Slaves of Obsession

answered the door. The lad give ’im the message. Wouldn’t trust me ter do it. Sounds as ’e’d bin paid ter give it personal, like I said, an’ wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“About half-past eleven?” Monk interrupted.

“Yeah, or a bit later. Anyway, Mr. Breeland came out jus’ minutes arter that, wi’ ’is things in ’is bag and the young lady arter ’im, and paid me wot ’e owes, for me ter give the landlord, an’ orff ’e goes. An ’er wif ’im.”

“May we see his rooms?” Casbolt asked. “It may tell us something, although I have little hope.”

“Course, if yer want.” The doorman was more than amenable and started leading the way.

“Have you any idea what was in the note?” Monk asked, keeping pace with him. “Any idea at all? How did he look when he read it? Pleased, surprised, angry, distressed?”

“Pleased!” the doorman said immediately. “Oh ’e were right pleased. ’Is face lit up an’ ’e thanked the lad, give ’im sixpence!” He was clear the extravagance spoke volumes about his pleasure. “An’ in a terrible ’urry ter be gorn, ’e were.”

“But did he give you any idea where to?” Casbolt urged, so agitated he moved his weight from one foot to the other, unable to keep still.

“No. Jus’ said as ’e ’ad ter ’urry, be very quick, an’ ’e were. Out in ten minutes, ’e were.” He came to the door of Breeland’s room and opened it, stepping back to allow them in.

Casbolt went straight past him and turned around slowly, staring.

Monk followed. The room seemed stripped of all personal belongings. He saw only a little crockery, a bowl for water, a ewer and a pile of towels. There was a Bible and a few scraps of waste paper on the dressing table. There was nothing left to indicate who had occupied the room only a few hours before.

Casbolt went straight to the dressing table, rifling through, then around pulling out the drawers. He yanked the bedclothes back right to the mattress, his actions growing wilder as he found not a thing beyond the landlord’s few furnishings.

“There’s nothing here,” Monk said quietly.

Casbolt swore, fury and desperation sharp-pitched in his voice.

“There’s no point in staying,” Monk cut across him. “Where else can we look? If Breeland’s gone, and Merrit is with him, perhaps Alberton went after them both? Where would they be most likely to head?”

Casbolt put his hands up to cover his face. Then his body stiffened and he stared at Monk wide-eyed. “The note! Merrit was with him, so it couldn’t have been from her. He was pleased by it—very pleased. The only thing he cares about is the damned guns! It must be to do with them.” He was moving towards the door already.

“Where?” Monk went after him out into the hallway.

“If he’s held Merrit to ransom, then the warehouse. That’s where the guns are,” Casbolt called, racing to the front door and out into the street. “It’s on Tooley Street!” he shouted to the driver, and pulled the door open, scrambling in a stride ahead of Monk. The carriage lurched forward and picked up speed, throwing Monk hard on the seat. It was moments before he was upright and had regained his balance.

They rode in silence, each consumed by fear of what they would find. It was clear daylight now and a few laborers were on their way to work. They passed wagons going to the vegetable market at Covent Garden, or others like it. It was all a familiar blur.

They crossed the river at London Bridge, the water already busy with barges, the smell of damp and salt coming in with the tide. The light was hard, a brittle reflection off the shifting surface.

They turned right, then pulled up sharply outside high, double wooden gates. Casbolt leapt out and ran across to them. He threw his weight against them and they swung wide, no lock or bar holding them.

Monk followed and burst into the warehouse yard. For an instant in the cold morning light he thought it was empty. The warehouse doors were closed, the windows blind. The cobbles were splattered with mud, clear tracks leading in several directions, as if something heavy had turned.

There were fresh horse droppings.

Then he saw them, dark, awkward mounds.

Casbolt stood paralyzed.

Monk walked across, his stomach cold, his legs shaking. There were two bodies lying close to each other, a third a little distance away, perhaps nine or ten feet. They were all in strangely contorted positions, as if they had been on the ground when someone had passed a broom handle under their knees and over their arms. Their hands and ankles were tied, preventing them from moving, and they were gagged. The first two were strangers.

Monk walked over to the third, his stomach sick. It was Daniel Alberton. He, like the others, had been shot through the head.

3

MONK STARED DOWN in horror at Alberton until the sound of Casbolt choking brought him abruptly to the realization that they must act. He turned around to see Casbolt was haggard, apparently incapable of moving. He looked as if he might faint.

Monk went over to him. He took him by the shoulders, forcing him to turn away. His body under Monk’s hands was rigid and yet curiously without balance, as if the slightest blow would knock him over.

“We … we should do something.…” Casbolt said hoarsely, stumbling and leaning heavily on Monk. “Get … someone … Oh God! This is …” He could not complete the sentence.

“Sit down,” Monk ordered, half easing him to the ground. “I’ll look around and see what I can. When you’re fit to, you go for the police.”