Slaves of Obsession (40 page)

“It seems as if it was.”

“How could my father have been so wrong about him?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because we tend to judge others by our own standards.”

She did not answer. And within a few moments he took his leave, trying to encourage her to keep heart.

He did not especially wish to see Breeland, but it was a duty he must not shirk. He found him standing by the chair and small table in the room assigned for him. His face was stiff, his shoulders locked so tight they strained the fabric of his jacket. He looked accusingly at Rathbone, and Rathbone could not blame him for it. He disliked the man, and Breeland must know it, and also that Rathbone’s first loyalty was to Merrit Alberton. It was Judith, after all, who was paying him. It was Merrit’s desire, not Breeland’s, that they be charged as one, and she would not claim any special innocence. She was determined to stand with him, although Rathbone wondered if it was now love for Breeland or love of loyalty which kept her.

Without warning he felt a keen pity for Breeland, thousands of miles from home and overwhelmingly among strangers who hated him for what they believed him to be.
Perhaps had Rathbone been in similar circumstances he would have wrapped himself in the same icy dignity. It was the last protection Breeland had left, to seem not to care. And why should anyone parade his vulnerability for his enemies to stare at?

Could Shearer have murdered Alberton without Breeland’s knowledge, and certainly without his complicity? And should Breeland, owing all his allegiance to his own people, locked in a terrible war, not have taken the guns so fortuitously offered him—simply because he suspected they had been obtained by deceit? It was war, not trade. For him they were the survival of a cause, not a matter of profit.

Breeland stared at him. “I assume that at some point in this farce you will attempt to defend at least Miss Alberton, if not me?” he said coldly. “Although I would remind you she came willingly with me to America, and Monk will testify to that.”

“I am more concerned to hear him testify as to the exact times of the events on the night of the murders, and your train to Liverpool,” Rathbone replied levelly. “It will be a simpler matter to convince them of the fact that Shearer may well have planned and committed the murders and the theft of the guns, with the intention of selling them to you, and you buying them in good faith, than it will be to make them feel well disposed towards you.”

“What does that matter?” Breeland said bitterly. “I am a foreigner. They don’t understand my cause, or sympathize with it. They don’t know what America stands for. They have not caught our dream. I can’t help that. Surely they at least understand justice?” It was said with an air of challenge, and not a little of insult.

Rathbone reminded himself of the man’s isolation, of how much he had already sacrificed for a cause that was both noble and unselfish. Would he himself have done any better, any more wisely? Would such threat, and such lack of understanding and respect all around him, not have made him lash out also?

“Juries are people, Mr. Breeland, and subject to emotional impulses like the rest of us,” he said as mildly as he could, keeping the edge out of his voice. “They will not remember everything that is said to them. In fact, they will probably not even hear it all, or perceive it in the way we wish them to. Very often people hear what they think they will hear. Make them feel some respect for you, some liking, and they will see the best, and recall it when it matters. This is not peculiar to English juries; it is part of the nature of all people, and we choose to be tried before a jury precisely because they are ordinary. They work on instinctive judgment and common sense as well as the evidence presented to them. Your own common law is based upon this.”

“Yes, I know.” Breeland’s lips were tight. Rathbone felt there was fear as well as anger and idealism behind the mask of his face. He did well that it was not the overriding thing. “I cannot make people like me. And I will not grovel. My cause speaks well enough for me. I would abolish slavery from the earth.” Now his voice rang with passion, his eyes alight. “I would give every man the chance to be his own master, to believe what he chooses and speak his mind without fear.”

“It sounds marvelous,” Rathbone said wearily, but with total sincerity. “I am not sure if it can exist. Liberty is always a matter of balancing one thing against another, gains and losses. But that is not the issue. You can fight for whatever you wish once you are free to leave the dock. First accomplish that, and to do it you will need to behave with a little more humanity. Believe me, Mr. Breeland, I am very good at my profession … easily as good as you are at yours. Take my advice.”

Breeland stared at him, his eyes steady and fixed, fear far down in their depths bright and hard.

“Do you … do you think you can prove me innocent?” he said softly.

“I do. Now make the jury pleased to see me do it!”

Breeland said nothing, but some of the ice in him melted.

In the morning Monk was called to the witness stand to corroborate first Casbolt’s evidence of their visit to Breeland’s rooms, and then their terrible discovery in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street.

Deverill treated him with civility, but he could draw him to say little beyond a simple “Yes” or “No.” He knew perfectly well, as was his skill to know, that Monk worked with Rathbone and his interest was in the defense. He had no intention of allowing Monk to cloud the issue or raise questions.

Monk wished there were some he could raise. So far he could think of nothing to add, even had Deverill allowed him to.

He substantiated all that Lanyon had already told them about their pursuit of the barge down the river as far as Greenwich and Bugsby’s Marshes beyond.

“Now tell me, Mr. Monk, when you reported your findings to Mrs. Alberton, did she then request you to undertake any further activities on her behalf?” Deverill asked with wide eyes and acute interest in every line of his body.

It angered Monk to have to play out Deverill’s charade, but he had no choice. Deverill asked his questions far too cleverly to give him room to say anything else without lying, and being caught at it.

“She asked me to go to America and bring her daughter back,” he replied.

“Alone?” Deverill was incredulous. “A superhuman task, surely—and one not designed to enhance Miss Alberton’s honor or reputation.”

“Not alone,” Monk said tartly. “She suggested I take my wife with me. And Mr. Philo Trace also expressed a desire to go, which I was glad to accept, since he knew the country and I did not.”

“Most practical, at least as far as it extends,” Deverill damned it with faint praise. “Mrs. Alberton can hardly have foreseen this situation today.” He turned on the spot, his
coat swinging. “Or perhaps she did. Perhaps she loved her husband and wished his murder avenged. Even at this cost!”

Rathbone started to rise.

“Not very logical,” Monk criticized with a cold smile. “If all she wanted was justice, she would have employed someone to go to America and kill Breeland—and Miss Alberton also, had she thought her guilty.” He ignored the gasps around the room. “That would have been easier to accomplish, and less expensive. Only one man necessary, and no return fare for Breeland or Miss Alberton, and no chance of their escape.”

“That is an appalling suggestion, sir!” Deverill said in well-displayed horror. “Barbaric!”

“No more so than yours,” Monk retorted. “And no sillier.”

There was a faint titter of laughter around the gallery, more a release of tension than amusement.

The judge half hid a smile.

Deverill was annoyed, but as he framed his next question his wording was a great deal more carefully considered.

“Did Breeland return with you of his own free will?”

“I gave him no choice,” Monk replied with slight surprise. “But actually he did express a willingness to answer the charge. He said he—”

“Thank you!” Deverill cut him off, raising his hand, holding the palm forward for silence. “That is sufficient. Whatever Breeland wishes to say, he will no doubt be given the opportunity in due course. Now—”

“And of course you will believe him,” Monk said sarcastically.

Rathbone smiled.

“What I believe is irrelevant,” Deverill snapped. “It is the members of the jury who matter here, Mr. Monk. But while we are considering beliefs, did you believe Breeland’s eagerness to prove his innocence, or did you feel it advisable to bring him back under some restraint?”

“I have learned that my beliefs may be mistaken,” Monk
answered. “I kept him under restraint. However, I did not think the same necessary for Miss Alberton. I used no restraint whatever upon her.”

Deverill’s face tightened with irritation. He should have foreseen that Monk might say that.

“Thank you. I know of nothing further you could usefully add to our deliberations. Unless my learned friend has something to ask you, you are excused.”

Rathbone rose to his feet slowly, not until the very last minute certain of what he was going to say. How wise was it to pursue the matter? How far could he predict what Monk would say? Should he allow Deverill the opportunity to reexamine? Everything Monk would corroborate in Breeland’s story would be better told by Breeland himself.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head very slightly. “I agree with Mr. Deverill.”

The judge looked slightly surprised, but Monk was allowed to return to the body of the court, where he sat beside Hester and Judith Alberton, only once glancing at the brooding figure of Philo Trace.

Deverill’s last witness was a banker who testified that no money whatsoever had reached Daniel Alberton’s account since the payment made by Philo Trace as a deposit in good faith.

Deverill offered to have both Casbolt and Trace testify to this, but the court was willing to accept the banker’s word and his documents.

“The prosecution rests,” Deverill said, facing the jury with a smile. “The guns were stolen. No payment was made to Alberton and Casbolt. Mr. Alberton was murdered in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street and the guns taken and shipped to America, quite openly by Lyman Breeland, in the willing company of Merrit Alberton, whose watch was found at the scene of the murders. None of these things has the defense even attempted to deny. They cannot! Gentlemen, Breeland is manifestly guilty, albeit because he believes in his cause at any cost. And Miss Alberton is swept off her feet in her consuming obsession for him, which even
now she does not abandon. But murder is a deed he cannot walk away from with impunity. We shall show him so!” And he turned to Rathbone with an inviting gesture of his hand. “But please give us your best efforts to try … when the court reconvenes tomorrow.”

11

M
ONK WAS ANGRY
on the witness stand, but once the court had adjourned for the day and the heat of antagonism had died down, his feelings were different. Hester had gone with Judith Alberton. Casbolt had been there also, but perhaps a sense of decorum had prevented him from remaining too close to her.

The other, far uglier thought came unbidden—that perhaps he was beginning to suspect that Alberton himself had been involved in the sale of the extra five hundred guns to the pirates, and had been betrayed by them, and he could not bear Judith to know it. He did not want to face having to lie, nor did he know enough to tell her beyond doubt. Perhaps Alberton had intended that she should never know.