by Anne Perry
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 the 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.”
Rathbone believed her. Her earnestness was transparent and he thought he heard a thread of disappointment she herself was surprised to discover. Something confused her, but as yet he had no idea what it was.
“Please continue,” he prompted. “Tell me exactly what occurred. Was Mr. Breeland ever out of your sight?”
“Not for more than a few moments,” she replied. “He did not leave his apartment. It was nearly midnight, and we were still talking about what we should do.” Pride and tenderness flickered in her for a moment. “He was concerned for my reputation, more than I was myself. If I should have slept the night in his sitting room no one in America would have known it, and that was all my concern. But he cared for me, and it troubled him.”
Rathbone was better aware than she how rapidly word traveled, and it flashed through his mind to wonder how much Breeland’s concern was for her reputation as it might affect him as her future husband. But it was an uncharitable impulse, and he did not speak it aloud.
She swallowed. In spite of her attempt at calm, and her undoubted courage, the effort was costing her dear.
“A little before midnight a young boy came with a message for Lyman. It was a note. He tore it open and read it immediately. It said that my father had changed his mind about selling the guns, but for obvious reasons he could not say so in front of Mr. Trace. He would return him his money later, and explain that Lyman’s arguments regarding slavery had won him over and he could no longer in good conscience sell the guns to the Confederates. Lyman was to go to the railway station at Euston Square and the guns would be delivered to him there. Liverpool was the best port for them to be shipped to America.” She was watching him intently, willing him to believe her.
He recognized that she was almost certainly using Breeland’s words for the explanation, but he did not interrupt her.
“That was what he did,” she continued. “We packed up immediately, taking what was of most importance to him. There was hardly time to do even that. But the guns were the most valuable of all. They were part of the battle for freedom, and a cause that is just must always take precedence over a few material possessions.”
“You helped him pack?” he asked.
“Naturally. I had only a few things myself.” Again the tiny smile touched her face. She must have been thinking back now on her own hasty departure, in the name of love and principle, with only what she could put into a bag she could carry in her hand. He tried to imagine what precious things gathered in her short lifetime she had had to leave behind. And apparently she had done it without serious regret. He thought how deeply, how unselfishly, she must love Breeland. It hurt him with surprising force that he might be utterly unworthy of it. When he spoke his voice had more anger in it than he had intended.
“And who was this note from? I presume it was signed?”
“Yes, of course,” she said indignantly. “He would hardly have acted upon it, leaving everything, had he not known who sent it.”
“Who did?”
Color deepened in her face, and there was a moment’s confusion as she realized how much depended upon the truth of the issue, and that she thought, after all, not knew it.
“It was signed by Mr. Shearer,” she said
defiantly. “Of course in light of the … murders …” She gulped. She seemingly could not bring herself to say her father’s name in this connection. Her chin came up. “But when we got to Euston Square the guns were there, already loaded onto a wagon. Lyman never left me for more than a few moments, and that was after the guns were delivered, and he paid Shearer the money. He had written authority to accept on my father’s behalf, and it was all perfectly in order. I … I was so happy my father had at last seen the justice of what Lyman was fighting for and changed his mind.”
“But you did not think to return home and tell him so?”
Misery filled her eyes. “No,” she answered very quietly. “I loved Lyman and still wanted to go with him to America. I … I was still angry that my father had taken so long to see what had been plain to me from the beginning. Slavery is wicked. Treating a human being like a possession can never be right.”
He did not know what to think. The story made no sense, and yet he did not think she was lying to him. She believed what she said. Had Breeland somehow duped her? If he had not murdered Alberton himself, then had he employed someone else to do it? Perhaps this man Shearer? “Tell me about your journey north to Liverpool and what happened there,” he instructed.
“How can it matter?” She was puzzled.
“Please do so,” he insisted.
“Very well. Lyman showed me to a carriage where I was reasonably comfortable and told me to wait for him while he spoke to the guard. He returned in about ten minutes, and shortly after that the train pulled out.”
“Who else was in the carriage?” he interrupted.
“How can it matter? No one I know. I did not speak to them. An old man with a lot of whiskers. A woman with a dreadful hat, quite the ugliest I have ever seen, red and brown. Why would anyone wear red and brown together? I don’t know who else. It’s all unimportant.”
“Where did the train stop?” he pressed.
Obediently she described the journey in its monotonous details.
He wrote down her answers in rapid, almost illegible notes.
“And in Liverpool?”
She told him of Breeland’s trouble in having the guns stored temporarily, of finding space on a ship bound first for Queenstown in Ireland, then for New York. With every new fact she spoke of, the pictures became more real, the more he was convinced her story was told from experience rather than imagination.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “You have been very patient, Miss Alberton, and you have helped greatly in your defense.”
“I will not allow you to defend me at Lyman’s expense!” she said quickly, leaning forward across the table, her face flushed. “Please understand that. I shall dismiss you, or whatever it takes, if …”
“I understood you when you first told me, Miss Alberton,” he said calmly. “I shall not do so; you have my word. I cannot promise what the court will do, and I have never promised to anyone what a jury will do. But for myself, I can answer absolutely.”
She sank back. “Thank you, Sir Oliver. Then I shall be very glad if you will act for me and … and do what you can.”
He rose to his feet, feeling a twist of pity for her, almost like a physical spasm. She was so young, a child, trying to behave like a woman, trying to keep a dignity she was so close to losing. He wished profoundly he could have comforted her, that either her mother or father were here, even that Breeland was … damn him. But all he could do to help her was to remain formal, keep the fierce control she depended upon.
“I shall return to tell you how I am progressing,” he said carefully. “If you do not see me for a few days, it is because I am working on your behalf. Good day, Miss Alberton.” He turned a little quickly, not waiting to look at her as the tears spilled from her brimming eyes.
Rathbone was driven to see Lyman Breeland by curiosity as well as by duty, but it was still not a task he expected to find either easy or pleasant.
He was received in a room markedly similar to the one in the women’s section of the prison, with the same bare lime-washed walls, simple table and two wooden chairs.
In some ways Breeland was exactly what Rathbone had expected: tall, lean, a hard body used to exercise. One would have judged him a man of action. “Military” was the first thing that came to mind because of his upright bearing and a certain pride in him, even in these crushing circumstances. He was dressed in a plain shirt and trousers an inch or two short for him. Presumably they were borrowed. He would have left the battlefield at Manassas in his dirty, bloodstained uniform.
But Breeland’s face surprised Rathbone. Without realizing it he had formed preconceptions in his mind, expected to see a man of readable passions, an arresting face in which one could see zeal and loyalty and a will that overrode all obstacles, all pain or rebuff. Perhaps unconsciously he had envisioned someone like Monk.
Instead he saw a handsome man, but unreachable in an entirely different way. His face was smooth, features perfectly regular, but there was something in it which struck him as remote. Perhaps there were not enough lines yet, as if his emotions were all within, smothered.
“How do you do, Mr. Breeland,” he began. “My name is Oliver Rathbone. Mrs. Alberton has engaged me to defend her daughter, and as I daresay you will appreciate, it is necessary that her defense and yours be conducted either by the same person or by two people who are acting as one.”
“Of course,” Breeland agreed. “Neither of us is guilty, and we were in each other’s company the entire time when the crime occurred. Surely you have already been informed of that?”
“I have spoken with Miss Alberton. However, I should like to hear it from you, on your own behalf if you wish me to act for you, and on hers if you prefer to retain someone else.”
No smile touched Breeland’s face. “I am told you are the best, and it would seem sensible that one person should represent us both. Since apparently you are willing, I accept. I have sufficient funds to meet whatever your charges are.”
It was an oddly discourteous way of putting it, as if Rathbone had been touting for business. But he could understand Breeland’s feelings. He had been brought back to a foreign country by force to stand trial for a crime for which he would be hanged if he were found guilty. He would be defended by strangers he was obliged to trust without the ability to test them himself. Any man who was not a fool would be defensive, afraid and angry.
Rathbone decided not to attempt any kind of rapport, at least not yet. First, quite formally, he would establish the facts.
“Good,” he said graciously. “Perhaps if you will sit down we shall be able to begin discussing the details of strategy.”
Breeland sat obediently. He moved with ease, even grace, apart from a slight awkwardness in one shoulder.
Rathbone sat opposite him. “Would you begin with your first acquaintance with Daniel Alberton.”
“I heard of him through the arms trade,” Breeland answered. “His name is well known, and trusted, and he could provide the most excellent guns, and rapidly. I called upon him and attempted to purchase first-class muskets and ammunition for the Union. I told him of the cause for which we were fighting. I did not expect him to understand that the Union itself was of the profoundest value. An Englishman could not be expected to grasp the damage of secession, but I believed any civilized nation would be against the enslavement of one race of people by another.” The contempt in his voice was stinging. They had been speaking for only minutes, and surely Breeland must be aware that his own life was in jeopardy, but already he had made an opportunity to express his passion for the Union cause.
Rathbone found it oddly disconcerting, and he was not sure why.
Breeland went on to describe his attempts to deal with Alberton, and his failure. Alberton had given his word to Philo Trace and accepted his money, and he considered himself bound. Breeland allowed a grudging admiration for that, but still believed the justice of the Union cause should have overridden any one man’s sense of commitment.
<
br /> Rathbone’s reply was instant, not weighed.
“Can any group claim collective honor without that of the individuals who compose it?”
“Of course,” Breeland responded with a direct, almost confrontational stare. “The group is always greater than the one. That is what society is; that is civilization. I am surprised you need to ask. Or are you testing me?”
Rathbone was about to deny it, then realized that in a sense he was testing him, but not as Breeland meant.
“What is the difference between that and saying that the end justifies the means?” the barrister asked.
Breeland gazed back at him, his clear gray eyes unwavering. “Our cause is just,” he replied with an edge to his voice. “No sane person could doubt it, but I did not kill Daniel Alberton for it, or anyone else, except on the battlefield, face-to-face as a soldier does.”
Rathbone did not answer him. “Tell me what happened the night you quarreled with Alberton and later Miss Alberton left her home and came to you.”
“You spoke with her. Did she not tell you?”
“I wish to hear your account of it, Mr. Breeland. Please oblige me.” Rathbone was angry without knowing why.
“If you wish. She will bear out all I say, because it is the truth.” Then Breeland proceeded to describe the evening in essence exactly as Merrit had. Rathbone pressed him for details of the train journey to Liverpool, of the carriage in which they rode and such trivia as the other occupants and what they were wearing.
“I don’t see the relevance,” Breeland protested, a shadow of anger darkening his face. “How can it have anything whatever to do with Alberton’s death what kind of a hat some woman in a railway carriage was wearing hours later?”
“I do not tell you how to purchase guns, Mr. Breeland,” Rathbone said tartly. “Please do not advise me how to conduct a case in court, or what information I shall need.”
“If you feel you need a description of the woman’s hat, Mr. Rathbone, then I shall give it to you,” Breeland said coldly. “But Miss Alberton would be in a better position to judge such a thing. It seems to me both trivial and absurd.”
