Slaves of Obsession (27 page)

Her chin came up quickly and she met his eyes. “I have total confidence that Merrit did not have any willing hand in the murder of her father,” she said without hesitation, her voice strong. “But I do not believe that God intervenes in every miscarriage of justice. In fact, we all know perfectly well that He does not. Tell me what you need from me, Sir Oliver. I will give everything I have to save my daughter.”

He did not doubt that she meant it. Even had he not already formed an opinion of her, it was plain in her face, the urgency, the courage and the fear.

“I need all the facts that I can find,” he replied. “And I need your agreement that if it is necessary, which it may be, I shall represent Lyman Breeland as well, with whatever consequences may stem from that.” He watched her intently as he spoke, seeing the flicker in her gaze, the awareness of how repugnant it would be to ally herself with the man she believed had murdered her husband.

“Please consider it carefully before you reply, Mrs. Alberton,” he warned. “I do not know what I shall discover when I begin to look into it with more care, more thoroughness. I cannot promise you that it will be what you wish to know. All I can say is that if you employ me to act for you, I will do everything I can to serve your best interests. I can and will keep every confidence entrusted to me. But I will not lie to you, nor can I protect you from reality.”

“I understand.” She was very pale indeed, her body stiff, as if, were she to let go of the iron control she willed upon herself, she might collapse completely. “I will face whatever you may find. I believe in the end it will prove my daughter to be innocent of malice, if not of folly. Do whatever is needed, Sir Oliver.”

“That will include employing Monk again, to enquire into the case further than he has done so far.”

“Anything that you judge appropriate,” she agreed. “If you trust him, then I do. And he has already proved himself more than able by bringing Merrit home. How he managed to convince Breeland to come as well I cannot imagine.”

“At gunpoint, I understand,” he said dryly. “But apparently he claims that was more because Breeland wished to remain with his regiment than because he was afraid to face trial. He claims to have a complete defense, not only to murder but even to robbery.”

She said nothing. Emotions chased each other across her face: fear, pain, bewilderment, doubt.

He rose to his feet. “First I shall go and speak with Miss
Alberton. I can proceed little until I have heard what she has to say.”

“Will you come back and tell me?” She stood up quickly. She moved with remarkable grace, and he was reminded again what a beautiful woman she was.

“I will keep you informed,” he promised. It was not quite the answer she had requested, but it was all he would commit himself to do. He wondered, as the footman showed him out, how deeply he might regret such a promise. He could imagine no outcome of this issue which would not bring with it deep and terrible pain. There seemed no answer which would not add to Judith Alberton’s loss.

He had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with Merrit. He stood in the small, bare room in the prison where she was being held prior to trial. It was stone-walled, washed with lime, the floor made of stone blocks. The hinges of the iron door were bedded deep into the jamb on one side, and the lock bit into the other, as if some desperate person might fling himself against it in a blind effort to escape.

There was a table where he could sit and presumably write notes, if he wished, although there was no inkwell. A pencil would have to suffice. There was a second chair for the accused.

When she came in he was again surprised. He had expected someone very girlish, angry, frightened and very possibly disinclined to cooperate with him. Instead he saw a young woman who would never rival her mother in beauty but who nevertheless had some remnant of both charm and dignity, in spite of being very obviously exhausted, her fair hair scraped back and pinned, by the look of it, without benefit of a mirror. Since she had not yet been convicted of any crime, except in public opinion, she still wore her own clothes, a blue muslin dress with a white collar which exaggerated the pallor of her skin. It was clean and fresh. Her mother must have had it sent for her.

“The wardress says you are Sir Oliver Rathbone, and you are to represent me,” she said very quietly. “I presume that
my mother has engaged you.” It was barely a question. They both knew that there was no other explanation.

He began to reply, but she cut across him. “I did not have any part in the murder of my father, Sir Oliver.” Her voice trembled only very slightly. “But I will not allow you to use me in order to blame Mr. Breeland.” She lifted her chin a fraction as she spoke his name and the corner of her mouth softened.

“Perhaps you had better tell me what you know, Miss Alberton,” he replied, indicating the chair opposite for her to be seated.

“Only if it is understood that I will not be manipulated,” she answered. She stood quite still, waiting for his word before committing herself even to listen.

He had a sudden sense of how very young she was. Her loyalty was blind, absolute and perhaps the most precious thing to her. He could believe she defined herself by such a value, the ability to love totally, even at such a terrible cost. It was part of being sixteen. He could hardly remember such unequivocal passion. He hoped he had once been so ardent, so careless of hurt to himself, placing love before all.

Time and experience had blunted that … too much. Perhaps if he had not been afraid to love like that he would not have lost Hester. But that was a useless thought now, and too brilliantly painful to indulge, even in passing. That was much too real, too wholehearted.

“I have no intention of trying to manipulate you,” he said with a fierceness that even surprised him. “I would like to know the truth, or at least as much of it as you can tell me. Please begin with simple facts. We may go on to deduction and opinion later. Perhaps you would begin with the day of your father’s death, unless you feel there is something relevant earlier.”

She sat down obediently and composed herself, folding her hands.

“Mr. Breeland and Mr. Trace both wished to purchase the guns that my father had for sale. Each, of course, for his own side in the civil war in America. Mr. Trace represented
the Confederacy, the slave states; Mr. Breeland is for the Union, and against slavery anywhere.” The ring of pride and anger in her voice was unmistakable. Rathbone could not help identifying with her in that much at least.

He did not interrupt.

“My father said that he had already promised to sell the entire shipment of guns, above six thousand of them, to Mr. Trace,” she continued. “And he would not change his mind, no matter what Mr. Breeland, or I, for that matter, would say to him. Every argument against slavery was tried, every horror and injustice, every monstrosity of human cruelty detailed, but he would not reconsider.” There were tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away furiously, annoyed with herself for betraying such emotion. “I quarreled with him.” She sniffed, then shook her head as she realized how inelegant it was.

Rathbone offered her his handkerchief.

She hesitated, then took it, simply so that she might blow her nose, and then continued.

“Thank you. I was very angry indeed. I think the more so because I had always thought well of him before. I had never seen that side of him which …” She lowered her eyes, looking away from him. “Which could not admit when he had made a mistake, and yield to a better cause. I said some things to him I wish now I could take back. Not that they are not true, but I could not know they would be the last words he ever heard from me.”

Rathbone did not wish to give her time to dwell on the thought.

“You left the room. Where did you go?”

“What? Oh. I went upstairs and packed a small valise with immediate necessities—linens, clean blouses, toiletries, that’s all.”

“Where was Mr. Breeland during this quarrel?”

“I don’t know. At his rooms, I suppose.”

“He was not in your parents’ house?”

“No. He did not overhear the quarrel, if that is what you are thinking.”

“It occurred to me. Then where did you go?”

“I left.” The color rose up her cheeks delicately. It made him more inclined to believe her awareness of just what a major step she had taken, and that she was as sensible of the risk to her reputation as her mother would have been. She took a deep breath. “I went out of the servants’ door, at the side of the house, and walked along the street until I came to the crossroads, where I found a hansom. I took it, directing the driver to Mr. Breeland’s rooms.”

He did not need to ask the address. Monk had already told him.

“And was Mr. Breeland at home?”

“Yes. He welcomed me, most especially when I told him about the quarrel I had had with my father.” She leaned forward across the table. “But you must understand, he in no way encouraged me to defy my parents or behave in any way the least improperly. I require that you should fully believe that!”

Rathbone was not sure what he believed, but it would be foolish to tell her so now. It was not the issue. He could not afford to be concerned with Breeland’s morality except as it showed itself in acts that were punishable in law.

“I don’t question it, Miss Alberton. I need to know how you spent the rest of that night until you had left London altogether. Very precisely, if you please. Omit nothing.”

“You think Lyman murdered my father.” Her eyes were direct, her voice perfectly steady. “He did not. What he told Mr. Monk is the exact truth. I know it because I was with him. We spent the evening speaking together and planning what we should do.” A first smile touched her lips; it seemed like self-mockery of another more innocent time. “He tried to persuade me to make peace with my parents. He warned me that his country was at war. He explained to me that honor required he join his regiment and fight. But of course I understood that already. I simply wished to be his wife and wait for him, support him and do everything I could myself to help in the fight against slavery. I never imagined I was going to sail off into a new and peaceful life somewhere else.”

Rathbone believed her. Her earnestness was transparent and he thought he heard a thread of disappointment she herself was surprised to discover. Something confused her, but as yet he had no idea what it was.

“Please continue,” he prompted. “Tell me exactly what occurred. Was Mr. Breeland ever out of your sight?”

“Not for more than a few moments,” she replied. “He did not leave his apartment. It was nearly midnight, and we were still talking about what we should do.” Pride and tenderness flickered in her for a moment. “He was concerned for my reputation, more than I was myself. If I should have slept the night in his sitting room no one in America would have known it, and that was all my concern. But he cared for me, and it troubled him.”

Rathbone was better aware than she how rapidly word traveled, and it flashed through his mind to wonder how much Breeland’s concern was for her reputation as it might affect him as her future husband. But it was an uncharitable impulse, and he did not speak it aloud.

She swallowed. In spite of her attempt at calm, and her undoubted courage, the effort was costing her dear.

“A little before midnight a young boy came with a message for Lyman. It was a note. He tore it open and read it immediately. It said that my father had changed his mind about selling the guns, but for obvious reasons he could not say so in front of Mr. Trace. He would return him his money later, and explain that Lyman’s arguments regarding slavery had won him over and he could no longer in good conscience sell the guns to the Confederates. Lyman was to go to the railway station at Euston Square and the guns would be delivered to him there. Liverpool was the best port for them to be shipped to America.” She was watching him intently, willing him to believe her.

He recognized that she was almost certainly using Breeland’s words for the explanation, but he did not interrupt her.

“That was what he did,” she continued. “We packed up immediately, taking what was of most importance to him. There was hardly time to do even that. But the guns were the
most valuable of all. They were part of the battle for freedom, and a cause that is just must always take precedence over a few material possessions.”

“You helped him pack?” he asked.

“Naturally. I had only a few things myself.” Again the tiny smile touched her face. She must have been thinking back now on her own hasty departure, in the name of love and principle, with only what she could put into a bag she could carry in her hand. He tried to imagine what precious things gathered in her short lifetime she had had to leave behind. And apparently she had done it without serious regret. He thought how deeply, how unselfishly, she must love Breeland. It hurt him with surprising force that he might be utterly unworthy of it. When he spoke his voice had more anger in it than he had intended.

“And who was this note from? I presume it was signed?”

“Yes, of course,” she said indignantly. “He would hardly have acted upon it, leaving everything, had he not known who sent it.”

“Who did?”

Color deepened in her face, and there was a moment’s confusion as she realized how much depended upon the truth of the issue, and that she thought, after all, not knew it.

“It was signed by Mr. Shearer,” she said defiantly. “Of course in light of the … murders …” She gulped. She seemingly could not bring herself to say her father’s name in this connection. Her chin came up. “But when we got to Euston Square the guns were there, already loaded onto a wagon. Lyman never left me for more than a few moments, and that was after the guns were delivered, and he paid Shearer the money. He had written authority to accept on my father’s behalf, and it was all perfectly in order. I … I was so happy my father had at last seen the justice of what Lyman was fighting for and changed his mind.”

“But you did not think to return home and tell him so?”

Misery filled her eyes. “No,” she answered very quietly. “I loved Lyman and still wanted to go with him to America. I … I was still angry that my father had taken so long to see
what had been plain to me from the beginning. Slavery is wicked. Treating a human being like a possession can never be right.”