Breeland faced him squarely, with pride. “Yes, it would.”
Deverill considered for a moment. “I believe you, sir. I am not sure I could be so wholehearted myself. …”
Rathbone knew what was coming next. He even considered interrupting, diverting the jury for a few moments by pointing out that what Deverill had said was hardly a question, and not relevant to the case. But it would be delaying the inevitable. It would emphasize the fact that he had not wished Breeland to answer. He remained in his seat.
“I think …” Deverill resumed, turning sideways to look up at Merrit. “I think that rather than declare the justice of my cause, and my own innocence, I should have been tempted to protest my love for a young woman who had given up everything-home, family, safety, even her own country-to follow me into a foreign land, at war with itself … and to expend my energy in doing all I could to see that she did not hang for my crimes, at the age of sixteen … barely yet a woman, on the verge of her life.…”
The effect was devastating. Breeland blushed crimson. One could only guess what anger and shame consumed him.
Merrit was white with misery. Perhaps never in her life again would she face such a terrible understanding, or humiliation.
Judith bent her head slowly, as if a weight had become too much to endure.
Philo Trace’s lips were twisted with a pity he could not reach across and express.
Casbolt also stared at Judith.
The jurors were torn as to whether they would look at Merrit or not. Some wished to grant her privacy by averting their gaze, as if they had unintentionally intruded upon someone caught naked in an intimate act. Others glared at Breeland in undisguised contempt. Two looked up at Merrit with profound compassion. Perhaps they had daughters her age themselves. There was no condemnation in their faces.
Rathbone forced himself to remember that he was charged equally to defend Breeland and Merrit. He could not take advantage of this, and let Breeland hang to accomplish Merrit’s acquittal, but at that moment he wished he could.
Deverill did not need to add more. Whatever the facts, and those he could not shake, he had stifled any possible act of mercy. The jury would want to convict Breeland, not for the murders, but because he did not love.
While Rathbone was struggling in the courtroom, Monk was trying to trace Shearer’s actions on the night of Alberton’s death and for the few days before. The only way to clear Breeland of the charge would be to prove that he had not conspired with Shearer. The times of the quarrel at Alberton’s home, the delivery of the note to Breeland’s rooms, and his arrival at the Euston Square station all made it impossible for him to have been at Tooley Street, but they did not prove that he had not either deliberately corrupted Shearer into committing the murders or at the least conspired with him and taken advantage of it.
He began at Tooley Street again, with the surviving warehousemen. It was a dusty, warm day with scurries of wind making little eddies over the cobbles.
“When did you last see Shearer?” Monk asked the man with the sandy hair to whom he had spoken before.
The man’s face creased in concentration. “Not rightly sure. ’E was ’ere two days afore that. Tryin’ ter ’member if ’e was ’ere that day. Don’t think so. In fact I’m certain, ’cos we ’ad a nice load o’ teak in, an’ it weren’t anything as ’e ’ad ter be ’ere for. Dunno w’ere ’e was, but Joe might know. I’ll ask ’im.” And he left Monk standing in the sun while he did so.
“At Seven Sisters, ’e was,” he said on his return. “Went up ter see a feller abaht oak. Can’t see as it’s got anything ter do wi’ guns.”
Neither could Monk, but he intended to follow every movement of Shearer regardless. “Do you know the name of the company in Seven Sisters?”
“Bratby an’ summink, I think,” Bert replied. “Big firm, ’e said. On the ’Igh Street, or just off it. What does it ’ave ter do with poor Mr. Alberton’s death? Bratby’s deals in oak an’ marble an’ the like, not guns.”
“I’d like to know where Shearer was from then onward,” Monk said frankly. There was no point being evasive. “He was at the Euston Square station to pass over the guns to Breeland at just after half-past midnight, and no one has seen him since, for certain.”
“So where is ’e?”
“I should dearly like to know. What does he look like?”
“Shearer? Ordinary sort o’ bloke, really. ’Bout your ’eight, or a bit less, I s’pose. Lean. Not much ’air, but darkish. Got green eyes, that’s different, an’ a spot on ’is cheek, ’bout ’ere.” He demonstrated, touching his cheekbone with his finger. “An’ lots o’ teef.”
Monk thanked him, and after a few more questions which elicited nothing of worth, he took his leave and spent the next hour and a half taking a hansom to Seven Sisters. He found the firm of Bratby amp; Allan just off the main street.
“Mr. Shearer?” the clerk asked, pushing his hand through his hair. “Yes, we know ’im, right enough. What would that be about, sir, if I may ask?”
Monk had already considered his reply. “I’m afraid he has not been seen for several weeks, and we are concerned that some harm has come to him,” he said gravely.
The clerk did not look much concerned. “Pity,” he said laconically. “S’pose people ’o? work on the river ’ave haccidents, like. Not certain wot day it was, but I can look at me books an’ see, if you want?”
“Yes, please.”
The clerk put his pencil behind his ear and went to oblige. He returned several moments later carrying a ledger. “ ’Ere,” he said, putting it down on the table. He pointed with a smudged finger and Monk read. It was quite clear that Shearer had been at Bratby amp; Allan on the day before Alberton’s death, until late in the afternoon, negotiating the terms of sale of timber and the possibility of transporting it south to the city of Bath.
“What time did he leave here?” Monk asked.
The clerk thought for a moment. “ ’Alf after five, as I recollect. I s’pect you’ll be wantin’ ter know w’ere ’e went next?”
“If you know?”
“I don’t, but then I could give yer a guess, like.”
“I would be grateful.”
“Well ’e’d go ter a cartin’ company what ’as yards close by. Stands ter reason, don’t it?” The clerk was pleased with his status as an expert. It pleased his self-respect quite visibly.
Monk gritted his teeth. “Indeed.”
“And there’s not many as goes as far as Bath,” the clerk went on. “So if I was you, I’d try Cummins Brothers, down the road from ’ere a bit.” He pointed to his left. “Or there’s B. amp; J. Horner’s the other way. an’ o’ course the biggest is Patterson’s, but that’s not ter say they’re the best, an’ Mr. Shearer likes the best. Don’t stand no nonsense, ’e don’t. ’Ard man, but fair … more or less.”
“So who is the best?” Monk said patiently.
“Cummins Brothers,” the clerk replied without hesitation. “Costly, but reliable. Yer should ask ter see Mr. George, ’e’s the boss, an’ Mr. Shearer’d go to the top. Like I said, an ’ard man, but good at ’is business.”
Monk thanked him and asked for precise directions to the premises of Cummins Brothers. Once there he requested Mr. George Cummins and was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before being shown into a small room very comfortably appointed. George Cummins sat behind his desk, the light shining through his thin white hair, his face pleasantly furrowed.
Monk introduced himself without evasion and told him honestly what he had come for.
“Shearer,” Cummins said with surprise. “Disappeared, you said? Can’t say I expected that. He seemed in good spirits when I last saw him. Expecting a nice profit on a big deal. Something to do with America, I think.”
Monk felt a quickening of interest. He controlled it to protect himself from hope, or forcing circumstances to fit his wishes.
“Did he elaborate on that at all?”
Cummins’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Just what is your business, Mr. Monk? And why do you want to know where Shearer is? I consider him a friend, have done for years. I’m not speaking about him to just anyone until I
