Slaves of Obsession

by Anne Perry

In the dock Breeland stirred, but he also could not defend himself yet.

  “If Breeland loved her,” Casbolt went on, “and were an honorable man, he would have waited until the war was over, and then returned with a proper offer, when he could support her and care for her as a man should. Provide a home for her … not leave her with strangers in a besieged city while he went off to a battle from which he might never return … or return crippled and unable to care for her.” He was shaking as he stood gripping the rails, his face white.

  He had not given a single fact tying Breeland to the murder of Daniel Alberton, but he had damned him in the eyes of every person in the room, and Deverill knew it. It was there in the confident stance of the barrister’s body, the smooth velvet of his voice.

  “Just so, Mr. Casbolt. I am sure we all feel as you do, and might well have had no more foresight as to the tragedy to come. We hold no condemnation, sir, no wisdom after the event. Could you now tell us what you observed the night of Daniel Alberton’s death …?”

  Casbolt closed his eyes, his hands still gripping the rail.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Casbolt?” Deverill said anxiously. He stepped forward, as if afraid that Casbolt might actually collapse.

  “Yes,” Casbolt said between his teeth. He took a deep breath and lifted his head, staring with fixed eyes at the paneled wall above the gallery. “I know only from learning what happened earlier that evening. I assume you will call Monk, who was present, to tell you what he saw and heard. I had been dining late with friends and had not yet retired. It was about half-past three when a messenger brought me a note from Mrs. Alberton.”

  “Exhibit number one, my lord,” Deverill said to the judge.

  The judge nodded and the usher handed a piece of paper to Casbolt.

  “Is this the note you received?” Deverill asked.

  Casbolt’s hand trembled as he took it. He had difficulty finding his voice. “It is.”

  “Will you read it for us?” Deverill requested.

  Casbolt cleared his throat.

  “ ‘My dear Robert: Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, but I am deeply afraid something serious may have happened. Daniel and Merrit had a terrible quarrel this evening. Mr. Breeland was here, and Mr. Monk. Mr. Breeland swore that he would not be defeated in his cause, regardless of what it cost him. Merrit has left home. I discovered an hour ago that she has packed a bag and gone, I fear to Breeland. Daniel left shortly after the quarrel. He must have gone after her, but he has not returned. Please find him and help. He will be so distressed.’ ”

  He looked up, his voice thick as if he fought tears. “It is signed ’Judith.’ Of course I did not hesitate more than a moment to wonder what was the best course of action. I realized it would be to enlist Monk’s help, in case of unpleasantness, and then go straight to Breeland’s rooms. If necessary we could bring Merrit back by force … before her reputation was ruined.” A bitter humor flashed across his face and disappeared, replaced by misery.

  Deverill nodded his head slowly.

  The jury looked suitably grieved.

  The judge glanced at Rathbone to see if he had any response, but there was none to make.

  “Please continue,” Deverill requested. “I assume you went to find Mr. Monk?”

  “Yes,” Casbolt agreed. “I awoke him and told him briefly what had happened. He came with me, first to Breeland’s rooms, which were empty. We were let in by the night porter, who told us Breeland and a young lady had left.…”

  Again the judge glanced at Rathbone.

  “I have no objection, my lord,” Rathbone said clearly. “I intend to call the night porter myself. He has information which supports Mr. Breeland’s version of events.”

  The judge nodded, and turned to Casbolt. “Please restrict yourself to what you know, not what others have told you.”

  Casbolt bowed acknowledgment and continued with his story. “Because of what the night porter told us, we went with all possible haste back to my carriage, which was waiting outside, and drove to the warehouse in Tooley Street.” He stopped for a moment to regain his composure. It was obviously a struggle for him. Anyone in the room could see that the events of that night were so overpowering that he was transported back to the yard in the early-morning light, and the horror he had seen there. He spoke in a harsh, almost toneless voice, as if he could not bear to remember with the reality of feeling.

  Rathbone listened, finding the story more devastating than when Monk had told him. There was something in Casbolt’s reliving of it which carried an even greater power. If he had asked the jury for a verdict now, they would have hanged Breeland and Merrit today, and pulled the lever for the trapdoor themselves.

  Casbolt had described finding the bodies in their grotesque positions with only the briefest of words, almost too spare to re-create the picture. His horror filled the room. No man could have acted such searing emotion.

  He did not mention finding the watch. Deverill had to remind him of it.

  Casbolt looked startled. “Oh. Yes. Monk found it. He picked it up. It had Breeland’s name engraved on it, and a date. I don’t recall what it was.”

  “But Lyman Breeland’s name was on it, you are certain of that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. Just one thing more, Mr. Casbolt.”

  “Yes?” He looked puzzled.

  “Forgive me for such an enquiry, sir,” Deverill apologized. “But just in case anyone might wonder, or my learned friend raises the issue, allow me to spare him the trouble. Exactly where were you that evening, before you received Mrs. Alberton’s desperate note? You said you dined with friends?”

  “Yes, Lord Harland’s house, in Eaton Square. I am afraid the party went on rather longer than expected. I did not arrive home until a little after three. I was still up when the messenger arrived.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Deverill turned with a flourish towards Rathbone, waving a hand in invitation.

  Casbolt had said nothing Rathbone disputed, nothing he wished to clarify. He would have liked to stretch out the proceedings in the hope Monk might yet discover something more, but if he did so now Deverill at least would know it, possibly the jury would also.

  He half rose from his seat. “I have no questions for the witness, my lord.”

  “Good. Then we may adjourn for luncheon,” the judge said bleakly.

  Rathbone was barely outside the courtroom when he saw Hester and Judith Alberton coming towards him. Philo Trace was a few yards away, but he did not approach them. It flashed through Rathbone’s mind to wonder again exactly what Trace’s part was in the purchase of guns. Could he have been the one who tried to blackmail Alberton, and was that why Alberton had absolutely refused to deal with Breeland … because he dared not? Had Monk been the catalyst which made him change his mind? It was only the thread of an idea, but it persisted.

  “Sir Oliver?” Judith was in front of him. He could hear the fear in her voice.

  “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Alberton,” he said with more confidence than he felt. It was a part of his profession he had been obliged to practice so often: the comforting of people in desperate situations, the giving of courage and hope he had no knowledge he could justify. “We have our turn after Mr. Deverill has done all he can. I don’t feel any certainty that I can prove Breeland innocent, but with Merrit it will be far easier. Don’t lose heart.”

  “The watch,” she said simply. “If Merrit was not there, how did it come to be in the warehouse yard? She was so proud of it, I cannot imagine her willingly letting it out of her possession.”

  “Can you imagine her lying to protect Breeland?” he asked gently. He could not help looking for a moment at Hester and saw in her eyes the fierce need to help, and confusion because she did not know how to.

  “Yes,” Judith said quietly. “Sir Oliver … I am terribly afraid I should not have sent Mr. Monk to bring her back. Have I condemned her to death—” Her voice broke.

  Hester tigh
tened her grip on Judith’s arm, willing her to have strength. But she could not argue, could not think of any words that would comfort.

  “No,” Rathbone lied with authority. He heard the ring of conviction in his own voice, and was stabbed with fear that he would be proved wrong. But he was used to risk, to defying the rules and trusting to fortune, because it was all he had. He was acutely conscious that he did not deserve to succeed as often as he had. “No, Mrs. Alberton. I do not believe that Merrit is guilty of more than foolishness. I am very sorry that I may have to demonstrate that the man she loves is in no way worthy of her, and she will find that very hard. There is little in life as bitter as disillusion. And when it happens she will need your comfort. You must remain strong for that time. It will not be long.”

  Judith’s expression could not be seen, but the emotion, the effort at self-mastery and the fear were all in her voice.

  “Of course. Thank you, Sir Oliver.” It was painfully apparent that she wanted to say more, and also that she would be asking for something he could not give her. She waited only a moment longer, then slowly turned away. After she had moved a step or two she was facing Philo Trace. She must have seen his expression, his remarkable eyes. Perhaps she was the fortunate one, to be able to hide behind a veil, to have no one know how much she had seen of his emotions, or to pretend she had not read them.

  Then the moment was gone, and with Hester beside her she walked away. Rathbone went to find himself some luncheon, although he had little appetite for it.

  The afternoon resumed late with Lanyon giving evidence for the police. In the rather stiff language of officialdom he corroborated all that Casbolt had said, at Deverill’s insistence, also confirming that Casbolt had indeed dined with friends and remained in their company until after the time Alberton and the guards were believed to have been killed.

  It was unnecessary. Rathbone had never considered Casbolt a possible suspect, nor did he believe anyone else had.

  Deverill thanked Lanyon effusively, as if he had made an important point.

  Rathbone was pleased to see several jurors looking mystified.

  “And did you find anything remarkable at the scene of the murders which led you to the identity of any of the persons present, apart from the victims?” Deverill asked.

  “Yes,” Lanyon said unhappily. “A gentleman’s gold watch.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  The jury were only mildly interested. They already knew, and their distaste was apparent. A couple of them looked up at Breeland.

  He ignored them almost as if he were unaware. Rathbone had seen innocent men with that sublime detachment, knowing the crime spoken of had nothing to do with them. He had also seen guilty men with a coldness that appeared just the same, because they had no understanding that what they had done was repellent. They felt no pain except their own.

  Merrit was utterly different. She was pale, shivering, and it cost her a very obvious effort to muster even a semblance of composure. She had been stunned by Casbolt’s account of finding the bodies. Lanyon’s less emotional telling of essentially the same facts had been even harder for her. His tightly controlled voice made it more real. Yet in his own way he was also shocked. It was in the keenness of his speech, the way he kept his eyes down and did not once look at Judith in the front row of the gallery, nor up at Merrit herself.

  Deverill took Lanyon through the exact circumstances of finding the watch, and of the name engraved on the back. Then he moved on to Lanyon’s following of the trail of wagons from the yard to Hayes Dock and the beginning of their journey down the river by barge.

  At four o’clock the judge adjourned the court for the day.

  In the morning, Deverill resumed exactly where he had left the story. It took him the rest of the morning to proceed detail by detail until Lanyon admitted to losing the trail at Bugsby’s Marshes. Deverill very graciously offered to call every bargee, docker and waterman who had given Lanyon evidence.

  Wearily, the judge asked Rathbone if he contested the issue, and immensely to the court’s relief Rathbone said that he did not. He was happy to concede that everything Lanyon had said was true.

  Deverill looked startled, and pleased, as if his adversary had unexpectedly surrendered.

  “Are you well, Sir Oliver?” he enquired solicitously.

  There was a faint titter around the gallery, instantly hushed at a glare from the judge.

  “In excellent health, thank you,” Rathbone replied. “Quite well enough for a trip down the river to Bugsby’s Marshes, if I felt like it. I don’t. But please don’t let me stop you, if you feel it will serve your cause.”

  “It will certainly not serve yours, sir!” Deverill returned.

  “Nor harm it either.” Rathbone smiled. “It is irrelevant, a diversion. Please continue.…”

  The judge had a very dry smile and directed them to proceed.

  “Your witness,” Deverill invited.

  Rathbone stood up and walked across the floor to stand in the middle of the open space. This time every eye was on him, waiting for him to begin the fight. So far he had not even parried a blow, much less struck one. He knew he must make a mark immediately or forfeit their attention.

  “Sergeant Lanyon, you very diligently followed the trail of this barge all the way from Tooley Street, near Hayes Dock, down the Thames as far as Bugsby’s Marshes. It carried a cargo of something heavy, and we have assumed it was the guns from Mr. Alberton’s warehouse. Do you know the identity of the men who were seen by these various witnesses to whom you spoke? I mean know it, Sergeant, rather than deduce it from a dropped watch or a chance to purchase armaments for a cause.”

  “No, sir. I only know they knew where the guns were and they wanted them enough to commit murder to take them,” Lanyon answered with only a flicker of expression in his mild, thin face.

  “Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “But who were they?”

  Lanyon’s jaw set hard. “I don’t know. But someone dropped that watch, and recently. Gold watches don’t lie around warehouse yards long before someone notices them.”

  “Not in daylight, anyway.” Rathbone smiled very slightly. “Thank you, Sergeant Lanyon. You seem to have fulfilled your duty excellently. I have nothing more to ask of you … except … did you find out what happened to the guns after Bugsby’s Marshes? Or what happened to the barge afterwards?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see. Don’t you find that curious?”

  Deverill stood up.

  Rathbone held out his hand. “I rephrase that, Sergeant Lanyon. In your experience as a police officer, is that a usual occurrence?”

  “No, sir. I’ve looked hard for anything further, but I can’t find any trace of where the guns went after that, or the barge.”

  “I shall enlighten you,” Rathbone promised. “About the guns, at least. The barge mystifies me as much as it does you. Thank you. I have nothing further to ask.”

  After the luncheon adjournment Deverill called the medical officer, who described the exact manner of the killings. It was gruesome and distressing evidence, and the court heard it in near silence. Deverill seemed to begin with the intention of drawing from him every agonizing detail, then just in time realized that the jury were acutely aware of the pain it had to cause the widow, and this not only produced in them a very natural rage against the perpetrators but also against himself, for subjecting her to hearing, perhaps for the first time, a clinical description of horror she had been protected from before.

  Rathbone looked up at Merrit in the dock and saw the agony in her eyes, her ashen skin now so bleached of color as to seem bruised, and the achingly rigid muscles of her arms and body as silent weeping racked through her. It would be a hard man indeed who could look at her and not believe that if she had had even the slightest knowledge of this before, let alone complicity, she was tortured with remorse now.

  He also wondered what went through her mind regarding Breeland, sitting bolt upright as if o
n some military duty, his features composed, almost without expression.

  In Rathbone’s mind the thing that burned up inside him with a rage he could not control was that Breeland never once extended his hand towards Merrit or made any gesture of pity for her. If he were distressed within himself, it was inside a loneliness nothing could break. Whatever he felt for her, he cared more for his cause, and the dignity and stoic innocence he presented to the world. If he had any human vulnerability, no one must see it. If he had weighed the cost to Merrit at all, it had not been heavy enough on the scales to show.

  A military expert was called who testified that this peculiar method of binding the arms and legs over a pole was known to be practiced by the army of the Union to punish those of its members who had been found guilty of various crimes, the T indicating “thief.” It was not an execution, but usually lasted for six to twelve hours, by which time the man concerned was barely able to stand, even after release. He had no opinion as to the shooting, but his anger was palpable that an accepted form of discipline should have been so misused. It was an insult to the honorable man who had designed it.

  Whether the court agreed with him it was impossible to say; they were overwhelmed with the savagery of the only case they had witnessed, and they were not at war. The necessities of the Union army, of any army, were unknown to them. The fact that the practice was specific to the army for which Breeland fought was an added condemnation. The hatred for him could be felt in the air like a hot, stinging smell.

  Rathbone’s mind raced as to how he could undo the emotional damage. Mere facts would be drowned in the revulsion of feeling.

  The last witness of the day was Dorothea Parfitt, the seventeen-year-old friend to whom Merrit had shown the watch and bragged a little of her love affair. Dorothea walked across the open space of the floor and tripped on the very first step up to the box. She had hold of the railing, so it was only barely noticeable, but she let out a little gasp and straightened herself, blushing.

  Deverill was extremely gentle with her, doing all he could to ease her obvious consciousness that her words could condemn her friend, perhaps to the rope. What motive she had had in first saying this to the police no one else could know. It might have been envy, because Merrit had won the love of a most glamorous man who was older, braver, more mysterious and exciting than the youths she knew. It is very natural to want to prick vanity, especially if it is exercised at your expense. She could not then have foreseen the terrible consequences. She would not even have been able to imagine standing here now, about to repeat her words, because she could not take them back, and give Deverill the power to place a rope around Merrit’s neck.