by Anne Perry
He recalled himself to the present. “Good!”
“What do you expect to find?” Rathbone was looking curious and a trifle anxious.
“Nothing,” Monk replied. “But I need to be certain.”
Rathbone leaned back in his chair. “Why didn’t you ask me to look?”
Monk smiled thinly. “Because you may not want to know the answer.”
Humor flashed for an instant in Rathbone’s eyes. “Oh! Then you had better go alone. Just don’t leave me walking into an ambush in court.”
“I won’t,” Monk promised. “I still think Shearer is the one who actually committed the murders.”
Rathbone’s eyebrows rose. “Alone?”
“No. I think it would have taken more than one, even holding a gun. They were tied up before they were shot. But he could have hired help anywhere. He certainly lived and worked where he would be able to find plenty of men willing to kill a man, for a reasonable price. The price of those guns would be enough to buy nine decent-sized houses. A small percent of the profit would give him sufficient to obtain all kinds of assistance.”
Rathbone’s fastidious face expressed his distaste.
“And I suppose we have no idea where Shearer is now?”
“None at all. Could be anywhere, here or in Europe. Or America, for that matter, except it’s not the best place to be, unless he has designs on making more money in the armaments business.” He debated with himself whether to mention the whole blackmail affair, and his failure to find any trace of Baskin and Company, and decided against it for the moment. It might be easier for Rathbone if he did not know.
“He could well do that,” Rathbone said thoughtfully, leaning back and placing his fingertips together, elbows on the arms of his chair. “He might have bought more guns somewhere with the money from Breeland, if what Breeland says is true. There’s a very murky area in arms dealing, and he would be in a position to know more about it than most.”
It was a thought which had not occurred to Monk; he was annoyed with himself for it. His preoccupation with the past, and its destruction into the present, was costing him the sharp edge of his skill. But it was second nature to conceal it from Rathbone.
“That’s another reason I need to see Alberton’s books,” he said.
Rathbone frowned. “I don’t like this, Monk. I think perhaps I had better know what you find. I can’t afford to be taken by surprise, however much I may dislike what it shows. No one has accused Alberton of anything yet, but I know the prosecution is going to use Horatio Deverill. He’s an ambitious bounder, and they didn’t nickname him ’Devil’ for nothing. He’s unpredictable, no loyalties, few prejudices.”
“Doesn’t his ambition curb his indiscretion?” Monk asked skeptically.
Rathbone’s mouth turned down at the corners. “No. He’s got no chance of a seat in the Lords, and he knows it. His hunger is for fame, to shock, to be noticed. He’s good-looking, and a certain kind of woman finds him attractive.” A quiver of humor touched his lips. “The sort whose lives are comfortable and a trifle boring,” he continued. “And who think danger would give them the excitement their rank and money shield them from. I imagine you are familiar with the type?”
“Do you?” Then, like a wave of heat inside him, Monk knew why Rathbone had smiled. Monk himself carried that sort of danger, and he knew it and had used it often enough. It was a hint of the reckless, the unknown, even a suggestion of pain, another reality they wanted to touch but not be trapped in. Boredom held its own kind of destruction.
He stood up. “Then we had better know everything we can, good or bad,” he said tersely. “If I see anything I don’t understand, I’ll send you a message, and you can find me an accounts clerk.”
“Monk …”
“Only if I need one,” Monk said from the door. He did not intend to tell Rathbone about his merchant banking days, and that he knew very well how to read a balance sheet, and what to look for if he suspected embezzlement or any other kind of dishonesty. He wanted to block the whole of the past, most especially to do with Arrol Dundas, from his mind.
Monk examined the books of Alberton’s business far into the night. Alberton and Casbolt had dealt in a number of commodities, mostly to considerable profit. Casbolt had been extremely knowledgeable as to where to obtain goods at the best price, and Alberton had known where to sell them to the best advantage. They had left a good deal of the shipping to Shearer, and had paid him well for his services. Read in detail, the movement of money showed a trust among the three men stretching back nearly twenty years.
Even with the skills he half remembered and which came back with startling clarity as he read, added, subtracted, Monk found nothing that was less than completely honest.
But he also had no doubt whatever, when he finally closed the last ledger at twenty-five minutes to one, that the guns the pirates’ agents had demanded through blackmail would be worth roughly £1,875. The guns unaccounted for from the warehouse after Alberton’s death and the robbery had not been paid for through the books. There had been no money in Alberton’s possession at the time of his death, and nothing concealed in the warehouse. If money had changed hands at all, it had gone with whoever had left Tooley Street that night, or else Breeland had passed it to Shearer at the Euston Square station, as he had said.
Tomorrow he would go back and speak to Breeland.
When Hester awoke she found Monk’s note. It left her with an increasing sense of loss. She was almost grateful that the trial of Merrit and Breeland loomed so close; it left her less time to torture herself with questions and fears as to what had changed between them.
Thoughts had flickered darkly across her mind that perhaps he regretted the commitment of marriage, that he felt trapped, closed in by the expectations, the constant companionship, the limits to his personal freedom.
But the change in him had been so sudden it made little sense. There had been no hint of it before; indeed, the opposite was true. Finding Mrs. Patrick had been a stroke of good fortune. It freed Hester to pursue her interest in medical reform without neglecting domestic duties. And Mrs. Patrick was undeniably a better cook.
She forced it from her mind and dressed in soft gray, one of her favorite colors, then set out to call upon Judith Alberton. She was not exactly sure what she wished to ask her, or even what she hoped to learn, but Judith was the only person who knew what had happened to her brother and his family, and Hester still had the feeling that the blackmail attempt was at the heart of the murders, whether it had been brought about by Shearer, or by Breeland, or even possibly by Trace, although that was a thought she hoped profoundly was not true. She had liked Philo Trace. The fact that he was from the South, and his people countenanced the keeping of slaves, was an accident of birth and culture. It had nothing to do with the charm of the man or the pleasure she felt in his company. The conflict of morality was something she sensed he was already facing within himself. Perhaps that was because she wished to believe it, but until forced to do otherwise by evidence, she would suppose it to be so.
It might be coincidence that the murders and the theft had followed so soon after the blackmail, for which the price of silence had been guns, but she did not think so. There was a connection, if she could find it.
Judith seemed pleased to see her. Naturally she was not receiving social calls and was wearing full mourning for her husband, but she was perfectly composed and whatever grief she felt was masked by a dignity and warmth which immediately drew Hester’s admiration—and made her task more difficult and seem more intrusive.
Nevertheless, only the truth would serve, and Merrit’s situation was desperate. The trial was due to start at the beginning of the following week.
“How nice of you to call, Mrs. Monk,” Judith welcomed her. “Please tell me what news you have.…”
Hester hated lies, but she knew from many years of nursing that sometimes half-truths were necessary, for a period at least. Some truths were better unknown
altogether. The ability to fight the battle was what was needed, and without the death of hope.
“I have never believed Merrit was involved,” she answered, following Judith into a small room which opened onto the garden and was decorated in greens and white, and at the present moment was filled with the morning sun. “But I am afraid it seems unavoidable that Mr. Breeland was, even if not directly.”
Judith stared at her, no anxiety in her eyes, only confusion.
“If not Mr. Breeland, then who?”
“It seems most likely it was Shearer. I’m sorry.” She did not know why she apologized, only that she regretted that Alberton should have been betrayed by someone he had trusted so long, and so closely. It added to the pain.
“Shearer?” Judith questioned. “Are you sure? He’s a hard man, but Daniel always said he was completely loyal.”
“Have you seen him since Mr. Alberton’s death?”
“No. But then I have only met him once or twice anyway. He hardly ever came to the house.” She did not need to add that they were not social acquaintances.
“No one else has seen him since then either,” Hester told her. “Surely if he were innocent he would be here to help, to continue to work in the business and to offer all the support he could? Would he not be as anxious as we are to catch whoever is responsible?”
“Yes,” Judith said quietly. “I suppose the answer had to be terrible, whatever it was. It was foolish to have hoped it would be … something … bearable … someone easy to hate, and dismiss.”
There was nothing Hester could say to mitigate that. She turned to the other matter she needed to probe. “Mrs. Alberton, your husband and Mr. Casbolt received a very ugly letter requesting that they sell guns to a company which is known to be an intermediary who would sell them on to most undesirable quarters.”
Judith’s face registered no comprehension of why Hester should ask.
“They refused, but they asked my husband’s assistance in finding out who was making the request. The letter was anonymous, and threatening—”
“Threatening?” Judith said quickly. “Have you informed the police? Surely they must be responsible, then.…”
“Mr. Breeland has the guns that were stolen.”
“Oh … yes, of course. I’m sorry. Then why are you asking about these people?”
Again Hester told less than the truth.
“I am not quite certain. I just feel that the coincidence of time, and the fact that it was guns, may mean that they are connected somehow. We need all the knowledge we can possibly obtain.”
“Yes, I see. Of course. What can I tell you?” Judith made no demur at all. She leaned forward, her face watchful and intelligent.
Hester hated opening the subject, but it was a past loss, raised perhaps to avoid a present one.
“I believe you lost your brother in dreadful circumstances.…” She saw Judith wince and the color pale in her cheeks. Hester did not retreat. “Please tell me at least the main story. I don’t ask lightly.”
Judith looked down. “I am half Italian. I daresay you knew I was not entirely English. My father came from the south, about fifty miles from Naples. I had only one brother, Cesare. He was married and had three children. He and his wife, Maria, used to love sailing.”
Her voice was tight and low. “Seven years ago their boat was boarded by pirates off the coast of Sicily. The whole family was killed.” She swallowed convulsively. “Their bodies were found … later. I …” She shook her head minutely, little more than a shiver. “Daniel went out. I didn’t. He … he wouldn’t tell me the details. I asked … I was glad he refused. I saw in his face that it was terrible. Sometimes he dreamed … I heard him cry out in the night, and wake up, his body rigid. But he would never say what had happened to them.”
Hester tried to imagine the crushing weight of horror that had remained with Alberton so vividly, and the love for his wife which had taken him to Sicily, and then kept him silent all the years between. And yet he still dealt in guns! Did he feel they were also used for good, to fight just causes, defend the weak, even keep a balance of power between otherwise violent forces?
Or was it simply the only business he understood, or the most profitable? They would probably never know. She wished to think it was one of the former.
“How long was he away?” she asked aloud.
“I don’t know. Almost three weeks,” Judith answered. “It seemed an age at the time. I missed him dreadfully, and of course I feared for him also. But he was determined to do everything he could to have the pirates found and punished. He pursued word of them from one place to another, but always they eluded him. And most of the forces of law were those who had no interest in catching them.” A fleeting love and sorrow filled her eyes. “Italy is a culture, a language, a great art, a way of life, but it is not a nation. One day it may be, if God is willing, but that day is not yet.”
“I see.”
Judith smiled. “No, you don’t. You are English, forgive me, but you have no idea at all. Neither had Daniel. He did all he could, and when he realized that they could simply disappear anywhere in hundreds of miles of coastline, thousands of islands anywhere between Constantinople and Tangiers, he came home again, angry, defeated, but prepared to care for me and for Merrit, and let justice be God’s, in whatever manner it may.”
There was nothing for Hester to add. Of course it was possible Alberton had made contact with gun buyers in the Mediterranean, pirates or otherwise, fighters for or against Italian unification. But there was no way she could find out. Probably Judith did not know; certainly she would not say.
“How did you know of the blackmail?” Judith asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Mr. Casbolt told me.” Hester realized that needed some explanation. “I was seeking his help regarding his knowledge of Mr. Breeland, and of the munitions business in general. He told me of the pressure to sell to the pirates, and why Mr. Alberton never would, whatever the threat or the price.”
Judith’s face relaxed into a smile. “He always understood. He knew Daniel before I did, you know? They were friends at school here in England, and one year he brought Daniel with him to Italy. That was where we fell in love.” She looked down for a moment. “Without Robert’s help I don’t know if I would be able to commit to Sir Oliver’s fee for representing Merrit, and that would be more than I could bear.” She raised her head quickly, her eyes wide, fear naked in them. “Mrs. Monk, do you think Sir Oliver is going to be able to save her? The newspapers are so certain she is guilty. I had no idea written words could hurt so much … that people who don’t even know you could be so passionately certain of what you are like, what is in your heart. I don’t go out, not at the moment, but I don’t know how I will be able to when the time comes. How will I face people when everyone I pass in the street may believe my daughter is guilty of …”
“Ignore them,” Hester replied. “Think only of Merrit. Those with any honesty will be ashamed of themselves when they discover their error. The others are not worth battling with, and there is nothing you can do about them anyway.”
Judith sat quite still. “Will you be there?”
“Yes.” There had been no decision to make.
“Thank you.”
Hester stayed another half hour, but as a matter of companionship. They talked of nothing important, carefully avoiding speaking of the case, or of love and loss. Judith showed her around the garden, vivid with color as the roses began their second flush. It was warm even in the shade, the heavy perfume of flowers dreamlike. It made Monday’s opening of the trial harsher by contrast, as if this were so soon to end. For a long time neither of them spoke. Platitudes would insult the reality.
Monk went to see Breeland on Saturday. He had not found enough to help Rathbone beyond hope, doubt, issues to raise. He would continue seeking during the trial, but he was beginning to fear that there was no proof to find that Merrit was innocent. It might end in being no more than a matter of judgm
ent.
There was one question to ask Breeland, the answer to which would do him no injury, so Monk had no hesitation in asking it.
Breeland was brought into a small square cell. He looked pale and thinner than when Monk had last seen him. His face had hollows around the eyes and a certain leanness to the cheeks where the muscles showed tight-clenched. He stood stiffly, looking at Monk with resentment.
“I have already told you everything I have to say,” he began before Monk had spoken at all. “You brought me back to stand trial and to prove my innocence. I assume your friend Rathbone will do his duty, although I have little confidence in his belief in my innocence. I trusted you, Monk, but I now fear my trust may have been misplaced. I think you would be pleased enough to see me hang, as long as Miss Alberton is acquitted and you are paid your fee for rescuing her. I apologize if I accuse you unjustly. I hope I do.”
Monk searched the smooth, chiseled face and saw no surface emotion, no fear, no weakness, no doubt in his own courage to face the ordeal now only two days away. He should have admired it. Instead it filled him with a strange fear of his own. He was not certain whether Breeland’s demeanor was more than human, or less. He could see none of his own vulnerabilities reflected there.
“I accept your apology,” he said coolly. “Certainly I would like Miss Alberton acquitted, and I admit I don’t give a damn whether you hang or not … provided you are guilty … whether you actually fired the gun doesn’t matter. If you corrupted Shearer, or anybody else, into doing it for you, that’s all the same to me. If you didn’t, and it had nothing to do with you, then I’ll fight as hard to clear you as I would any man.”
There was no flash of humor in Breeland’s face, not even the ghost of recognition of irony. Monk had a sudden thought that Breeland did not perceive himself except as a hero, or a martyr. Human foibles and absurdities eluded his grasp. Monk saw a vision of an endless desert of existence, always on the grand scale, stripped of the laughter and trivia that bring proportion to life and are the measure of sanity.