Slaves of Obsession

by Anne Perry

  Poor Merrit.

  He pushed his hands into his pockets. “How many guns did you buy?” he asked casually. “Exactly.”

  “Exactly?” Breeland repeated, his eyebrows lifted. “To the gun? I didn’t count them. There was hardly time. I assumed every crate was full. Alberton was a stubborn man, with limited views and no moral or political understanding, but I never doubted his financial integrity.”

  “How many guns did you pay for?”

  “Six thousand. And I paid him the agreed amount per gun.”

  “You paid Shearer?”

  “I already told you that.” Breeland frowned. “For that amount of money you could build several streets’ worth of four-bedroom houses in any part of London. It seems obvious to me that Shearer double-crossed Alberton, shot him and the guards in a manner to make it look as if it were Union soldiers who did it, sold the guns to me, and escaped with the money. I am innocent, and Rathbone will be able to demonstrate that.”

  Monk made no reply. Breeland was perfectly correct. Monk did not care whether he hanged or not … not at this moment.

  10

  ON THE FOLLOWING Monday the trial began of Lyman Breeland and Merrit Alberton, jointly accused of the Tooley Street murders. Oliver Rathbone was as well prepared as he was able to be, given the information he possessed. From what Monk had told him, he believed Breeland had not committed the crimes himself, but assuring the jury that he had not instigated them, and profited from them knowing what had occurred, was quite another matter. And Rathbone was aware of having a client who would not naturally elicit the sympathy of the jury.

  He had spoken to both Merrit and Breeland on the Friday before. He had weighed whether to suggest to Breeland a softer manner, more expression of humility, even of regret for the tragedy of Alberton’s death, but he formed the belief that it would be a wasted attempt, perhaps even produce a pattern of behavior that was obviously false.

  Now as the court was called to order and the proceedings began, Rathbone looked up at Breeland’s face in the dock, expressionless, staring straight ahead as if he had no interest in the people assembled there, no regard or respect for them, and Rathbone wished he had made some effort to warn him how dearly that could cost.

  Merrit, on the other hand, looked young and frightened, and very vulnerable indeed. Her skin was pale, blue-shadowed around her eyes, and her hands were clenched on the rail so hard it would be easy to think she was holding on to it to save herself from falling. As Rathbone watched her, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin a little, and looked up at Breeland. Very tentatively she reached out her hand and touched his arm.

  The shadow of a smile moved his lips, but he did not speak to her. Perhaps he did not wish the court to witness any emotion in him. Perhaps he felt that love was a private thing, and he would not share it with those who had come to stare, and to judge.

  Rathbone was acutely conscious of Judith Alberton, as were most of the people in the court. There was a beauty in her carriage, and in what could be glimpsed of her features. He saw people nudge each other as she came in, and several men were unable to keep the admiration, or the interest, from their expressions.

  Rathbone wondered if she was accustomed to being stared at, or if it made her uncomfortable. She looked at Merrit, who was still turned towards Breeland, then across at Rathbone. It was only a glance before she sat down, and he could not see her eyes through the veil. He only imagined the desperation she must be feeling. All the help anyone could give her could not cross the barrier of loneliness she must face, the fear of what these days would bring.

  Hester was beside her, dressed in dark and pale grays, the light catching her fair skin and a little white lace at her throat. He would have recognized the curve of her cheek anywhere, and the individual way she carried her head. The greatest beauty in the world did not catch his breath that way with the ache of familiarity, the memory of so many shared struggles for victory over ignorance and wrong. Winning had mattered, of course it had, the causes had always been worth the fight, but he realized how good the battles themselves had been. This was another one, but they were not together in it as they had been in the past. Monk was between them in a new way.

  He saw Breeland stiffen and a look of extraordinary dislike fill his face. Rathbone followed his glance. A slender, dark-haired man had entered the courtroom and was making his way towards a vacant seat on the edge of the aisle in the public gallery. He moved with an unusual grace and made no sound at all, taking a place where it was unnecessary to excuse himself to anyone. His remarkable eyes studied Judith Alberton, even though she was in front of him and he could not have seen her face.

  Rathbone wondered if this was Philo Trace. He knew it was not Casbolt, since they had already met.

  Opposite him, across the aisle, Horatio Deverill was rising to open his case. He was a tall man, slender in his youth but now thickening around the middle. His once-handsome features were slightly coarsened but still full of power and character. But it was his voice which commanded attention and forced one to listen. It was rich, idiosyncratic, with perfect enunciation. Many a jury had been mesmerized by it. When he spoke, no one’s attention wandered.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, smiling at the jurors, sitting upright and self-conscious in their high, carved seats. “I shall tell you about a heinous and terrible crime. I shall show you how an honorable man, much like yourselves, was conspired against to be robbed, and then murdered, in order to gain guns for the tragic conflict which is even now being fought out in America, brother against brother.”

  There was a murmur of horror and sympathy around the room.

  Rathbone was not surprised. He had expected Deverill to play for any emotional reaction he could draw. He was perfectly capable of doing the same, were he to suppose it would win him a case. He did not care about individual points, only the verdict.

  “And I shall show you,” Deverill continued, “that this terrible deed was not only an offense against the law of this land, and the laws of God, but against the very laws of nature itself, acknowledged by every race and nation in mankind. It was carried out at the behest and to serve the purposes of the accused, Lyman Breeland. But, gentlemen, it was aided and connived at by the victim’s own daughter, Merrit Alberton.”

  He received the desired gasp of horror, shimmering around the room like a hot wind before a storm.

  “She was infatuated with Breeland,” he continued. “And what he did to induce this obsession in her I cannot prove, so I shall not attempt even to tell you, but suffice it to say, after the terrible deed was done, she fled to America with him, that very night.” He shook his head. “And it was only by the good offices of a private agent of enquiry, employed by her own mother, the widow of the murdered man, that she and Breeland were brought back to this country, at gunpoint, to face you, and your decision as to how justice may be served.

  “To this end, my lord …” He turned at last to face the judge, a lean man with powerful features and clear, silver-gray eyes. “To this end, I call my first witness, Robert Casbolt.”

  There was intense interest as Casbolt came into the court and crossed the open space of the floor in front of the judge and jury and climbed up the short, curving steps to the witness stand. He was immaculately dressed in dark gray, and looked pale but composed. There was not even the shadow of the smile he so often wore, and which had etched the lines around his mouth.

  He swore as to his name and residence, and awaited Deverill’s first questions calmly. Once he glanced down at Judith and his expression softened, but it was only for an instant. He looked like a man at a funeral. He did not look towards the dock.

  “Mr. Casbolt …” Deverill began, smiling apologetically and walking up and down the open floor like an actor facing an audience to deliver a great soliloquy. Although it was the jury to whom he was playing, he never once looked in their direction. “I realize this is acutely painful for you, sir. Nevertheless it is necessary, and I hope you will bea
r with me while I take the court through the events which led to this tragedy. You were aware of almost all of them, even though you can have had no idea to what terrible end they were destined.”

  Rathbone looked at the jury. They ranged from about forty to sixty in age, and seemed decent and prosperous, like most jurors. There were qualifications of property required which ruled out many younger men, or those of a different social class. They sat serious, unhappy, and concentrating fiercely upon every word that was said.

  “Mr. Casbolt, would you tell the court how and when you first encountered Lyman Breeland?”

  “Of course,” Casbolt said quietly, but his voice fell with perfect clarity in the faint rustling around the room. “I do not recall the exact date, but it was early in May of this year. He presented himself at the business premises of Daniel Alberton and myself.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “He was interested in the armaments aspect of our business.”

  “And what did Mr. Breeland say to you?” Deverill asked innocently.

  “That he was authorized to purchase guns for the Union cause in the American conflict,” Casbolt answered. “He said he was entrusted by his superior with a very large sum of money, approximately twenty-three thousand pounds, which he had deposited at the Bank of England.”

  There was a gasp of amazement around the room. It was a fortune beyond most men’s imagination. Several people looked up at Breeland in the dock, but he studiously ignored them all, keeping his eyes on Deverill.

  “Did you see this money?” Deverill asked, his voice hushed with awe.

  “No, sir. One would not have expected him to bring it with him,” Casbolt answered. “It is a … a fortune!”

  “It is indeed. But he told you, and Mr. Alberton, that the government of the Northern states of America had sent him with this money in order to purchase guns, is that so?”

  “Guns and ammunition for them, yes, sir.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “We had no cause to doubt him. I still have not,” Casbolt replied. “He presented credentials, including a letter from Abraham Lincoln bearing the seal of the President of the United States. Both Daniel Alberton and I were well informed as to the escalating hostilities across the Atlantic, and naturally we were also aware of the fact that representatives from both the Union and the Confederate states had been purchasing guns wherever they were available all over Europe.”

  “Just so,” Deverill agreed. He pushed his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, stared at the polished toes of his boots, then looked up at Casbolt. “And had you, or Daniel Alberton, sold guns before to either party in this war?”

  “We had not.”

  “And you are sure that Daniel Alberton had not, for example, made a private agreement with Lyman Breeland, unknown to you or Mr. Trace?” Deverill prompted.

  Casbolt’s face filled with a curious mixture of emotions which were only too apparently painful. His eyes flickered towards Judith, sitting in the front seat of the gallery.

  Everyone in the room must have been aware of the tension and the personal grief.

  Rathbone looked up at Breeland. He was watching intently, but if he felt any sorrow or fear it was too tightly under control to betray itself. His pride could serve him ill. It looked too much like indifference. The next time he had the opportunity to speak to his client, Rathbone would tell him so, for any good it would do.

  “Are you sure?” Deverill prompted.

  Casbolt drew his attention back. His expression cleared.

  “The other reason was that Daniel Alberton was my friend, and one of the most honorable men I have ever known. In twenty-five years I never knew him to break his word to anyone.” His voice caught. “One could not ask more of a business associate than that, coupled with skill and knowledge of his field.”

  “Indeed one could not,” Deverill agreed softly, looking again at the jury.

  Rathbone swore under his breath. He had never imagined defeating Deverill would be easy, but the reality of his task was becoming sharper by the minute. Brilliant as Rathbone was, and ruthless, he could not alter the truth, nor would he try.

  “What, precisely, was the agreement made with Mr. Trace?” Deverill asked ingenuously.

  “Daniel had given his word to sell six thousand P1853 Enfield rifled muskets,” Casbolt replied clearly.

  Deverill was supremely satisfied. It glowed in his face. Rathbone knew the jurors saw it, and had judged its importance accordingly. They believed he had scored a major point, even if they did not know what it was. One of them, a man with magnificent side-whiskers, shot a malevolent glance up at Breeland.

  Merrit looked as if she had been struck. She moved a fraction closer to Breeland in the dock. The movement was not lost on the jury.

  Rathbone knew how to manipulate emotion also, although at times he found it repugnant. He would have used the slave issue, one most Englishmen deplored, even though many of them favored the South. But he was conscious of Hester sitting beside Judith Alberton, and how she would despise him for the moral dishonesty of it. He was angry with himself that he allowed it to hurt.

  “Why was he prepared to sell guns to Mr. Trace, sir?” Deverill enquired innocently. “Was he a sympathizer with the Confederate cause?”

  “No,” Casbolt answered. “I am not aware that he had a loyalty to either side. The only opinion I heard him express was one of sadness that the issue had come to war at all. In the several months previously he had hoped it would be resolved by negotiation. It was simply that Mr. Trace presented himself and was desperate to purchase. He did not argue his cause greatly. He said the South wanted to be free to decide its own destiny and choose its form of government, but little more than that. It was Mr. Breeland who tried to persuade him that his cause justified the sale of arms to the Union rather than anyone else.”

  “So Mr. Trace obtained the sale simply because he was first?” Deverill deduced.

  “Yes. He paid half the sum as an evidence of good faith. The second half was to follow upon delivery of the guns and ammunition.”

  “And Breeland wished Mr. Alberton to renege on that agreement and sell the guns to him instead?”

  “Yes. He was most insistent … to the point of unpleasantness.” Casbolt’s face was twisted with regret, even a degree of self-blame, as if he should have foreseen the tragedy.

  Deverill was quick to seize on it. “What sort of unpleasantness? Did he threaten anyone?”

  “No … not so far as I am aware.” Casbolt’s voice was soft, his mind very much in the past tragedy. “He accused Daniel of being in favor of slavery, which of course he was not. Breeland was passionate about his cause, both to abolish slavery in America and to keep all the states in the Union, whether they wished it or not. He frequently argued his opinion—his obsession—that the South should not be allowed independence … only he called it secession. I admit, I don’t understand the difference.” This time the faintest smile touched his face.

  Deverill opened his eyes very wide. “Nor I, to be frank.” He gestured very slightly towards the dock, but did not look up at it. “But fortunately it is not our concern.” He dismissed it. “In his attempts to change Mr. Alberton’s mind about the guns, did he call upon him at his place of business, or at his home, do you know?”

  “Both, he told me, but I know for myself that he called often at his home, because I was there on half a dozen occasions. He was offered hospitality and accepted it.”

  Again several jurors shot Breeland a look of loathing.

  “There is something peculiarly repellent in the ultimate betrayal of eating at a man’s table and then rising up and murdering him. Every society abhors it,” Deverill said quietly, his voice very low, and yet carrying to every corner of the room.

  The judge glanced at Rathbone. He would have objected to the irrelevance of the comment, but it was not irrelevant except legally, and every man and woman in the room knew it. It would only betray his own desperation. He shook his head m
inutely.

  Deverill continued. “During these visits, Mr. Casbolt, did you observe any relationship growing between Breeland and Merrit Alberton?”

  Casbolt winced and shivered a little. “Not as much as I should have done.” His voice was tight in his throat, strained with regret. Even sitting several yards away, and looking upwards at him on the stand, Rathbone was moved by the emotion in him. It was too genuine for anyone to doubt it, or be unaffected.

  There was a ripple of compassion around the room. A woman sniffed. One of the jurors shook his head slowly and glanced up at Merrit in the dock.

  Rathbone turned to Judith, but her expression was hidden by her veil. He saw Philo Trace look towards her, and his emotion also was laid bare to see. Rathbone realized in that moment that Trace loved Judith, silently, without expectation of return. He knew it with a depth of understanding because that was how he loved Hester. The time for her responding to him was gone. Perhaps it was only an illusion that it had ever been.

  Deverill had milked the silence for all he could get from it. He resumed his questioning.

  “And did you see Miss Alberton return his attentions?” he asked.

  “Indeed.” Casbolt cleared his throat. “She is only sixteen. I believed it was an infatuation which would pass as soon as Breeland left to go back to America.”

  Instinctively, Rathbone looked up at Merrit and saw the pain and defiance in her face. She leaned a little forward, longing to tell them the truth, how much she truly loved Breeland, but she was not permitted to speak.

  Casbolt went on. “He was an officer in an army.” Suddenly anger burst through, raw and hard in his voice. “About to engage in civil war five thousand miles away from England. He was in no position to make an offer to a woman, let alone a child of Merrit’s age! It never occurred to me that he would! I don’t believe it entered her father’s mind either. And if Breeland had had the ill judgment, the effrontery, to do so, Daniel would naturally have refused.”