Slaves of Obsession (23 page)

Monk was uncertain whether he admired Breeland or not. Perhaps it was only such men who achieved the great changes in governments or nations. It might be the price of such mighty gains.

Hester had no doubt about it. She thought him innately selfish, and she said so.

“Perhaps Merrit understands him?” Monk suggested to her as they walked together on the deck as the dying sun splashed across the ruffled water, spilling color like fire over the blue. “Words or gestures are not always necessary.”

“Rubbish!” She dismissed the argument, narrowing her eyes against the light and staring seawards. “Of course they aren’t. But a look is … or a touch, something. She’s feeling for both of them now, sharing his pain and loving him desperately. But what about her pain? It’s her father who’s dead, not his! She’s not a soldier, William, any more than you are.” Her eyes were very gentle, searching his for the wound she could heal. “Maybe he doesn’t have nightmares about the battlefield, about Sudley Church, and the men we couldn’t help … but she does.” Her lips were soft, full of pain. “So do I. Perhaps we should. But we need someone to hold on to.”

“Maybe he’s already said all he can to her?” he answered, moving closer and putting his arm around her.

Her face in the beautiful light was quite suddenly full of anger, her eyes wide. “She’ll die of loneliness … when she realizes at last that he isn’t going to give her anything of
himself. He’s always going to love the Union first, because it’s easier. It doesn’t ask anything back.”

“It asks everything back!” he protested. “His time, his career, even his life!”

She looked at him steadily. “But not his laughter, or his patience, or generosity to forget himself for a little while,” she explained. “Or think of something that perhaps doesn’t interest him especially. It won’t ever ask him to listen instead of speaking, to change his mind before he’s ready to, to walk a little more slowly or reconsider some of his judgments, let somebody else be the hero, without making a grand gesture of it.”

He knew what she meant.

“He’ll always do it on his terms,” she finished quietly. It was like a damnation.

“Are you sure he killed Alberton?” he asked her.

It was several minutes before she replied. The sky was darkening and the color across the water no longer had the same heat in it. The depth of the sky was indigo shadow, limitless, so beautiful its briefness ached inside her. No matter that there would be dusk tomorrow night, and the night after, and after that; none of them would ever be long enough. And soon she would see them not across the water but over city roofs.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “No other answer makes any sense … but I’m not certain.”

The ship docked at Bristol and Monk disembarked first, leaving the others behind in Trace’s care. He went straight to the nearest police station and told them who he was and of his association with Lanyon regarding the murders in Tooley Street, which crimes had been well reported in the newspapers. He told them he had brought Lyman Breeland back, also Merrit Alberton, and proposed to take them to London by train.

The police were duly impressed and offered to send a constable with them for assistance, and to make sure the prisoners did not escape during the journey. Monk noted the use of the plural with a twinge of distress, but not surprise.

“Thank you,” he accepted. It was not willingly that he included another person—it robbed him of some of his autonomy—but he would require official help, and it would be idiotic to risk losing all they had gained for a matter of pride and the right to make choices which probably would not make the slightest difference in the end.

As it was, the journey was uneventful. The Bristol police had telegraphed ahead, and Lanyon was at the railway station to meet them. Seeing the crowds, Monk was relieved. It might have proved very difficult to keep Breeland from breaking away without help. Had either he or Trace brandished a pistol they might well have been overpowered by some member of the public brave enough to attempt it and innocent enough to have believed Breeland a victim of kidnap.

Whether the fact that they still held Merrit would have restrained him was not something on which Monk would have wished to rely. Breeland might have justified to himself that the Union cause was of greater importance than the life of one woman, whoever it was. He might even have convinced himself that yielding her up was his sacrifice as much as anyone else’s. Or alternatively, he could have chosen to assume she would not be charged with anything, still less found guilty.

Might that be because she was innocent?

Or was it a fair price to pay because she too was guilty?

Now it did not matter, because Lanyon was there with two constables, and Breeland was taken in charge and handcuffed.

“And you, Miss Alberton,” Lanyon said grimly, his long face wearing an expression of puzzlement and regret.

The light died out of Merrit’s eyes and her shoulders drooped. Monk realized that at least for a while her emotions had been centered on Breeland and she had allowed herself to forget her own jeopardy. Now it was back, and real.

Breeland moved his shoulders, as if, had he been free, he would have touched her, reassured her in some way. But he was already handcuffed.

It was Hester who put her arm around the girl. “We shall do all we can to get you the best help,” she said clearly. “We
will go first to your mother and tell her you are alive and quite well. At the moment she does not even know that.”

Merrit closed her eyes, tears seeping from under the lids. So close to home, courage was harder to find, the pain sharper. Until now her thoughts had all been upon Breeland. Perhaps she had not even considered her mother. But with familiar English voices around her, the sights and smells of home, the adventure was over and the long, quiet payment for it had begun.

She tried to speak, to thank Hester, but she could not do it and still keep control of herself. She chose silence.

Over Lanyon’s shoulder Monk could see a knot of people gathering, glancing towards them with curiosity. Their faces were ugly, prying, ready for anger.

Lanyon saw his gaze. He looked apologetic.

“We’d better go,” he said hastily. “Before they guess who you are. There’s a lot of bad feeling about.”

“Feeling?” Hester asked, not immediately grasping what he was afraid of.

Lanyon lowered his voice, his brows drawn down. “In the newspapers, ma’am. There’s been a good deal said about Mr. Alberton’s death, and foreigners coming over here and seducing young women into murder, and the like. I think we should leave here as quickly as we can.” He was very careful not to look behind him as he spoke, but already Monk could see the crowd thickening and faces growing uglier. One or two people were quite openly staring now. They seemed to be moving closer.

“That’s appalling!” Hester was angry, a flush spreading up her cheeks. “Nobody’s even been charged yet, let alone tried!”

“We can’t fight from here,” Monk said sharply. He could hear his own voice rising as he thought of how quickly the situation could become violent. He was afraid for Hester. Her indignation could make her careless of her own safety, and a mob would distinguish little between their victim and someone who chose to protect him.

Lanyon said exactly the same. “You come now, quickly,”
he ordered, looking at Breeland. “Don’t get any fancy ideas of causing a riot and hoping you’ll get away in it. You won’t! You’ll just get beaten, like as not, and Miss Alberton along with you.”

Breeland hesitated a moment, as if he actually weighed such a plan in his mind, then looked at Merrit’s white face and the misery in her eyes, and abandoned the idea. As if surrendering, he lowered his head a fraction and walked obediently between Lanyon and the constable.

Merrit followed a few paces behind, with the second constable, leaving Monk, Hester and Philo Trace on the platform.

“We must go to Mrs. Alberton,” Trace said anxiously. “She will be distracted with worry. I wish to heaven there were something we could do to clear Merrit of this crime. Surely we can prevent her from being charged?” His words were positive, but his voice belied them. He looked at Monk as if he hoped for help beyond his own power to conceive. “Surely they wouldn’t really think …” He trailed off. He turned to Hester as if to say more, then saw her face.

They all knew Merrit was in love with Breeland, and loyal. That alone would have forbidden her from abandoning him, whatever the truth of the murder. She would see excusing herself as betrayal, which was to her a sin of even greater evil than the original crime. Perhaps, too late, she would regret it, but in any foreseeable future she would not separate herself from Breeland or her fate from his.

“We’ll go straightaway,” Monk agreed.

They were tired after the long train journey in the oppressive heat of early August. Hester was acutely aware of being stained with smuts from the engine fires and that at least the lower foot of her traveling dress was grimed with dust, not to mention creased, but she did not demur. It was also nearly seven in the evening, and hardly the hour to make unannounced calls upon anyone. That too was irrelevant. Without further discussion they piled their cases upon the porter’s wagon and made for the exit, and the nearest cab to take them to Tavistock Square.

Judith Alberton received them without even a pretense of formality. Unconsciously, it was Philo Trace to whom she looked first.

“We have Merrit,” he responded, his eyes softening as they met hers. “She is very tired, and much distressed by all that has happened, but she is unhurt and quite well.”

Her face flooded with relief, but she hesitated.

As if reading her thoughts he answered, “She is not married to Breeland, and she knew nothing of her father’s death … but then you cannot have imagined that she did.”

“No … no, of course not.” She gazed straight back at him, as if to emphasize her words. She was waiting for something else, something so far unsaid. She recollected herself, and that Monk and Hester were still awaiting her acknowledgment. She flushed slightly, turning to them. “I cannot say how grateful I am to you for your courage and skill in bringing back my daughter. I confess, I thought I was asking the impossible. I—I hope you sustained no injury? I cannot believe there was no hardship. I … I wish there were some way I could reward you more than in words, or money, because what you have done is greater than either.”

“We succeeded this far,” Monk said simply. “That is a very considerable reward in itself. I don’t wish to sound graceless, Mrs. Alberton, but would you accept that we did it because we also believed it to be important, and not take upon yourself an additional burden of gratitude.”

Hester found herself smiling with a warmth of pride. It was a generous speech, and she knew it was said spontaneously. She reached out her hand and placed it very lightly on his arm, avoiding his gaze, and moved half a step closer to him. She knew he was aware of her by the slightest warmth up his cheek.

Judith Alberton was smiling also, but the fear had not left her eyes. She must have been far more aware than they of what the newspapers had written.

“Thank you. Please come and sit down. Are you hungry? Have you had any rest since you arrived?”

They accepted gratefully, without telling her exactly how
arduous the journey had been. They were partway through an excellent dinner when Robert Casbolt arrived, coming straight into the dining room without waiting for the footman to announce him. He glanced at the assembled company around the table, but his eyes rested on Judith.

She looked up at him without surprise, as if he frequently appeared in such a way.

Hester saw the glint of anger in Trace’s expression, masked the moment later, but she thought she understood it.

If Casbolt saw it also, he gave no sign.

“She is safe and well,” Judith said in answer to his unspoken question.

Something in him darkened, and he could not hide the foreboding in it. “Where is she?”

Judith’s mouth tightened. “The police have arrested her, and of course Breeland.”

“They have Breeland!” He was startled. For the first time he looked fully at Monk, but still ignored Philo Trace. “You brought him back? I commend you! How did you persuade him?”

“At gunpoint,” Monk said dryly.

Casbolt made no attempt to hide his admiration. “That is truly remarkable! I apologize for underestimating you. I admit, I had little hope you could succeed.” He seemed overwhelmed. He pulled out one of the empty chairs and sat down. He waved away the footman’s offer of food or wine with a smile, not taking his eyes from Monk. “Please tell me what happened. I am most eager to know.” He did not ask Judith’s permission, but perhaps he already understood that she would care even more than he.

Monk began to recount their adventures, condensing the tale as much as he could, but frequently both Casbolt and Judith interrupted him, asking for more detail and offering praise or expressing alarm at their danger. Judith particularly was distressed at the plight of the American people caught up in a terrible war. It seemed there were vivid, fragmented reports of the battle at Bull Run in the newspaper already. They said the slaughter had been fearful.