sprinkled with gray, his body leaner, his hands gnarled. His clothes had been pulled away from his shoulders at the back, and there was an almost bloodless cut on his skin below and to the side of his neck. It was T-shaped. It must have been made after death.
Monk walked back to the first man and looked more carefully. He found the same thing on his shoulder, half obscured by the way he had fallen, although there was so little bleeding this cut also must have been made after his heart had stopped. It was a curious, savage thing to do to a dead man. Was there great hatred behind it? Or some other bitter purpose? It had to matter, or why would anyone waste time remaining here to do it? Surely after such a murder one would escape as quickly as possible?
At first Monk had been too appalled to touch the flesh to see if it was still warm. He must do it now.
He glanced across at Casbolt, who was sitting on the ground, staring at him.
He bent and touched the dead man’s hand. It was growing cold. He touched the shoulder under the jacket and shirt. There was still a trace of warmth in the flesh. They must have been killed two or three hours ago, at perhaps about two in the morning. Alberton must have arrived not long after midnight. The other two must be the watchmen normally employed.
The relief would be coming soon. He could hear the sound of carts in the street beyond the gates, and now and then voices. The world was awakening and beginning its day. He stood up and walked over to where Daniel Alberton lay, curled over in the same grotesque position. The shooting here had been neater. More of his face was recognizable. The same T-shaped mark was cut into his shoulder.
