Slaves of Obsession

by Anne Perry

  “Twenty-one years, I make it,” Taunton said with a faint curl of his lip. “We’re doing well. Did you think we couldn’t have the odd renovation here and there?”

  Monk looked around the office. It was well appointed, but not luxurious. He allowed his observation of it to reflect in his expression—unimpressed.

  The color deepened in Taunton’s cheeks.

  “You’ve changed too,” he said with a faint sneer. “No more fancy shirts and boots. Thought you’d have had everything made ’specially for you by now. Fall on hard times, did you?” There was a keen undertone of pleasure in his voice, almost relish. “Dundas take you down with him, did he?”

  Dundas. With blinding clarity Monk saw the gentle face, the intelligent, clear blue eyes with laughter deep in the lines around them. Then as quickly it was overtaken by grief and a raging helplessness. He knew Dundas was dead. He had been fifty, perhaps fifty-five. Monk himself had been in his twenties, aspiring to be a merchant banker. Arrol Dundas was his mentor, ruined in some financial crash, blamed for it, wrongly. He had died in prison.

  Monk wanted to smash the sneering face in front of him. He felt the rage burn up inside him, knotting his body, making it difficult even to swallow, his throat was so tight. He must control it, hide it from Taunton. Hide everything until he knew enough to act and foresee the results.

  How much did Taunton know of Monk since then? Did he know he had joined the police? Monk could not be sure. His reputation had spread widely. He had been one of the best and most ruthless detectives they had had, but he might never have had occasion to work here in the West India docks.

  “A little change of direction,” he answered the question obliquely. “I had certain debts to collect.” He allowed himself a smile, wolfish, as he intended it to be.

  Taunton swallowed. His eyes flicked up and down Monk’s very ordinary clothes, the ones he had chosen in order to be inconspicuous on the river and in the docks.

  “Doesn’t look like they amounted to much,” he observed.

  “I haven’t collected them all yet,” Monk answered, the words out before he gave them thought.

  Taunton was rigid, his hands moving restlessly by his sides, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face.

  “I don’t owe you anything, Monk! And after twenty-one years, I don’t know who does.” He let out a little snort. “We always did very well by you. Everybody made their profit. No one got caught, far as I know.”

  Caught! The word struck Monk like a physical blow. Caught by whom? Over what? He did not dare ask. What had Dundas been accused of in the end, what was it that had ruined him? Monk could remember only the fury he had felt, and the absolute conviction that Dundas was innocent, blamed wrongly, and he, Monk, should have known some way to prove it.

  But was it something to do with Taunton? Or did Taunton know about it because everyone did?

  Monk hungered to have the truth, all of it, more than almost anything else he could think of. It had haunted him ever since the first shafts of memory had struck him, fragments, emotions, small moments of recollection gone before he could perceive anything more than an impression, a feeling, a look on someone’s face, the inflection of a voice, and always the sense of loss, a guilt that he should have been able to prevent it.

  “Worried?” he asked, staring back at Taunton.

  “Not in the least,” Taunton replied, and they both knew it was a lie. It hung in the air between them.

  For once Monk was pleased that he inspired fear. Too often his ability to intimidate had disturbed him, made him feel guilty for that part of him which must have liked it in the past.

  “Know a man named Shearer?” He changed the subject abruptly, not to discomfort Taunton but because he did not know what else to say to him about the past. Above all Taunton must not guess that Monk himself did not know.

  “Shearer?” Taunton was startled. “Walter Shearer?”

  “That’s right. You do know him.” That was a statement.

  “Of course I do. But you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t know that already,” Taunton answered. He frowned. “He’s an agent for shipping machinery and heavy goods, marble, timber, guns mostly … for Daniel Alberton—or he was, until Alberton was murdered.” His voice dropped. “What’s that to do with you? Are you in guns now?” He shifted his weight slightly.

  Monk could smell fear, sudden and sharp, physical rather than the slow anxiety there had been before. Taunton’s imagination had taken a leap forward. When he spoke again his voice was a pitch higher, as if his throat had tightened till he could scarcely breathe.

  “Is it something to do with you, Monk? Because if it is, I want no part of it!” He was shaking his head, stepping backwards. “Working for men who make their money slaving is one thing, but murder is something else. You can swing for that. Alberton was well liked. Every man’s hand’ll be against you. I don’t know where Shearer is, and I don’t want to. He’s a hard man, gives no quarter and asks none, but he’s no killer.”

  Monk felt as if he had been hit so hard his lungs were paralyzed, starved for air.

  Taunton’s voice rose even higher. “Look, Monk, what happened to Dundas was nothing to do with me. We made our deal, and we both kept our sides of it. I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me. If you cheated Dundas, that’s between you and … and the grave, now. Don’t come after me!” He held up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “And I want nothing to do with those guns! There’s a rope waiting at the end of those. I’m not shipping them for you, I swear on my life!”

  Monk found his voice at last.

  “I haven’t got the guns, you fool! I’m looking for the man who killed Alberton. I know where the guns are. They’re in America. I followed them there.”

  Taunton was stunned—nonplussed.

  “Then what do you want? Why are you here?”

  “I want to know who killed Alberton.”

  Taunton shook his head. “Why?”

  For a moment Monk could not answer. Was that really what he had been like, a man who did not care that three men had been murdered, or who had done it? Did his need to know require explaining?

  Taunton was still staring at him, waiting for the answer.

  “It doesn’t matter to you.” Monk jerked himself out of his thoughts. “Where is Shearer?”

  “I don’t know! I haven’t seen him for close on two months. I’d tell you if I knew, just to get rid of you. Believe me!”

  Monk did believe him; the fear in his eyes was real, the smell of it in the room. Taunton would have given up anyone, friend or foe, to save himself.

  How had Monk ever been willing to trade with such a man? And worse than that, larger and far uglier, to make profit by trading with a man whose money came from slaving! Had Dundas known that? Or had Monk misled him, as Taunton implied?

  Either thought made him sick.

  He needed the truth, and he was afraid of it. There was no point in seeking an answer from Taunton; he did not know. What he believed of Monk was indictment enough.

  Monk shrugged and turned on his heel, going out without speaking again. But as he walked past the man at the desk in the hall, his thoughts were not on Taunton, or Shearer, but on Hester and her face in his mind’s eye as she had spoken of slavery. To her it was unforgivable. What would she feel if she knew what he now knew of himself?

  Already the thought of it bowed him down, crushed him inside. He walked out into the sun, and was cold.

  9

  FOR THE FIRST TIME since he had been married, Monk was reluctant to go home, and because he dreaded it, he did it immediately. He did not want time to think any more than he had to. There was no possibility of avoiding seeing Hester, meeting her eyes and having to build the first lie between them. Earlier in their knowledge of each other they had fought bitterly. He had thought her opinionated, quick-tongued and cold-natured, a woman whose passion was all bent towards the improvement of others, whether they wished it or not.

  And
she had thought him selfish, arrogant and essentially cruel. This morning he would have smiled at how happy they both were. Now it twisted inside him like a torn muscle, a pain reaching into everything, blinding all other pleasures.

  He opened the door and closed it behind him.

  She was there, straightaway, giving him no time to recompose his thoughts. All his earlier words fled.

  She misunderstood, thinking it to do with his search along the river.

  “You found something ugly,” she said quickly. “What is it? To do with Breeland? Even if he’s guilty, that doesn’t mean Merrit is.” There was so much conviction in her voice he knew she was frightened that somehow she was mistaken, and Merrit had played a willing part.

  It was the perfect chance to tell her what he had really found, uglier than she could imagine, but about himself, not Breeland. He could not do it. There was a beauty in her he could not bear to lose. He remembered her in Manassas, bending over the soldier, half covered in blood, tending to his wounds, willing him to live, sharing his pain and giving him her strength.

  What would she think of a man who had made money out of dealing with the profits of slaving? He had never been more ashamed of anything in his life, anything he knew about. Or more afraid of what it would now cost him … and he realized that was the most precious thing he would ever have.

  “William! What is it?” There was an edge of fear in her voice and in her eyes. “What did you find?”

  She was concerned for Merrit, and perhaps for Judith Alberton. She could not guess that it was her own life that was threatened, her happiness, not theirs.

  The truth stuck in his throat.

  “Nothing conclusive.” He swallowed. “I didn’t find any trace of the barge coming back up the river. I’ve no idea whose it was. Probably someone who lent it willingly, or it was stolen from someone who daren’t report it. Or maybe they stole it themselves.” He wanted to touch her, as he usually did, feel the warmth of her body, the eagerness of her response, but self-disgust held him back, closing him in like a vise.

  She moved back again, a flicker of hurt in her face.

  It was the first taste of the overwhelming loneliness to come, like the fading of the sun before nightfall.

  “Hester!”

  She looked up.

  He had no idea what to say. He could not face the truth. He had had no time yet to work out what words to use.

  “I think Shearer may be the one who killed Alberton.” It was a lame thing to fill the place of what was in his mind. It was hardly a revelation.

  She looked a little puzzled. “Well, it would explain the odd time with the train, I suppose,” she conceded. “A conspiracy between Shearer and Breeland which Merrit did not know about? Perhaps she and Breeland were at the yard earlier, and that was when she dropped the watch?” Then her face clouded. “But why would they go there? It doesn’t make sense. Why was Daniel Alberton there anyway, at that time of night?” She frowned. “Was it something to do with Merrit running away, do you suppose? And he was still there when Shearer came to steal the guns?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound likely, does it?”

  It did not. There was still some major fact they were missing. He had to concentrate hard to make himself feel that it mattered.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, her eyes bright again.

  “Yes,” he lied. He guessed she had gone to some trouble. Now that he thought about it, there was a warm, savory odor coming from the kitchen.

  She smiled. “Fresh game pie and vegetables.” She looked pleased with herself. “I found a woman today. She’s Scottish. Her name is Mrs. Patrick. She’s a bit fierce, but she’s a terrific cook, and she’s prepared to come every weekday afternoon for three hours, which is good, because most people like to do all day or not at all. Some even expect to live in.” She searched his face. “She’s half a crown a week. Do you think that will be all right?”

  He did not even think to add it up. “Excellent! Yes. If you like her, then make it permanent.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice lifted. “I do appreciate it.” She touched him lightly, but there was intimacy in it, a sweetness that sent his pulse racing, and a pain through him at his deception. He had no idea how he was going to live with it. An hour at a time, then a day at a time. Maybe he would learn to forget it for whole periods. He would probably never know exactly what he had done with Taunton, if he had betrayed Arrol Dundas or not, or what had driven him to it. It might have been as simple as greed, the desire for the power of success. Or possibly there was some mitigating circumstance—if only he knew it!

  He followed her into the kitchen, pleasantly cool with the back windows open and full of the delicious aromas of expertly seasoned food. In other circumstances it would have been a perfect meal. It took all the skill he possessed, all the self-mastery, to pretend it was.

  Hester was unaware of the turmoil within Monk. She believed it was no more than the frustration of a case he could not understand which made him shrink away, and she resolved to play her own part in the detecting as soon as possible.

  By the time he left the following morning, still in search of more knowledge of Shearer, she had determined what to do. Dressed in her best morning gown of pale blue-gray muslin, she set out to visit Robert Casbolt. She had no doubt he would see her, because of the depth of his regard for Judith Alberton, and for Merrit. He could not fail to know how desperate the situation was, and regardless of his other commitments, he would make time to help.

  She knew where he lived because he had mentioned it that first evening at dinner. She arrived shortly after nine o’clock in the morning and gave her card to the butler, with a respectful note written across the back saying simply that she felt it most urgent to speak with him at his earliest convenience, in Merrit Alberton’s interest.

  She was kept waiting only fifteen minutes, then shown into a beautiful sitting room full of warm colors. The walls were paneled with mellow oak, and a red Persian rug covered the floor in front of the huge, stone-manteled fireplace, which at this time of the year was half hidden by a tapestry screen. The sofa and chairs were all odd, some covered in velvet, some in brocade and one in honey-colored leather, but the whole effect was one of the greatest comfort. There were two tall lamps, of different sizes, but both with brass columns and large hexagonal shades fringed in deep gold.

  Casbolt himself was dressed casually, but obviously with care. His linen was immaculate, his soft indoor boots polished and shining.

  “How good of you to come, Mrs. Monk,” he said earnestly. “After you have already done so much. Judith told me that your husband is still working almost night and day to find some way of proving Merrit’s innocence. What can I do to help? If I knew of anything at all, believe me, I would have done it.”

  She had already planned carefully what she intended to say.

  “I have been giving a great deal of thought to the matter for which Mrs. Alberton first engaged my husband’s services,” she said, accepting the seat he offered her but declining any refreshment. She did not need the excuse of a social amenity to keep his interest. No pretense was necessary between them.

  He looked startled, almost as if he were not sure of her meaning. He sat down opposite her, on the edge of the chair rather than leaning back. There was no relaxing in him at all.

  “Whoever was willing to resort to blackmail to obtain the guns may have taken it a step further, do you not think?” she explained.

  His face cleared, then he frowned again. “Has Mr. Monk found some evidence which suggests Breeland is not guilty after all? Surely the fact that he has the guns precludes that possibility?”

  “Of course he is involved,” she agreed. “And perhaps we are seeing something more than is there because we all so badly wish Merrit to be innocent. We are trying to think of any solution that excludes her.…”

  “Of course!” he agreed. His face had a crumpled, hurt look, as if the optimism in his voice were at odds with his belief. Hester w
ondered if he knew a side to Merrit they did not, and it was that which now caused him to hesitate. Then he smiled. “I think Merrit may have been completely duped by Breeland. She is young, and in love. One does not always see clearly. And all the experience she has had is with honorable people.” He looked down at the rich carpet on the floor, then up again quickly. “I know she quarreled very badly with her father, but believe me, Mrs. Monk, Daniel Alberton was a totally honorable man, a man whose word anyone could trust absolutely and who would never stoop to a cruel or greedy act. She was angry with him, but she spoke in haste and the heat of emotion. In her heart she knows, just as I do, that he was as good a man as walks the earth.”

  She met his gaze very frankly. “What are you telling me, Mr. Casbolt? That she could not imagine duplicity, therefore Breeland could easily have misled her; or that she loved her father too much to have been party to hurting him, regardless of her anger that evening?”

  “I suppose I’m telling you both, Mrs. Monk.” A sad, self-mocking expression filled his face. “Or that I care very much for the outcome of this tragedy, and I would do anything to spare the family further pain.”

  There was no way she could be unaware of the power of his feelings. The air between them was charged with the knowledge of fear, horror, the grief of loneliness. In that moment Hester glimpsed the reality of Casbolt’s involvement with the Albertons, and the depth of his lifelong love and devotion to his cousin.

  But she was not here to offer sympathy or encouragement.

  “Could Breeland have been part of the attempt at blackmail?” she asked. “He seemed willing to do anything at all to get the guns. He is a man whose belief in his cause seems to him to justify anything. He would see it as helping to preserve the Union and freeing slaves.”

  Casbolt’s eyes widened very slightly. “I had not thought of it, but it is possible. Except how could he know of Gilmer, and Daniel’s kindness to him?”