Slaves of Obsession (43 page)

He even noticed a couple of jurors nodding, candor in their expressions, acceptance. Perhaps they too had made the journey from Euston to Liverpool and knew the truth of what Breeland was saying.

In the afternoon he took him more briefly through the voyage across the Atlantic and his short stay in America.

Deverill interrupted to ask if any of this was relevant.

“I do not doubt, my lord, that Mr. Breeland bought the guns for the Union army, or that he believes unequivocally in its cause. It is not difficult to see why any man might wish to abolish slavery in his own land, or any other. Nor do we doubt that he fought at Manassas, probably bravely, as did many others.” He lowered his voice. “That he would pay any price whatever for Union victory is only too tragically clear. That he should sacrifice others to it is the substance of our charge.”

“It is not my aim to prove that,” Rathbone argued, knowing he was telling less than the truth, and that Deverill knew it also. “I wished to show that his treatment of Miss Alberton was always honorable and quite open, even when Monk and Trace were in Washington, because he knew he was innocent of any crime and had no cause to fear them.”

Deverill smiled. “I apologize. You were so far from it I had not realized that was your aim. Please continue.”

Rathbone was foundering, and they both knew it. But he could not now retreat. He took Breeland through his confrontation on the battlefield with Monk and Trace, and his acceptance of returning to England.

“You offered no resistance?”

“No. Many men can fight the physical battle in America,” Breeland answered. “Only I can answer here for my actions, and fight the moral cause by persuading you here in England that our cause is just and our behavior honorable. I bought guns openly and paid a fair price for them. The only person I deceived was Philo Trace, and that is the fortune of war. He would expect it of me, as I would of him. We are enemies, even if we treat each other politely if we chance to meet in London. We are not barbarians.”

He cleared his throat. “I am not afraid to answer for my acts before a court of law, and I wish you to think of my people as the just and brave men they are.” He lifted his chin slightly, staring straight ahead of him. “The time will come when you will have to choose between the Union and the Confederacy. This war will not cease until one side has destroyed the other. I will give everything I have, my life, my freedom if necessary, to ensure that it is the Union that wins.”

Rathbone looked up at Merrit and saw the flash of pride in her face, and that it cost her an effort. He thought he also saw a deepening shadow of loneliness.

There was a very slight murmur of applause from somewhere in the back of the court, instantly hushed.

Deverill’s smile widened, but there was also a flicker of
uncertainty in it. He wanted the jury to think he was confident, perhaps that he perceived something they did not. It was a game of bluff and double bluff.

Rathbone could play it too. At the moment it was all he had.

“I cannot imagine that there is any man here who does not share your sentiments,” he said very clearly. “It is not our war, and we grieve for your country, and we hope profoundly that some better solution may be found than the slaughter of armies and the ruin of the land. We have no desire to take the freedom of an innocent man who is serving his people in such a cause.” He bowed very slightly, as if the battle against slavery were the question at issue.

His achievement was short-lived. Deverill rose to cross-examine Breeland, swaggering very slightly into the center of the floor. He began with a broad, dramatic gesture.

“Mr. Breeland, you speak with great passion about the Union cause. No one here could mistake your dedication to it. Would it be true to say you hold it dearer to you than anything else?”

Breeland faced him squarely, with pride. “Yes, it would.”

Deverill considered for a moment. “I believe you, sir. I am not sure I could be so wholehearted myself.…”

Rathbone knew what was coming next. He even considered interrupting, diverting the jury for a few moments by pointing out that what Deverill had said was hardly a question, and not relevant to the case. But it would be delaying the inevitable. It would emphasize the fact that he had not wished Breeland to answer. He remained in his seat.

“I think …” Deverill resumed, turning sideways to look up at Merrit. “I think that rather than declare the justice of my cause, and my own innocence, I should have been tempted to protest my love for a young woman who had given up everything—home, family, safety, even her own country—to follow me into a foreign land, at war with itself … and to expend my energy in doing all I could to see that she did not hang for my crimes, at the age of sixteen … barely yet a woman, on the verge of her life.…”

The effect was devastating. Breeland blushed crimson. One could only guess what anger and shame consumed him.

Merrit was white with misery. Perhaps never in her life again would she face such a terrible understanding, or humiliation.

Judith bent her head slowly, as if a weight had become too much to endure.

Philo Trace’s lips were twisted with a pity he could not reach across and express.

Casbolt also stared at Judith.

The jurors were torn as to whether they would look at Merrit or not. Some wished to grant her privacy by averting their gaze, as if they had unintentionally intruded upon someone caught naked in an intimate act. Others glared at Breeland in undisguised contempt. Two looked up at Merrit with profound compassion. Perhaps they had daughters her age themselves. There was no condemnation in their faces.

Rathbone forced himself to remember that he was charged equally to defend Breeland and Merrit. He could not take advantage of this, and let Breeland hang to accomplish Merrit’s acquittal, but at that moment he wished he could.

Deverill did not need to add more. Whatever the facts, and those he could not shake, he had stifled any possible act of mercy. The jury would want to convict Breeland, not for the murders, but because he did not love.

While Rathbone was struggling in the courtroom, Monk was trying to trace Shearer’s actions on the night of Alberton’s death and for the few days before. The only way to clear Breeland of the charge would be to prove that he had not conspired with Shearer. The times of the quarrel at Alberton’s home, the delivery of the note to Breeland’s rooms, and his arrival at the Euston Square station all made it impossible for him to have been at Tooley Street, but they did not prove that he had not either deliberately corrupted Shearer into committing the murders or at the least conspired with him and taken advantage of it.

He began at Tooley Street again, with the surviving warehousemen. It was a dusty, warm day with scurries of wind making little eddies over the cobbles.

“When did you last see Shearer?” Monk asked the man with the sandy hair to whom he had spoken before.

The man’s face creased in concentration. “Not rightly sure. ’E was ’ere two days afore that. Tryin’ ter ’member if ’e was ’ere that day. Don’t think so. In fact I’m certain, ’cos we ’ad a nice load o’ teak in, an’ it weren’t anything as ’e ’ad ter be ’ere for. Dunno w’ere ’e was, but Joe might know. I’ll ask ’im.” And he left Monk standing in the sun while he did so.

“At Seven Sisters, ’e was,” he said on his return. “Went up ter see a feller abaht oak. Can’t see as it’s got anything ter do wi’ guns.”

Neither could Monk, but he intended to follow every movement of Shearer regardless. “Do you know the name of the company in Seven Sisters?”

“Bratby an’ summink, I think,” Bert replied. “Big firm, ’e said. On the ’Igh Street, or just off it. What does it ’ave ter do with poor Mr. Alberton’s death? Bratby’s deals in oak an’ marble an’ the like, not guns.”

“I’d like to know where Shearer was from then onward,” Monk said frankly. There was no point being evasive. “He was at the Euston Square station to pass over the guns to Breeland at just after half-past midnight, and no one has seen him since, for certain.”

“So where is ’e?”

“I should dearly like to know. What does he look like?”

“Shearer? Ordinary sort o’ bloke, really. ’Bout your ’eight, or a bit less, I s’pose. Lean. Not much ’air, but darkish. Got green eyes, that’s different, an’ a spot on ’is cheek, ’bout ’ere.” He demonstrated, touching his cheekbone with his finger. “An’ lots o’ teef.”

Monk thanked him, and after a few more questions which elicited nothing of worth, he took his leave and spent the next hour and a half taking a hansom to Seven Sisters. He found the firm of Bratby & Allan just off the main street.

“Mr. Shearer?” the clerk asked, pushing his hand through his hair. “Yes, we know ’im, right enough. What would that be about, sir, if I may ask?”

Monk had already considered his reply. “I’m afraid he has not been seen for several weeks, and we are concerned that some harm has come to him,” he said gravely.

The clerk did not look much concerned. “Pity,” he said laconically. “S’pose people ’o? work on the river ’ave haccidents, like. Not certain wot day it was, but I can look at me books an’ see, if you want?”

“Yes, please.”

The clerk put his pencil behind his ear and went to oblige. He returned several moments later carrying a ledger. “ ’Ere,” he said, putting it down on the table. He pointed with a smudged finger and Monk read. It was quite clear that Shearer had been at Bratby & Allan on the day before Alberton’s death, until late in the afternoon, negotiating the terms of sale of timber and the possibility of transporting it south to the city of Bath.

“What time did he leave here?” Monk asked.

The clerk thought for a moment. “ ’Alf after five, as I recollect. I s’pect you’ll be wantin’ ter know w’ere ’e went next?”

“If you know?”

“I don’t, but then I could give yer a guess, like.”

“I would be grateful.”

“Well ’e’d go ter a cartin’ company what ’as yards close by. Stands ter reason, don’t it?” The clerk was pleased with his status as an expert. It pleased his self-respect quite visibly.

Monk gritted his teeth. “Indeed.”

“And there’s not many as goes as far as Bath,” the clerk went on. “So if I was you, I’d try Cummins Brothers, down the road from ’ere a bit.” He pointed to his left. “Or there’s B. & J. Horner’s the other way. an’ o’ course the biggest is Patterson’s, but that’s not ter say they’re the best, an’ Mr. Shearer likes the best. Don’t stand no nonsense, ’e don’t. ’Ard man, but fair … more or less.”

“So who is the best?” Monk said patiently.

“Cummins Brothers,” the clerk replied without hesitation.
“Costly, but reliable. Yer should ask ter see Mr. George, ’e’s the boss, an’ Mr. Shearer’d go to the top. Like I said, an ’ard man, but good at ’is business.”

Monk thanked him and asked for precise directions to the premises of Cummins Brothers. Once there he requested Mr. George Cummins and was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before being shown into a small room very comfortably appointed. George Cummins sat behind his desk, the light shining through his thin white hair, his face pleasantly furrowed.

Monk introduced himself without evasion and told him honestly what he had come for.

“Shearer,” Cummins said with surprise. “Disappeared, you said? Can’t say I expected that. He seemed in good spirits when I last saw him. Expecting a nice profit on a big deal. Something to do with America, I think.”

Monk felt a quickening of interest. He controlled it to protect himself from hope, or forcing circumstances to fit his wishes.

“Did he elaborate on that at all?”

Cummins’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Just what is your business, Mr. Monk? And why do you want to know where Shearer is? I consider him a friend, have done for years. I’m not speaking about him to just anyone until I know why.”

Monk could not tell him the truth, or it might prejudice any evidence Cummins could give. He must be honest, and yet evasive, something he had learned to do well.

“The deal with the American went badly wrong, as you may be aware,” he replied gravely. “No one appears to have seen Shearer since then. I am a private enquiry agent acting on behalf of Mrs. Alberton, who is concerned that some harm may also have come to Mr. Shearer. He was a loyal employee of her late husband for many years. She feels some responsibility to ascertain that he is alive and well, and not in need of assistance. And of course, he is sadly missed, especially now.”

“I see.” Cummins nodded. “Yes, of course.” He frowned. “Frankly, I can’t understand him not being there. I confess,
Mr. Monk, you have me worried now. When I didn’t see or hear from him, I took it he was away on a trading matter. He does go to the Continent now and then.”

“When did you last see him?” Monk pressed. “Exactly.”

Cummins thought for a moment. “The night before Alberton was killed. But I suppose you know that, and that’s why you’re here. We talked about moving some timber to Bath. As I said, he was in good spirits. We had dinner together, at the Hanley Arms, next to the omnibus station on Hornsey Road.”

“What time did you leave?”

Cummins looked anxious. “What is it you’re thinking, Mr. Monk?”

“I don’t know. What time?”

“Late. About eleven. We … we dined rather well. He said he was going back to the city.”

“How? Cab?”

“Train, from Seven Sisters Road Station. It’s just down the bottom of the street from the Hanley Arms, then along a bit.”

“How long would the journey take?”

“That time of night? Not many stops: Holloway Station, through Copenhagen Tunnel, then into King’s Cross. Best part of an hour. Why? I wish you’d tell me what it is you’re thinking!”

“Anyone see you together, swear to what time he left?”

“If you want. Ask the landlord of the Hanley Arms. Why?” Cummins’s voice was sharp with alarm.

“Because I believe he was at the Euston Square station at half-past one,” Monk answered, rising to his feet.

“What does that mean?” Cummins demanded, standing also.

“It means he couldn’t have been at Tooley Street,” Monk replied.

Cummins was startled. “Did you think he was? Good God! You … you didn’t think he did that? Not Walter Shearer. He was a hard man, wanted the best, but he was loyal. Oh, no …” He stopped. He knew from Monk’s face
there was no need to say more. “It was the American!” he finished.