Slaves of Obsession wm-11

by Anne Perry

  Oliver said quickly, “I don’t know beyond doubt, but from what Monk told me, she cannot be unaware of the truth. She and Breeland were together the whole of the night Alberton was murdered, and she certainly was not in America under duress.” He hesitated. “And a watch that Breeland gave her as a keepsake was found in the warehouse yard.”

  Henry said nothing, but his expression was eloquent.

  Outside, the shadows were lengthening on the lawn and the air was definitely cooler. A three-quarter moon was luminous in the fading sky. The sun had gone even from the poplars.

  “I am obliged to defend Breeland also.” Oliver stated the inevitable. “Unless he insists on his own man, in which case I imagine Merrit Alberton will choose to have the same person, whatever her family wants.”

  “And will you accept him as a client, believing him guilty?” Henry asked. “Knowing that his condemnation will certainly mean the girl’s as well?”

  It was a moral dilemma Oliver disliked acutely. He found the murders unusually repellent because they were brutal, and as far as he could see, also unnecessary. Breeland, or anyone else, could have stolen the guns without killing Alberton and the guards. They could have been left unconscious and bound, and still been unable to prevent the theft. By the time they were found Breeland had been safely away. The killing accomplished nothing and it was a gratuitous cruelty.

  He would far rather have defended Merrit, even if it were no better than pleading her youth and a certain amount of duress or intimidation, and that she had not foreseen the violence. No such argument was feasible for Breeland.

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I need to understand a great deal more before I can even formulate what defense to make.”

  The silence remained unbroken for some time. Henry stood up and closed the French doors, then returned to his seat.

  “There is also the matter of the blackmail,” Oliver resumed, and to Henry’s surprise, told him what Monk had said briefly of Alberton’s urgent reason for consulting him. “I suppose that could be involved,” he finished dubiously.

  “Well, you certainly need to find out who was responsible,” Henry agreed. “Perhaps they took revenge for not having been sold their guns.”

  “But Breeland lied about the guns!” Oliver went back to the one fact that seemed inescapable. “Monk traced them down the river to Bugsby’s Marshes, not to the railway station and Liverpool.” He stared at the empty fireplace.

  “But why murder?” Henry asked. “From what you have said, Breeland did not have to kill Alberton to take the guns. Consider this girl very carefully, Oliver. And consider the widow as well.”

  Oliver was startled. “A domestic crime?”

  “Or a financial one,” Henry amended. “Whatever it is, make sense of it in your own mind before you go into court. I am afraid you have no choice but to employ Monk to learn much more before you commit yourself to anything. I think you would be well advised to delay the trial for as long as you are able to, and know far more about the Alberton family before you speak on their behalf, or you will not serve your client well.”

  Oliver sank further into the chair, content to sit with his thoughts in the quiet room, without any necessity to stand up and light the gas.

  Henry sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, but he knew he could allow the subject of the Alberton case to drop for this evening.

  Rathbone was startled by Judith Alberton. He had expected the handsome house, suitably draped in black, curtains drawn, wreath on the door, and the straw in the street outside to muffle the sound of the horses’ hooves as they passed, the mirrors draped or turned to the wall. Some people even stopped the clocks. All widows wore mourning, the unrelieved black gown, except for perhaps a jet brooch or a locket, the decoration made of hair, which he found repellent.

  But Judith Alberton’s face was so remarkable in its beauty, and the extraordinary power of emotion in it, that what she wore was irrelevant.

  “Thank you for coming so soon, Sir Oliver,” she greeted him as he came into the dim withdrawing room. “I am afraid our predicament is very serious, as I expect Mr. Monk has told you. We are desperately in need of the most skilled help we can find. Has he described our situation?”

  “An outline of it, Mrs. Alberton,” he replied, accepting the seat she indicated. “But there is a great deal more I need to understand if I am to do my best for you.” He avoided using the word success. He was not sure if there was any possibility of it. What would success be? Merrit acquitted and someone else condemned? Who? Not Breeland; they had been in love then, whether they were now or not. They survived or fell together. He must make her realize that.

  “Of course,” she agreed. At least outwardly she was perfectly composed. “I will tell you anything I can. I don’t know what can help.” Her confusion was plain in her eyes.

  Her hands lay still in her lap on the black fabric, but they were stiff, the knuckles pale.

  It was surprisingly difficult to begin. It was always unpleasant intruding on someone’s grief, probing into affairs which might show a side of the dead person that others had not known and which would have been so much less painful to have kept secret. But present danger did not allow such luxury. Her dignity in concealing her grief moved him more than weeping would have done.

  “Mrs. Alberton, from what I have heard so far, there does not seem any way in which we can defend your daughter separately from Lyman Breeland.” He saw her lips tighten, but he could not afford to tell her what she wished to hear, rather than the truth. “They have both stated that they were together the whole of that night,” he continued. “Whether she was aware beforehand of what he intended to do, or was in any way a willing partner, can be argued, although we should need better proof than anything we have so far in order to convince a jury of it. Our only hope is to learn exactly what did happen, and then do the best we can to show anything that mitigates the blame. Unless, of course, we can show that there is a highly reasonable possibility that someone else altogether is guilty.” He said it with little hope.

  “I don’t know what the truth is,” she said frankly. “I simply cannot believe that Merrit would do such a thing … not willingly. I don’t care for Mr. Breeland, Sir Oliver. I never did, but my husband had no such qualms. He did not sell him the guns simply because he had already committed himself to sell them to Mr. Trace, and accepted a payment of half the sum.”

  “You are certain the money had been paid by Trace?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What about the money from Breeland?”

  Her eyes flew open wide. “From Breeland? There was no money from him. He stole the guns. Surely that was the whole reason for-for murdering my husband and the guards, poor men. I have done what I can for their families, but no recompense makes up for the loss of someone you love.”

  “One would assume robbery was his reason,” he agreed. “And yet surely he could have stolen the guns without killing anyone? A blow to the head would have overpowered them and kept them silent, and they would have been tied adequately to prevent any escape and pursuit.”

  He saw the shadows in her eyes, the quick shock of pain as the realization came to her that perhaps her husband’s death was unnecessary to the theft, that he had been killed in hatred or cruelty, not as a part of war.

  “I had not thought of that,” she replied very softly, her gaze lowered, as if to defend herself from his understanding.

  He was painfully aware of it. He would not have pried were there any alternative, but time and the imperatives of the law allowed no mercy.

  “Mrs. Alberton, if I am to defend your daughter, I am forced to defend Breeland as well, unless I can find some way to separate them in the eyes of the public, and therefore of a jury. I must know the truth, whatever that is. Believe me, I cannot afford to be surprised in this courtroom or to face an adversary who knows more of the facts than I do.” He shifted fractionally in his seat. “Knowledge is my only weapon, and all the skill in the world cannot de
feat a man whose armory is vastly superior. David and Goliath is a fine story, and can be applied as metaphor to certain circumstances, but what is too often overlooked, or even forgotten, is that David did not stand alone. I have not his confidence that God is on my side.” He smiled as he said it, but in mockery of himself.

  Her chin came up quickly and she met his eyes. “I have total confidence that Merrit did not have any willing hand in the murder of her father,” she said without hesitation, her voice strong. “But I do not believe that God intervenes in every miscarriage of justice. In fact, we all know perfectly well that He does not. Tell me what you need from me, Sir Oliver. I will give everything I have to save my daughter.”

  He did not doubt that she meant it. Even had he not already formed an opinion of her, it was plain in her face, the urgency, the courage and the fear.

  “I need all the facts that I can find,” he replied. “And I need your agreement that if it is necessary, which it may be, I shall represent Lyman Breeland as well, with whatever consequences may stem from that.” He watched her intently as he spoke, seeing the flicker in her gaze, the awareness of how repugnant it would be to ally herself with the man she believed had murdered her husband.

  “Please consider it carefully before you reply, Mrs. Alberton,” he warned. “I do not know what I shall discover when I begin to look into it with more care, more thoroughness. I cannot promise you that it will be what you wish to know. All I can say is that if you employ me to act for you, I will do everything I can to serve your best interests. I can and will keep every confidence entrusted to me. But I will not lie to you, nor can I protect you from reality.”

  “I understand.” She was very pale indeed, her body stiff, as if, were she to let go of the iron control she willed upon herself, she might collapse completely. “I will face whatever you may find. I believe in the end it will prove my daughter to be innocent of malice, if not of folly. Do whatever is needed, Sir Oliver.”

  “That will include employing Monk again, to enquire into the case further than he has done so far.”

  “Anything that you judge appropriate,” she agreed. “If you trust him, then I do. And he has already proved himself more than able by bringing Merrit home. How he managed to convince Breeland to come as well I cannot imagine.”

  “At gunpoint, I understand,” he said dryly. “But apparently he claims that was more because Breeland wished to remain with his regiment than because he was afraid to face trial. He claims to have a complete defense, not only to murder but even to robbery.”

  She said nothing. Emotions chased each other across her face: fear, pain, bewilderment, doubt.

  He rose to his feet. “First I shall go and speak with Miss Alberton. I can proceed little until I have heard what she has to say.”

  “Will you come back and tell me?” She stood up quickly. She moved with remarkable grace, and he was reminded again what a beautiful woman she was.

  “I will keep you informed,” he promised. It was not quite the answer she had requested, but it was all he would commit himself to do. He wondered, as the footman showed him out, how deeply he might regret such a promise. He could imagine no outcome of this issue which would not bring with it deep and terrible pain. There seemed no answer which would not add to Judith Alberton’s loss.

  He had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with Merrit. He stood in the small, bare room in the prison where she was being held prior to trial. It was stone-walled, washed with lime, the floor made of stone blocks. The hinges of the iron door were bedded deep into the jamb on one side, and the lock bit into the other, as if some desperate person might fling himself against it in a blind effort to escape.

  There was a table where he could sit and presumably write notes, if he wished, although there was no inkwell. A pencil would have to suffice. There was a second chair for the accused.

  When she came in he was again surprised. He had expected someone very girlish, angry, frightened and very possibly disinclined to cooperate with him. Instead he saw a young woman who would never rival her mother in beauty but who nevertheless had some remnant of both charm and dignity, in spite of being very obviously exhausted, her fair hair scraped back and pinned, by the look of it, without benefit of a mirror. Since she had not yet been convicted of any crime, except in public opinion, she still wore her own clothes, a blue muslin dress with a white collar which exaggerated the pallor of her skin. It was clean and fresh. Her mother must have had it sent for her.

  “The wardress says you are Sir Oliver Rathbone, and you are to represent me,” she said very quietly. “I presume that my mother has engaged you.” It was barely a question. They both knew that there was no other explanation.

  He began to reply, but she cut across him. “I did not have any part in the murder of my father, Sir Oliver.” Her voice trembled only very slightly. “But I will not allow you to use me in order to blame Mr. Breeland.” She lifted her chin a fraction as she spoke his name and the corner of her mouth softened.

  “Perhaps you had better tell me what you know, Miss Alberton,” he replied, indicating the chair opposite for her to be seated.

  “Only if it is understood that I will not be manipulated,” she answered. She stood quite still, waiting for his word before committing herself even to listen.

  He had a sudden sense of how very young she was. Her loyalty was blind, absolute and perhaps the most precious thing to her. He could believe she defined herself by such a value, the ability to love totally, even at such a terrible cost. It was part of being sixteen. He could hardly remember such unequivocal passion. He hoped he had once been so ardent, so careless of hurt to himself, placing love before all.

  Time and experience had blunted that … too much. Perhaps if he had not been afraid to love like that he would not have lost Hester. But that was a useless thought now, and too brilliantly painful to indulge, even in passing. That was much too real, too wholehearted.

  “I have no intention of trying to manipulate you,” he said with a fierceness that even surprised him. “I would like to know the truth, or at least as much of it as you can tell me. Please begin with simple facts. We may go on to deduction and opinion later. Perhaps you would begin with the day of your father’s death, unless you feel there is something relevant earlier.”

  She sat down obediently and composed herself, folding her hands.

  “Mr. Breeland and Mr. Trace both wished to purchase the guns that my father had for sale. Each, of course, for his own side in the civil war in America. Mr. Trace represented the Confederacy, the slave states; Mr. Breeland is for the Union, and against slavery anywhere.” The ring of pride and anger in her voice was unmistakable. Rathbone could not help identifying with her in that much at least.

  He did not interrupt.

  “My father said that he had already promised to sell the entire shipment of guns, above six thousand of them, to Mr. Trace,” she continued. “And he would not change his mind, no matter what Mr. Breeland, or I, for that matter, would say to him. Every argument against slavery was tried, every horror and injustice, every monstrosity of human cruelty detailed, but he would not reconsider.” There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away furiously, annoyed with herself for betraying such emotion. “I quarreled with him.” She sniffed, then shook her head as she realized how inelegant it was.

  Rathbone offered her his handkerchief.

  She hesitated, then took it, simply so that she might blow her nose, and then continued.

  “Thank you. I was very angry indeed. I think the more so because I had always thought well of him before. I had never seen that side of him which …” She lowered her eyes, looking away from him. “Which could not admit when he had made a mistake, and yield to a better cause. I said some things to him I wish now I could take back. Not that they are not true, but I could not know they would be the last words he ever heard from me.”

  Rathbone did not wish to give her time to dwell on the thought.

  “You left th
e room. Where did you go?”

  “What? Oh. I went upstairs and packed a small valise with immediate necessities-linens, clean blouses, toiletries, that’s all.”

  “Where was Mr. Breeland during this quarrel?”

  “I don’t know. At his rooms, I suppose.”

  “He was not in your parents’ house?”

  “No. He did not overhear the quarrel, if that is what you are thinking.”

  “It occurred to me. Then where did you go?”

  “I left.” The color rose up her cheeks delicately. It made him more inclined to believe her awareness of just what a major step she had taken, and that she was as sensible of the risk to her reputation as her mother would have been. She took a deep breath. “I went out of the servants’ door, at the side of the house, and walked along the street until I came to the crossroads, where I found a hansom. I took it, directing the driver to Mr. Breeland’s rooms.”

  He did not need to ask the address. Monk had already told him.

  “And was Mr. Breeland at home?”

  “Yes. He welcomed me, most especially when I told him about the quarrel I had had with my father.” She leaned forward across the table. “But you must understand, he in no way encouraged me to defy my parents or behave in any way the least improperly. I require that you should fully believe that!”

  Rathbone was not sure what he believed, but it would be foolish to tell her so now. It was not the issue. He could not afford to be concerned with Breeland’s morality except as it showed itself in acts that were punishable in law.

  “I don’t question it, Miss Alberton. I need to know how you spent the rest of that night until you had left London altogether. Very precisely, if you please. Omit nothing.”

  “You think Lyman murdered my father.” Her eyes were direct, her voice perfectly steady. “He did not. What he told Mr. Monk is the exact truth. I know it because I was with him. We spent the evening speaking together and planning what we should do.” A first smile touched her lips; it seemed like self-mockery of another more innocent time. “He tried to persuade me to make peace with my parents. He warned me that his country was at war. He explained to me that honor required he join his regiment and fight. But of course I understood that already. I simply wished to be his wife and wait for him, support him and do everything I could myself to help in the fight against slavery. I never imagined I was going to sail off into a new and peaceful life somewhere else.”