by Anne Perry
It was not as simple as that, but she was reluctant to tell him what she feared. Daniel Alberton had been his closest friend, and any slur against him would reflect on Judith, and on Merrit. Did the truth matter now, the detailed truth as to why, as long as they knew who?
“Is it possible?” Hester said evasively.
Again Casbolt sat silently for several moments, his brows drawn down in thought.
As she waited, she realized how unlikely it would be. If guns could be so simply stolen, why would they have bothered with the sophistication of blackmail in the first place?
He was watching her.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” he said softly. “You are afraid Daniel yielded to them, aren’t you? You know he was in the yard that night … it must have been to meet someone.”
“Yes,” she said unhappily. She loathed having to do this, but the truth lay between them, huge and inevitable. There was no possibility of avoiding it now.
“Daniel would not sell guns to pirates,” Casbolt said, shaking his head, denying it to himself.
“The guns missing from Breeland’s shipment were exactly the amount asked for in the blackmail letter,” she pointed out.
“He still wouldn’t do that. Not to pirates!” But his voice was losing its conviction. He was talking to persuade himself, and the unhappiness in his eyes betrayed his knowledge that she could see it.
“Perhaps he had little choice,” she said.
“The blackmail? We would have fought it through! I believe your husband might well have discovered who it was. It had to be someone in London. How could a Mediterranean pirate know about Gilmer?”
“How would anyone?” she said so quietly he leaned forward to hear her. She could feel the heat in her face and yet her hands were cold.
He stared at her. “Are you … are you saying what I think …” He stumbled over the words. “No! He would not do that!”
Just as Breeland could not be guilty because of the times of events, Casbolt could not either. She hated hurting him, but he was the one person she could trust, and who would be in a position to find the truth, and maybe to keep it silent.
“Perhaps he needed the money?”
His eyes widened. “The money? I don’t understand. I am quite familiar with the company books, Mrs. Monk. The finances are more than adequate.”
At last Hester spoke aloud the ugly thought that she had been trying to suppress or deny all day. “What if he invested privately as well, and lost money?”
He looked startled, as if the thought rattled him. It took him a moment to regain his composure.
“In stocks, you mean?” he asked. “Or something of that sort? I don’t think it is likely. He was not a gambler in even the mildest way. And believe me, I have known him long enough that I would be aware of it.” He spoke very gravely, still leaning forward, his hands locked together, knuckles white.
Hester had to pursue it, explain to him what she meant. “Not stocks or shares, and I had never thought of gambling, Mr. Casbolt. I was thinking of something which seemed at the time a certain business deal, with no risk attached.”
He gazed at her, his eyes clouded, waiting for her to continue.
“Like selling guns to the Chinese,” she answered.
His face was unreadable, his emotions too profound to measure.
It was at that moment that she believed he knew. He had concealed it to protect Alberton, and possibly even more to protect Judith. She realized with a jolt how much this whole room spoke of his love for her, and why it was special. Perhaps there would be no need to tell anyone. They did not have to know any more than they did now. Mystery, unanswered questions, would be better than the truth.
“The Third Chinese War,” she finished the thought. “If he invested in guns to sell to the Chinese, shipped them out, and then they refused to pay because a war had broken out between us and them that was completely unforeseeable by anyone, then he would have sustained a heavy loss … wouldn’t he?”
His lips tightened, but his eyes did not waver from hers.
“Yes …”
“Is that not possible?”
“Of course it is possible. But what are you suggesting happened the night he was killed? I still don’t understand how a loss to the Chinese would bring that about.”
“Yes, you do,” she said softly. “What if Breeland were telling not only what he thought was the truth, but what actually was the truth? Alberton could have taken Philo Trace’s money, given in good faith, then sold the guns to Breeland, using Shearer to deliver them to the Euston Square station. He would then have had two separate amounts of money which would come to an excellent profit … more than sufficient to make up for the Chinese losses.”
He did not argue. His face had a bruised, almost beaten look. “Then who killed him? And why?”
“Whoever represented the pirates,” she answered.
“I … suppose so.”
“Or else there was a confrontation,” she added, her voice lifting with hope in spite of herself. “Perhaps he knew who they were, and he may have said he would deal with them because he planned to exact some kind of justice for Judith’s family.” She chose the word justice deliberately, instead of revenge.
He considered it. It was apparent in his face that he was weighing all the possibilities. He seemed to make a decision at last.
“If your suggestion about Daniel having lost private money on the Chinese war is correct, and that he did indeed sell the guns to Breeland just as Breeland said, and kept Philo Trace’s money … then when Trace discovered that, would he not be the one to exact revenge-or, from his point of view, justice? And the method of … murder … was a peculiarly American one, remember. Do you not think it more likely that Trace went to Tooley Street to face Daniel about it, and there was a furious quarrel, and Trace killed them? Whether he went there alone or not we may never know. Perhaps he had help. He will have had allies here ready to move the guns when he bought them, just as Breeland had. Possibly one man could have made the guards tie each other, at gunpoint, and he could have tied the last himself … I imagine.”
He looked pale, very strained. “Trace seems a gentle man, full of charm, but he is a gun buyer for the Confederate army, fighting to preserve the way of life of the South, and the right to keep slaves. Underneath the easy manner there is a very desperate and determined man whose people are at war for their own survival.”
He hesitated, biting his lip for a moment. “And there is another thing, Mrs. Monk … the watch. Merrit said in court that she didn’t know where she left it, but she was lying. We all know that. She took it off in Breeland’s rooms when she changed her clothes, and forgot it. Someone went up there before we did. The porter said so.” He was looking at her very shakily. “If that were Trace, then he could have taken it and dropped it in the yard to incriminate Breeland. What would be more natural?”
Hester felt her heart lurch and her skin break out in a hot, prickly sweat of horror. Monk was alone with Trace at the bottom of the Thames, trusting him, his life dependent upon Trace’s skill and his honor.
She shot to her feet, her breath rasping. “William is diving.” She almost choked on the words. “He has only Trace with him! They’re looking for the barge that took the guns down.” She turned and stumbled towards the door. “I’ve got to get there! I’ve got to warn him … help … him.”
Casbolt was beside her instantly. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get to them as fast as I can. I can get out on the river. You stay here, safely. You couldn’t help even if you were there. I’ll tell the river police.” And he moved past her, touching her gently on the arms, as if to hold her there.
“Remain here,” he repeated. “You’ll be safe. I’ll take the police and confront Trace. Monk will be all right.” And before she could argue he went out of the door, closing it behind him, and she heard his footsteps fade away.
She moved back to the center of the room. It really was beautiful. There was
a miniature portrait at one end of the pale marble mantel. At first she had not realized who it was. Now she could see it was Judith as a young woman, perhaps twenty or so. That would be when she had first met Daniel Alberton.
There was another picture, no more than a sketch, three young people climbing over the rocks on a beach, Judith laughing, close to Casbolt, Alberton a little distance away, looking towards them. It was obvious that Judith and Casbolt were the couple, Alberton the newcomer.
Trace, who was so much in love with Judith, was a newcomer too. Had his love for Judith had anything to do with the reason he had killed Alberton, instead of merely rendering him unconscious? Was it Judith herself, as much as the guns?
Monk was alone with him, possibly this moment under the water, dependent on him for skill, for life!
But Casbolt had gone to fetch Lanyon and rescue him. He would be there far before … There! Where?
Suddenly she froze like ice, her limbs shaking. Casbolt had not asked her where Monk was diving for the barge! He knew!
Everything that was true about Alberton and the private investment in the Chinese war was equally true about Casbolt himself. He could have lost money, and all the glamour and generosity that money allowed. This beautiful house and everything in it, the admiration and respect that go with success. And Casbolt was used to success. Everything around him showed he had had it all his life … except with Judith. She had given him no more than the love of a cousin and friend, never passion. He was too close.
She went over to the door and turned the handle. But it was locked. Damnation! That old manservant must have seen Casbolt leave and locked it up behind him.
She rattled the handle and called out.
Silence.
She tried shouting.
Either he was deaf or he did not care. Perhaps Casbolt had even told him to keep her there?
The watch! Casbolt would have seen it when he and Monk had gone to Breeland’s rooms looking for Merrit. He could easily have taken it then, concealed it from Monk, and then dropped it himself when they were in the Tooley Street yard. No wonder he had been so startled when he discovered Breeland had given it to Merrit.
She shook the door as violently as she could, shouting for help. It had no effect whatever.
She swung around and went to the French doors and opened them. The balcony had wisteria climbing up it. Was it enough for a toehold? It would have to be! Monk’s life depended on it. Gingerly, disregarding the ruin of her skirts, she clambered over the edge, refusing to look down, and began to slip and clutch and slip again until she could jump the last few feet to the grass, landing in a heap.
She stood up, brushed herself down and set off at a run to reach the street.
It had all been about money, not guns, and because of Judith. The American war had nothing to do with it at all. The guns had been sold twice, and paid for at least once and a half. Casbolt had employed Shearer, and someone else who had committed the actual murders, carefully making sure he was accounted for that night. Then, as Monk had guessed, the following night they had all met up down the river at Bugsby’s Marshes to pay and be paid.
She ran out into the middle of the road, waving her arms and shouting out, her voice high and shrill, verging on hysteria.
A carriage slowed to a stop to avoid striking her. A hansom pulled up with a screech and a curse.
She called up to the driver. “I need to get to the Bermondsey police station. My husband’s life depends on it … please!”
There was an elderly man already inside. He looked momentarily alarmed, then seeing the anguish in her face and every aspect of her body, he acquiesced with startling generosity, offering his hand to help her.
“Come in, my dear. Driver, as the lady wishes, with all possible speed!”
The coachman hesitated only long enough to make certain Hester was safely inside, then he swung the whip wide and high, and urged the horses forward.
Monk gasped, then the hose fell loose. Air surged back around his face. There was a touch on his shoulder and he tried to swing around, but he was too slow, achingly clumsy.
Trace was beside him, shaking his head, holding the air hose, smiling.
Monk was ashamed of his thoughts, of his panic, but above all weak with relief. He was grinning idiotically at Trace through the filthy water and the thick glass.
He raised his hand in thanks.
Trace waved back, still shaking his head, then pointing to the nearest of the piled crates.
Monk took out his knife and together they prized the lid off. There were guns there. He could feel their outlines.
Trace held up his lamp, close, only inches above them. Now it was possible to see that they were old models, flintlocks mostly, many of them useless, without firing pins, a far cry from the latest Enfields Breeland had purchased. They were little more than sham.
Laboriously they unpacked the top layer. Underneath was only bricks and ballast.
They tried a second case, and a third. They were all the same; a few guns on top, then just weight.
Now at last Monk understood almost all of it. The real guns had never been at Tooley Street. They had been stored somewhere else, and taken to Euston and loaded onto the freight wagons on the train before Shearer even got there the night of the murders. He had merely accepted Breeland’s money. Where he had been the rest of that night, they would probably never know.
These cast-off guns laid over bricks and ballast had been stolen by the wretched men whose bodies floated in this ghastly cabin below the Thames. They had hidden the barge, disguised among the wrecks on the shore of Bugsby’s Marshes, until the following night, then floated it again to keep a rendezvous they thought was to deliver their goods and receive payment for murder. Instead, along with Shearer, they had met their own deaths. If he looked again he would find all the times fitted.
He put his hand on Trace’s arm to signal they should leave. They had seen all there was. They moved slowly away. And was it all simply greed, a matter of selling the guns twice and thus having more money? Admittedly, a vast amount more.
He lurched through the gloom, fumbling his way, awash in clouds of mud, pulled by tides as the flow increased, and they were trying to fight against it. It seemed an endless journey. His legs ached from the weight of his boots. He was imprisoned behind the glass plate, breathing pumped air. He struggled to remember what they had told him to do. Use the outlet valve. Get more buoyancy. That was better. Life and sunlight were only a few fathoms away, but like another world.
Trace was beside him, moving more rapidly, surer-footed. He was waving his light, guiding and urging Monk forward. Then suddenly Trace dropped his light. Monk saw his hands scrabble at where his throat would be beneath the helmet; his face appeared contorted behind the glass, as though he were gasping, choking for air.
Then his ropes tightened, and he was dragged backwards and up, disappearing into the murk, leaving Monk completely alone.
Where was the boat? He strained upwards, looking for its shadow through the cloud of sand that swirled around him, and did not see it.
Then at last the steps were there. He grasped them, hauling himself up, desperate to reach the top, the light, to get out of the cold, clammy, imprisoning suit. It seemed to take forever. He was leaden-weighted. There was no help from the ropes. They had stopped pulling him. He had to climb on his own. The effort was overwhelming.
At last his head broke the surface and instinctively he gasped, drawing in only more pumped air. Hands reached out to help him aboard, and as the water drained off him and the attendant removed the front glass from his helmet, he recognized Robert Casbolt. Then a shot rang out, and another, and another. The attendant crumpled forward, his chest scarlet, and slid into the water.
The other two men lay sprawled beside the pumping equipment, one partly on his back next to Trace, staring sightlessly upward, a dark hole in his head, the third doubled over the after thwart, blood on his hair. Philo Trace was slumped in the bottom of
the boat, eyes closed, barely conscious, his helmet beside him.
Casbolt was holding a gun, its muzzle pointed towards Monk.
“You found something down there that showed you it was Trace,” he said with a sad little shake of his head. “But you weren’t quick enough for him. He shot you. He nearly got away with it, too. If your wife hadn’t come to me with the truth, and I raced here to try to rescue you, then he would have succeeded! Tragically, I was just too late.…” He swallowed hard. “I really am sorry. All I wanted was Judith … back again, as it used to be. And enough money to look after her. That was all I ever wanted.” He raised the gun a little higher.
A shot rang out, then another. Casbolt teetered for a moment and then overbalanced, falling into the brown, swelling tide.
Across the water another boat was coming towards them, Lanyon in the bow, a pistol in his hand. Beside him, Hester was ashen-faced, the wind whipping her hair and blowing her torn and wet skirts.
The boat reached the barge and Lanyon jumped over. A look of horror filled his eyes as he saw the bodies. It was a moment before he collected himself and came over to Monk. Trace coughed and sat up a little straighter, one of the other boat’s crew helping him.
Hester scrambled from one boat to the other and ran forward, falling on her knees beside Monk, saying his name over and over, searching his face, desperate to know he was all right. Her voice caught in her throat; her breathing was wild and jerky.
He grinned at her, and saw the tears of relief run down her cheeks. He could understand so very easily that you could love one woman so much that no one else filled your heart or mind. For a moment he could almost have been sorry for Casbolt. He had wanted Judith all his life. Love could hurt. It would ask for sacrifices greater than the imagination could foresee, and it was not always returned, or even understood. But it did not excuse what he had done. The end does not justify the means.
Lanyon unfastened Monk’s helmet and lifted it off.