by Anne Perry
Judith Alberton received them without even a pretense of formality. Unconsciously, it was Philo Trace to whom she looked first.
“We have Merrit,” he responded, his eyes softening as they met hers. “She is very tired, and much distressed by all that has happened, but she is unhurt and quite well.”
Her face flooded with relief, but she hesitated.
As if reading her thoughts he answered, “She is not married to Breeland, and she knew nothing of her father’s death … but then you cannot have imagined that she did.”
“No … no, of course not.” She gazed straight back at him, as if to emphasize her words. She was waiting for something else, something so far unsaid. She recollected herself, and that Monk and Hester were still awaiting her acknowledgment. She flushed slightly, turning to them. “I cannot say how grateful I am to you for your courage and skill in bringing back my daughter. I confess, I thought I was asking the impossible. I–I hope you sustained no injury? I cannot believe there was no hardship. I … I wish there were some way I could reward you more than in words, or money, because what you have done is greater than either.”
“We succeeded this far,” Monk said simply. “That is a very considerable reward in itself. I don’t wish to sound graceless, Mrs. Alberton, but would you accept that we did it because we also believed it to be important, and not take upon yourself an additional burden of gratitude.”
Hester found herself smiling with a warmth of pride. It was a generous speech, and she knew it was said spontaneously. She reached out her hand and placed it very lightly on his arm, avoiding his gaze, and moved half a step closer to him. She knew he was aware of her by the slightest warmth up his cheek.
Judith Alberton was smiling also, but the fear had not left her eyes. She must have been far more aware than they of what the newspapers had written.
“Thank you. Please come and sit down. Are you hungry? Have you had any rest since you arrived?”
They accepted gratefully, without telling her exactly how arduous the journey had been. They were partway through an excellent dinner when Robert Casbolt arrived, coming straight into the dining room without waiting for the footman to announce him. He glanced at the assembled company around the table, but his eyes rested on Judith.
She looked up at him without surprise, as if he frequently appeared in such a way.
Hester saw the glint of anger in Trace’s expression, masked the moment later, but she thought she understood it.
If Casbolt saw it also, he gave no sign.
“She is safe and well,” Judith said in answer to his unspoken question.
Something in him darkened, and he could not hide the foreboding in it. “Where is she?”
Judith’s mouth tightened. “The police have arrested her, and of course Breeland.”
“They have Breeland!” He was startled. For the first time he looked fully at Monk, but still ignored Philo Trace. “You brought him back? I commend you! How did you persuade him?”
“At gunpoint,” Monk said dryly.
Casbolt made no attempt to hide his admiration. “That is truly remarkable! I apologize for underestimating you. I admit, I had little hope you could succeed.” He seemed overwhelmed. He pulled out one of the empty chairs and sat down. He waved away the footman’s offer of food or wine with a smile, not taking his eyes from Monk. “Please tell me what happened. I am most eager to know.” He did not ask Judith’s permission, but perhaps he already understood that she would care even more than he.
Monk began to recount their adventures, condensing the tale as much as he could, but frequently both Casbolt and Judith interrupted him, asking for more detail and offering praise or expressing alarm at their danger. Judith particularly was distressed at the plight of the American people caught up in a terrible war. It seemed there were vivid, fragmented reports of the battle at Bull Run in the newspaper already. They said the slaughter had been fearful.
Monk said as little as he could about it while still making sense of the account. Judith grew more tense with every few moments. Her face softened once, when Monk very briefly spoke of Merrit’s helping to prepare the ambulances for the wounded.
“It must have been … terrible beyond words,” she said huskily.
“Yes …” He did not offer to tell her of it, and watching his face, the brightness of the smooth, burned skin over his cheeks, Hester knew it was his own pain he could not relive, not Judith’s he was sparing. She had seen how the horror had overwhelmed him, how the helplessness to do anything in the face of such enormity had robbed him of his belief in himself. She had experienced it herself the first time she had seen battle, and for her it was not so total, because she had at least some medical knowledge, and a function in being there. She could lose herself in the individual she could affect, even if not save. It was not always the success that made it bearable; it was the ability to try.
She had seen it in him, and understood, but it was too raw, too powerful to be touched even by her, or perhaps especially by her. Some wounds have to heal alone, or they do not heal at all.
“Did Breeland not go to the battlefield after all?” Casbolt asked incredulously.
“Yes. It was there we found him.”
“And he came with you?” Casbolt frowned in incomprehension. “Why? He did not have to, surely? I cannot believe his own people would give him up to answer English law.”
“The Union lost,” Monk answered, offering no explanation beyond that simple sentence. He said nothing of the slaughter, the panic, as if the men he had been defending from the shame of it were people he knew. He did not look at either Trace or Hester, or give them time to interrupt. “We went south through the Confederate lines to Richmond, and then Charleston. No one hindered us.”
Judith’s eyes were wide with fierce admiration. Even in these tragic circumstances, Hester could not help thinking what a beautiful woman she was. She was not surprised that Philo Trace was drawn to Judith. She would have found it harder to understand were he not.
“But the police have arrested Merrit,” Judith said to Casbolt. “They found Breeland’s watch in the warehouse yard.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I was there when Monk picked it up.” He seemed puzzled.
Judith lowered her voice. “Breeland gave it to Merrit as a keepsake. I knew that, but I hoped the police would not. However, Dorothea Parfitt told them … in all innocence, I imagine. But it cannot be taken back. Merrit showed it to her, boasting a little, as girls will.” Her composure cracked and she had to struggle to regain it.
Casbolt put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer to him. His face was full of pain, and the strength of his emotion was for a moment completely unguarded.
“Breeland is despicable,” he said softly. “He must have taken it back from her and dropped it there himself, even accidentally, or with the intention of trying to stop us from pursuing him for the harm it could do her. Either way, Judith, I swear we will fight him. We shall obtain the finest lawyers there are, and a Queen’s counsel to defend Merrit, if we cannot prevent it from coming to that.” He turned to Monk. “Is it conceivable Breeland will exonerate her? Does he have any love towards her at all, any honor? After all, he is a grown man, she is little more than a child, and she could never in her life have imagined stealing guns for any cause of her own!”
Hester knew what Monk would say before he spoke. She even glanced at Trace and saw the shadow in his face also.
“No,” Monk answered bluntly. “He denies he ever killed Mr. Alberton or stole anything.” He ignored their disbelief and continued. “He says Mr. Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. He says he bought them quite legally, and paid a man named Shearer for them.”
“What?” Casbolt jerked his head up.
Judith stared at Monk incredulously.
“And he says he has no idea who murdered the men in the warehouse yard,” Monk continued. “But he suggests it migh
t have been Trace, out of revenge for not having been able to purchase the guns.”
“Preposterous!” Casbolt could keep silent no longer. “That’s totally absurd. No one would believe it.” He turned to Judith. “Did you receive any money?”
“No,” she said decisively.
“Who is Shearer anyway? Where is he?” Monk asked her.
“I don’t know where he is,” she admitted. “There has been no money paid for the guns-except, I believe, the money Mr. Trace paid in the beginning.”
Casbolt swung around to Philo Trace. “You paid the first half deposit on the whole shipment, did you not?”
“You know I did, sir.”
“Did you ever receive any part of it refunded because you were not to make the purchase after all?”
“No, not a cent.” Trace’s voice was tight and low, as if he was embarrassed for Judith, although it was in no way her fault.
Casbolt looked at Monk. “That should answer your questions, if you still have any. I don’t know what he has done to Merrit to persuade her of his innocence, or else to coerce her into swearing a lie to protect him, but she is only sixteen, a child. Certainly far too young to have her word taken seriously regarding a man she is obviously obsessed with.” He bit his lip, his expression softening to momentary distress. “Do you think he may have threatened her?”
Again Monk answered honestly. “No. It is my opinion she believes he is innocent. I don’t know why. It may be no more than that she cannot bear to think of his guilt. There is little more bitter than disillusion, and we can make ourselves believe what we need to, however preposterous, at least for a while. We call it loyalty, or faith, or whatever virtue counts most highly to us and fits the need.”
Casbolt glanced across at Judith, then down at the polished surface of the table with its silver and flowers. “There seems no way in which we can protect her from hurt. The best we can do will be to save her from being implicated in Breeland’s guilt in law. The story about our agent Shearer is absurd. Obviously, Breeland organized the stealing of the guns, whether he was there in person or not. We must distance her from that.” He looked at Judith, his face softening again, his voice gentle. “Will you call Pilbeam to handle it for you? If you would rather, I can take care of it, make sure the best possible barrister represents Merrit. There is no need for you to do anything.”
Her eyes softened. “Thank you, Robert,” she said quickly, reaching up and taking his hand. “I don’t know how I would have endured these past terrible weeks without your kindness. You have not spared yourself in the slightest, and I know you must be nearly as deeply grieved as I am. Daniel was your friend for even more years than he was my husband. He would be nearly as grateful to you as I am for your tireless care.”
Casbolt colored in an oddly self-conscious way, showing a vulnerability that startled Monk.
“I don’t believe Merrit will consent to be represented separately from Breeland,” Hester said urgently. “And certainly she will not allow him to sacrifice himself for her in any way at all. She is far more disposed to see it as the measure of her love to suffer with him, no matter how innocent she is in fact.”
“But that is …” Casbolt began, then, seeing her face, fell silent. Perhaps he knew Merrit well enough to realize the truth of Hester’s words. He turned to Monk.
But again it was Hester who spoke. “We know Sir Oliver Rathbone quite well. He is the best barrister in London. He can defend her if anyone can.”
Judith turned to her quickly, hope flaring in her eyes. “Would he? She may not be willing to be of any help to herself. Will he not refuse … in the circumstances?” She bit her lip. “I will pay him whatever his price, if that is the question. Please, Mrs. Monk, if there is anything you can do to prevail upon him. I will sell the house, the jewelry I have, everything, to save my daughter.”
“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Hester said softly. “It will not be money that matters to him, although I will tell him how much you care. It will be a question of finding a way to separate Merrit from Breeland’s guilt.”
“Try them separately!” Casbolt could not keep from interrupting; his body was locked with tension, his eyes hollow. “It is transparently unjust to charge them as if they were of one mind and one responsibility. Surely a decent barrister could persuade a jury of that?” There was an edge of desperation in his voice, a sharp, high note close to panic.
“Of course!” Monk said quickly, before he could say more, and Judith would know his fear. “We shall tell him all the circumstances, and if he is willing to take the case, he can then come to you and make all the necessary arrangements.”
“Thank you!” Judith’s face was flooded with relief, and then sudden shame. “You have done so much already. You must be exhausted, and I have sat half the evening pouring out more troubles and expecting your help, when you must be worn to a shadow for lack of sleep, and want more than anything on earth to reach your own home and your own bed. I am sorry.”
“There is no need to be.” Hester reached across quickly and touched Judith’s hand. “We have grown fond of Merrit ourselves, and are almost as angry as you are at the injustice that could be done were Breeland not to pay the price of his crime. Even had you not asked, we should not have wished to leave the task half completed.”
Judith said nothing. She was too full of emotion to retain command of herself.
“Thank you.” Casbolt spoke for her. “It was a fortunate day for us when you crossed our path. Without you this would have been an unmitigated tragedy.” He turned to Trace. “And I have been remiss in acknowledging your part also, sir. Your knowledge and your willingness to take your time and risk your safety in pursuit of justice, and towards Merrit, a very considerable mercy, marks you as a true gentleman. We are in your debt also.”
“There is no debt between friends,” Trace replied. He spoke to Casbolt, but Monk was quite certain his words were meant for Judith.
It was not a task to which Monk looked forward. He had half hoped Judith Alberton would have a lawyer in whom she had such explicit trust that she would look no further, but he had always acknowledged the possibility that in the end Rathbone would have to be approached. This was a desperate case.
Still, as he and Hester rode homeward at last, he felt a weight of oppression settle over him at the prospect of having to go to Vere Street the following day and speak to Oliver Rathbone-worse than that, to ask a favor of him.
Their relationship was long, and tense. Rathbone was by birth everything that Monk was not: privileged, financially comfortable, excellently educated, part of the establishment, effortlessly a gentleman. Monk was a fisherman’s son from Northumberland, a self-made man, grasping his education where he could, bettering himself by imagination and hard work. He could appear a gentleman to the undiscerning eye. He had every whit as much elegance as Rathbone, but it cost him effort. He had learned how to behave, imitated those he admired, but sometimes made mistakes and remembered them with the fire of embarrassment.
Rathbone never made the point that he was superior; to do so would have been unnecessary. Monk was learning that only now, in his forties.
All of which was only a natural abrasion between two men who had equal intelligence and ambition, quickness of thought and word, passion for justice. The issue that mattered, that was always at the front of both their minds, was that they had loved the same woman. And she had chosen Monk.
Now Monk had to go to him and ask his help, offer him a case which could certainly prove complicated and highly emotive, and very possibly incapable of resulting in a satisfactory conclusion. But it was a kind of compliment that he considered Rathbone the only man who could and would attempt such a task.
Hester insisted on going with him.
They came without an appointment and were told by an apologetic clerk that Sir Oliver was in court. However, if the matter was of the urgency they claimed, considering their long association, a message could be sent to the Old Bailey, and Sir
Oliver might meet them there during the luncheon recess.
So it proved. The three of them sat together in a crowded inn, hunched over a small table, talking as softly as possible while still loudly enough to be heard above the babble of voices, which were all attempting to do the same thing.
Rathbone acknowledged Hester, then listened studiously to Monk as he told the story, concentrating on putting the case succinctly. Monk was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt.
“I daresay you will have read of the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rathbone said guardedly. “All England has. Extremely ugly. One of the newspapers this morning said that Lyman Breeland had been brought back to London to stand trial, and Alberton’s daughter also. It is probably nonsense.” He moved the vegetables delicately around his plate. “Someone was seen who resembles them. Why on earth would he leave his cause and his country when they must need him and come back here to face almost certain hanging? I suppose it is conceivable President Lincoln may wish accommodation reached, at a diplomatic level, because of Breeland’s importance to the Union cause, but I cannot see any way of making that sit well with public opinion here, not to mention with the law.” He frowned. “Why? I assume you have some part in it, or you would not have raised the subject.”
“We brought him back,” Monk replied, watching Rathbone’s long, patrician face with its thin cheeks and sensitive mouth. He saw the start of surprise. “At gunpoint,” he added. “But he is not as unwilling as one would suppose.”
“Indeed?” Rathbone’s eyebrows rose.
“He claims he is innocent, and knew nothing about Alberton’s death.” He ignored Rathbone’s expression. “I don’t believe it either, but it is not completely inconceivable. He says Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. The hall porter at Breeland’s rooms did deliver a message to him that night, on receipt of which Breeland packed his belongings and he and Merrit Alberton left immediately.”
