Slaves of Obsession (39 page)

“No, sir.”

“I see. Don’t you find that curious?”

Deverill stood up.

Rathbone held out his hand. “I rephrase that, Sergeant Lanyon. In your experience as a police officer, is that a usual occurrence?”

“No, sir. I’ve looked hard for anything further, but I can’t find any trace of where the guns went after that, or the barge.”

“I shall enlighten you,” Rathbone promised. “About the guns, at least. The barge mystifies me as much as it does you. Thank you. I have nothing further to ask.”

After the luncheon adjournment Deverill called the medical officer, who described the exact manner of the killings. It was gruesome and distressing evidence, and the court heard it in near silence. Deverill seemed to begin with the intention of drawing from him every agonizing detail, then just in time realized that the jury were acutely aware of the pain it had to cause the widow, and this not only produced in them a very natural rage against the perpetrators but also against himself, for subjecting her to hearing, perhaps for the first time, a clinical description of horror she had been protected from before.

Rathbone looked up at Merrit in the dock and saw the agony in her eyes, her ashen skin now so bleached of color as to seem bruised, and the achingly rigid muscles of her arms and body as silent weeping racked through her. It would be a hard man indeed who could look at her and not believe that if she had had even the slightest knowledge of this before, let alone complicity, she was tortured with remorse now.

He also wondered what went through her mind regarding Breeland, sitting bolt upright as if on some military duty, his features composed, almost without expression.

In Rathbone’s mind the thing that burned up inside him with a rage he could not control was that Breeland never once extended his hand towards Merrit or made any gesture of pity for her. If he were distressed within himself, it was inside a loneliness nothing could break. Whatever he felt for her, he cared more for his cause, and the dignity and stoic innocence he presented to the world. If he had any human vulnerability, no one must see it. If he had weighed the cost to Merrit at all, it had not been heavy enough on the scales to show.

A military expert was called who testified that this peculiar method of binding the arms and legs over a pole was known to be practiced by the army of the Union to punish those of its members who had been found guilty of various crimes, the
T
indicating “thief.” It was not an execution, but usually lasted for six to twelve hours, by which time the man concerned was barely able to stand, even after release. He had no opinion as to the shooting, but his anger was palpable that an accepted form of discipline should have been so misused. It was an insult to the honorable man who had designed it.

Whether the court agreed with him it was impossible to say; they were overwhelmed with the savagery of the only case they had witnessed, and they were not at war. The necessities of the Union army, of any army, were unknown to them. The fact that the practice was specific to the army for which Breeland fought was an added condemnation. The hatred for him could be felt in the air like a hot, stinging smell.

Rathbone’s mind raced as to how he could undo the emotional damage. Mere facts would be drowned in the revulsion of feeling.

The last witness of the day was Dorothea Parfitt, the seventeen-year-old friend to whom Merrit had shown the watch and bragged a little of her love affair. Dorothea walked across the open space of the floor and tripped on the very first step up to the box. She had hold of the railing, so it was only barely noticeable, but she let out a little gasp and straightened herself, blushing.

Deverill was extremely gentle with her, doing all he could to ease her obvious consciousness that her words could condemn her friend, perhaps to the rope. What motive she had had in first saying this to the police no one else could know. It might have been envy, because Merrit had won the love of a most glamorous man who was older, braver, more mysterious and exciting than the youths she knew. It is very natural to want to prick vanity, especially if
it is exercised at your expense. She could not then have foreseen the terrible consequences. She would not even have been able to imagine standing here now, about to repeat her words, because she could not take them back, and give Deverill the power to place a rope around Merrit’s neck.

She faced Deverill like a rabbit in front of a snake. Never once did she allow her eyes to stray towards Merrit in the dock.

The watch was passed up to her but she refused to touch it.

“Have you seen it before, Miss Parfitt?” Deverill asked gently.

At first her throat was so tight, her lips so dry, that her voice would not come.

Deverill waited.

“Yes,” she said at last.

“Can you tell us where, and in what circumstances?”

She swallowed convulsively.

“We all realize that you would immeasurably rather not,” Deverill said with a charming smile. “But loyalty to the truth must outweigh the desire not to cause trouble for a friend. Just tell me exactly what happened, what you saw and heard. You are not accountable for the actions of others, and only an unjust or guilty person would hold you to be. Where did you see this watch, Miss Parfitt, and in whose possession?”

“Merrit’s,” she answered, her voice little above a whisper.

“Did she show it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Did she say?”

Dorothea nodded. Deverill held her gaze as if she were mesmerized.

“Lyman Breeland had given it to her as a token of his love.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “She really thought he loved her. She had no idea he was wicked … honestly! She must have found out, and given it back to him, because she would
never have had anything to do with killing her father … not ever! I know she argued with him because she thought he was terribly wrong to sell the guns to that man from the South, because the South keeps slaves. But you don’t kill people over things like that!”

“I am afraid they do in America, Miss Parfitt,” Deverill said with wry regret. “It is a subject about which some people feel so violently that their behavior is beyond the bounds of ordinary law and society. One of the most tragic of all kinds of war is beginning, even as we stand here in this peaceful courtroom and argue our differences. And we none of us know where it will end. Please God, we will not, with our own prejudices and greeds, make it any worse.”

It was a sentiment Rathbone felt profoundly, and yet Deverill’s giving voice to it irritated him like a scraped elbow. Whether Deverill meant it or not, Rathbone had no doubt he expressed it to manipulate the emotions of the court.

Dorothea had no idea what to make of it. She stared at him with open confusion.

“Mr. Deverill,” the judge admonished, leaning forward, “are you chastising the witness for her lack of knowledge as to the outcome of the present tragedy across the Atlantic?”

“No, my lord, certainly not. I am simply trying to point out that some people feel passionately enough about the issues of slaving to kill those who differ from them.”

“It is unnecessary, Mr. Deverill. We are aware of it,” the judge said dryly. “Have you anything further to ask Miss Parfitt?”

“No, my lord, thank you.” Deverill turned to Rathbone. His foretaste of victory was plain in his face, in the confidence of the way he stood, balancing with his back a trifle arched and his shoulders squared. “Sir Oliver?”

Rathbone rose to his feet. The watch was the most powerful piece of evidence against Merrit, the one thing he could not explain away. Deverill knew it as well. What mattered was what the jury saw.

“Miss Parfitt,” he said, matching Deverill smile for smile, gentleness for gentleness. “Of course you have no choice but to tell us that Merrit Alberton showed you the watch that Breeland gave to her as a token of his feelings for her. You said it first with no knowledge of its meaning, and now cannot withdraw it. We all understand that. But Mr. Deverill omitted to ask you exactly when this incident occurred. Was it the day of Daniel Alberton’s death?”

She looked suddenly relieved, seeing escape. “No! No, it was several days before that. At least two, and maybe three. I don’t recall exactly now. I could get my diary?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he declined. “Not for me, anyway. Could she have given it back to him for any reason? A quarrel, possibly? Or to have the catch altered, or put on a chain, or something else engraved?”

“Yes!” she said eagerly, her eyes widened. She seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said quickly, afraid she would embellish it and be caught in an invention. “That is all we need to know, Miss Parfitt. Please do not strive to help. Only what you know is evidence, not what you may wish, or even believe.”

“Yes …” she said awkwardly. “I … I see.”

The judge looked at Deverill.

Deverill shook his head with a slight smile. He knew he did not need to make more of it.

The court adjourned for the day, and Rathbone went straight to see Merrit. He found her alone in the cell used for such meetings. The wardress was stationed outside the door, a big woman with her hair scraped back severely and a pink, scrubbed face. She shook her head slightly as Rathbone went past her and the key clanked in the lock.

“It’s not going well, is it?” Merrit said as soon as they were alone. “The jury think Lyman did it. I can see it in their faces.”

Did she instinctively think of Breeland before herself, or had she not yet grasped that she also was charged equally with him? No one believed she had fired the shots
herself, but an accomplice in such a crime would be held just as responsible and punished with the same finality. He could not afford to be gentle with her. She must face the truth of the situation before it was too late even to try to save it.

“Yes, they do,” he agreed candidly. He saw the pain in her eyes, the trace of unreasonable hope that she was wrong die away. “I am sorry, but it is inescapable, and I would not be helping your cause if I were to pretend otherwise.”

She bit her lip. “I know.” Her voice was hoarse. “They are so mistaken in him. He would never do anything so vile … but even if they could not understand that, surely they can be made to see that there was no cause to? He received a note that my father had changed his mind and would sell the guns to him after all. He had found a way of escaping his commitment to Mr. Trace and was free to offer them to the more honorable cause. They were there at Euston Square Station. There was even a special train just to transport them.”

“I believe I can prove that he could not have fired the shots himself,” he agreed, allowing no lift of hope into his voice. He must not mislead her, even by implication. “What I cannot prove is that whoever did it was not paid to by Mr. Breeland. And that is just as serious a crime. Since you and he left England with the guns, you are accomplices in robbery and murder.…” He held up his hand as she began to protest. “I can make a good argument that you were unaware of what had happened, and therefore innocent—”

“But Lyman is innocent too!” she cut in, leaning forward urgently, her eyes bright. “He had no idea anyone had killed to get the guns!”

“How do you know that?” he asked very gently. It was not a challenge. There was no confrontation.

“I …” she started to answer. Then she blinked, her face puckering with dismay. “You mean how can I prove it to them? Surely …” Again she stopped.

“Yes, you do have to,” he answered the question he thought had been in her mind. “In law one is presumed innocent unless you can be proved to be guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Consider the word
reasonable
. Do you believe, after listening to the evidence so far, that the men in the jury box will have the same idea of what is true as you will have? We lose reason in emotion. When you think of issues like war, injustice, slavery, the love of your family or your country, your way of life, are any of us guided purely by reason?”

She shook her head minutely. “No,” she whispered. “I suppose not.” She took a deep breath. “But I know Lyman! He would not stoop to anything dishonorable. Honor, what is right, is dearer to him than anything. That is part of the reason I love him so much. Can’t you make them see that?”

“And are you absolutely certain that what is right would not include sacrificing three men to the cause of obtaining guns for the Union?” he asked.

She was very pale. “Not by murder!” But her voice shook. Her eyes filled with tears. “I know he was not in the warehouse yard that evening, Sir Oliver, because I was with him all the time, and I was not there. I swear that!”

He believed her. “And how did the watch come to be there? How do I explain that to the jury?”

Fear rippled through her. He could not mistake it.

“I don’t know! It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t explain it.”

“When did you last see the watch?”

“I’ve been trying to think, but my mind is in such turmoil the harder I try the less clear it becomes. I remember showing it to Mrs. Monk, and I had it the day after that, because that was when Dorothea admired it, so of course I told her about it.” She flushed very faintly, hardly more than a suspicion of color in her pale face. “After that … I’m not certain. Times get muddled in my memory. So much happened, and I was furious with my father.…” The tears spilled over her eyes and she fought for self-control.

Rathbone did not interrupt her or try to offer words they both knew he could not mean.

“Could you have lost it, or left it on a garment you were not wearing?” he asked at length.

“I suppose so.” She seized the explanation. “I must have. But Lyman would never have left it in the yard, and who else could?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I shall have Monk investigate it. It may now be possible your father took it with him.”

“Oh, yes! That could be, couldn’t it?” At last there was a lift of hope in her voice. “Sir Oliver, who was it that killed him? Was it Mr. Shearer? That is very dreadful. I know my father trusted him. They had worked together for years. I only met him once. He was rather grim, sort of … I’m not sure … angry. At least I thought he was.” She searched his face to see if he understood what she found so difficult to say. “Was it for money?”