Slaves of Obsession (26 page)

“The most reasonable explanation seems to be that Breeland is lying,” Oliver went on. “Perhaps I need to examine Alberton’s business affairs, and what I can of Mr. Trace, to guard myself from unpleasant surprises.”

Henry nodded slowly in silent agreement. Oliver was still leaning forward, elbows on his knees. They were facing each other across the space in front of the fireplace, as if the fire were lit, although on this summer evening it was still warm enough for them to be pleased the French doors were open. It was merely a comfortable habit shared over years of discussing all manner of things. Oliver had first done it when he was eleven; then it had been a question of irregular Latin verbs, and trying to find a logic behind their eccentricity. They had reached no conclusion, but the sense of companionship, of having attained some quality of adulthood, was of immeasurable satisfaction.

“The police traced the guns to the river and onto a barge down as far as Bugsby’s Marshes,” he went on. “Whereas Breeland claims he took delivery of them at the railway station and went by train to Liverpool. Merrit Alberton swears to the same thing.”

“That doesn’t make a great deal of sense,” Henry said thoughtfully. “How competent are the police? I wonder.”

“Monk says the man in charge seems excellent. And regardless of that, Monk himself went with him. He says exactly the same. The guns went from the warehouse to the river, and downstream as far as Bugsby’s Marshes. From there it would be an easy matter to transfer them to an oceangoing ship, and across the Atlantic. Even Breeland doesn’t argue that he took them, and they arrived safely in America. Presumably they were used in the battle at Manassas.”

Henry said nothing, absorbed in thought.

“Hester believes the girl is innocent,” Oliver said, then instantly wished he had not. He had betrayed too much of himself. Not that Henry was unaware of his feelings. Hester had visited him often enough. She had sat in this room, watched the light fade across the sky and the last sun gilding the tips of the poplars, the evening breeze shimmering through the leaves. She had liked Henry, and she had felt at home here, comforted by more than the beauty of the place, the honeysuckle and the apple trees, also by an inner peace.

“Not that that is a reason, of course!” he added, and as Henry’s eyes opened wide, he felt himself blushing. It was exactly a reason. He had only drawn attention to it by denying it.

“There seems to be a great deal that you don’t know yet,” Henry observed, holding his pipe up and examining it ruefully. “The girl may have been used, and unaware of it.”

“That is possible,” Oliver agreed. “I need to answer a great many questions if I am to go into court with any chance of competence, let alone success.”

Henry looked at Oliver closely. “You have accepted the case, I assume?”

“Well … yes.”

Henry grunted. “A trifle precipitate. But then you are far more impulsive than you like to think.” He smiled, robbing his words of offense. There was deep affection in him, and Oliver had never in his life doubted it.

“I shall have to see Mrs. Alberton, of course,” he pointed out. “She may not wish to engage me.”

Henry did not bother to answer that. He had as high an opinion of his son’s professional abilities as had everyone else.

“What does Monk think?” he asked instead.

“I didn’t ask him,” Oliver replied a trifle tartly.

“Interesting that he did not tell you anyway,” Henry said, contemplating his pipe. “He is not usually discreet with his views. He is either being devious or he does not know.”

“I shall have more ideas when I have seen Merrit Alberton and heard what she has to say,” Oliver went on, perhaps more to himself than to his father. “I shall be able to make some estimate of her character. And naturally, whether I represent him or not, I shall have to speak to Breeland.”

“Do you intend to represent him?”

“I would rather not, but if he has any sense he’ll do everything in his power to see that they are charged and defended together.”

“What if he is prepared to defend her at his own cost?” Henry asked quietly. “If he loves her, he may do that. Will you allow him to?”

Oliver considered for several moments. What would he do if Breeland were willing to take the blame in order to exonerate Merrit, and yet he believed Merrit guilty?

“You had better consider it,” Henry warned. “If they are truly in love, they may each try to take the blame for the other, and make your task a great deal more difficult, whomever you represent. You had not thought of that,” he observed with surprise.

“No,” Oliver admitted. “It was nothing Monk said, rather what he omitted to say, but I had the impression Breeland would not sacrifice himself for anyone else. But I need to know a great deal more than I do, or I am going to run the risk of being caught in this.”

“Precisely,” Henry agreed. “For a start, could the story of Breeland’s be true, however unlikely?”

“About the agent, Shearer? I don’t know. Certainly I know of no reason that makes it completely impossible—I shall have Monk find out if there is such a person, and if so, what he is like. Could he have murdered Alberton and taken Breeland’s money himself?” He went on thinking aloud. “That would be the obvious line of defense, and presumably what Breeland will say. If I use that, either for Breeland or for Merrit alone, then I must be certain it cannot be disproved.”

Henry watched him in silence. Oliver realized he would certainly have to work closely with Monk, and he had resisted it until now. He wanted to take the case, but he would rather have been independent, presented Monk and Hester with the defense accomplished, rather than sought their assistance.

“Is it possible Breeland is guilty and the daughter did not know of it?” Henry suggested. “If she knew of it, unless she was taken by force to America, then she is an accomplice at least, and an accessory after the fact.”

Oliver said quickly, “I don’t know beyond doubt, but from what Monk told me, she cannot be unaware of the truth. She and Breeland were together the whole of the night Alberton was murdered, and she certainly was not in America under duress.” He hesitated. “And a watch that Breeland gave her as a keepsake was found in the warehouse yard.”

Henry said nothing, but his expression was eloquent.

Outside, the shadows were lengthening on the lawn and the air was definitely cooler. A three-quarter moon was luminous in the fading sky. The sun had gone even from the poplars.

“I am obliged to defend Breeland also.” Oliver stated the inevitable. “Unless he insists on his own man, in which case I imagine Merrit Alberton will choose to have the same person, whatever her family wants.”

“And will you accept him as a client, believing him guilty?” Henry asked. “Knowing that his condemnation will certainly mean the girl’s as well?”

It was a moral dilemma Oliver disliked acutely. He found the murders unusually repellent because they were brutal, and as far as he could see, also unnecessary. Breeland, or anyone else, could have stolen the guns without killing Alberton and the guards. They could have been left unconscious and bound, and still been unable to prevent the theft. By the time they were found Breeland had been safely away. The killing accomplished nothing and it was a gratuitous cruelty.

He would far rather have defended Merrit, even if it were no better than pleading her youth and a certain amount of duress or intimidation, and that she had not foreseen the violence. No such argument was feasible for Breeland.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I need to understand a great deal more before I can even formulate what defense to make.”

The silence remained unbroken for some time. Henry stood up and closed the French doors, then returned to his seat.

“There is also the matter of the blackmail,” Oliver resumed, and to Henry’s surprise, told him what Monk had said briefly of Alberton’s urgent reason for consulting him. “I suppose that could be involved,” he finished dubiously.

“Well, you certainly need to find out who was responsible,” Henry agreed. “Perhaps they took revenge for not having been sold their guns.”

“But Breeland lied about the guns!” Oliver went back to the one fact that seemed inescapable. “Monk traced them down the river to Bugsby’s Marshes, not to the railway station and Liverpool.” He stared at the empty fireplace.

“But why murder?” Henry asked. “From what you have said, Breeland did not have to kill Alberton to take the guns. Consider this girl very carefully, Oliver. And consider the widow as well.”

Oliver was startled. “A domestic crime?”

“Or a financial one,” Henry amended. “Whatever it is, make sense of it in your own mind before you go into court. I am afraid you have no choice but to employ Monk to learn much more before you commit yourself to anything. I think
you would be well advised to delay the trial for as long as you are able to, and know far more about the Alberton family before you speak on their behalf, or you will not serve your client well.”

Oliver sank further into the chair, content to sit with his thoughts in the quiet room, without any necessity to stand up and light the gas.

Henry sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, but he knew he could allow the subject of the Alberton case to drop for this evening.

Rathbone was startled by Judith Alberton. He had expected the handsome house, suitably draped in black, curtains drawn, wreath on the door, and the straw in the street outside to muffle the sound of the horses’ hooves as they passed, the mirrors draped or turned to the wall. Some people even stopped the clocks. All widows wore mourning, the unrelieved black gown, except for perhaps a jet brooch or a locket, the decoration made of hair, which he found repellent.

But Judith Alberton’s face was so remarkable in its beauty, and the extraordinary power of emotion in it, that what she wore was irrelevant.

“Thank you for coming so soon, Sir Oliver,” she greeted him as he came into the dim withdrawing room. “I am afraid our predicament is very serious, as I expect Mr. Monk has told you. We are desperately in need of the most skilled help we can find. Has he described our situation?”

“An outline of it, Mrs. Alberton,” he replied, accepting the seat she indicated. “But there is a great deal more I need to understand if I am to do my best for you.” He avoided using the word
success
. He was not sure if there was any possibility of it. What would success be? Merrit acquitted and someone else condemned? Who? Not Breeland; they had been in love then, whether they were now or not. They survived or fell together. He must make her realize that.

“Of course,” she agreed. At least outwardly she was perfectly composed. “I will tell you anything I can. I don’t know what can help.” Her confusion was plain in her eyes.

Her hands lay still in her lap on the black fabric, but they were stiff, the knuckles pale.

It was surprisingly difficult to begin. It was always unpleasant intruding on someone’s grief, probing into affairs which might show a side of the dead person that others had not known and which would have been so much less painful to have kept secret. But present danger did not allow such luxury. Her dignity in concealing her grief moved him more than weeping would have done.

“Mrs. Alberton, from what I have heard so far, there does not seem any way in which we can defend your daughter separately from Lyman Breeland.” He saw her lips tighten, but he could not afford to tell her what she wished to hear, rather than the truth. “They have both stated that they were together the whole of that night,” he continued. “Whether she was aware beforehand of what he intended to do, or was in any way a willing partner, can be argued, although we should need better proof than anything we have so far in order to convince a jury of it. Our only hope is to learn exactly what did happen, and then do the best we can to show anything that mitigates the blame. Unless, of course, we can show that there is a highly reasonable possibility that someone else altogether is guilty.” He said it with little hope.

“I don’t know what the truth is,” she said frankly. “I simply cannot believe that Merrit would do such a thing … not willingly. I don’t care for Mr. Breeland, Sir Oliver. I never did, but my husband had no such qualms. He did not sell him the guns simply because he had already committed himself to sell them to Mr. Trace, and accepted a payment of half the sum.”

“You are certain the money had been paid by Trace?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What about the money from Breeland?”

Her eyes flew open wide. “From Breeland? There was no money from him. He stole the guns. Surely that was the whole reason for—for murdering my husband and the guards, poor men. I have done what I can for their families,
but no recompense makes up for the loss of someone you love.”

“One would assume robbery was his reason,” he agreed. “And yet surely he could have stolen the guns without killing anyone? A blow to the head would have overpowered them and kept them silent, and they would have been tied adequately to prevent any escape and pursuit.”

He saw the shadows in her eyes, the quick shock of pain as the realization came to her that perhaps her husband’s death was unnecessary to the theft, that he had been killed in hatred or cruelty, not as a part of war.

“I had not thought of that,” she replied very softly, her gaze lowered, as if to defend herself from his understanding.

He was painfully aware of it. He would not have pried were there any alternative, but time and the imperatives of the law allowed no mercy.

“Mrs. Alberton, if I am to defend your daughter, I am forced to defend Breeland as well, unless I can find some way to separate them in the eyes of the public, and therefore of a jury. I must know the truth, whatever that is. Believe me, I cannot afford to be surprised in this courtroom or to face an adversary who knows more of the facts than I do.” He shifted fractionally in his seat. “Knowledge is my only weapon, and all the skill in the world cannot defeat a man whose armory is vastly superior. David and Goliath is a fine story, and can be applied as metaphor to certain circumstances, but what is too often overlooked, or even forgotten, is that David did not stand alone. I have not his confidence that God is on my side.” He smiled as he said it, but in mockery of himself.