they of what the newspapers had written.
“Thank you. Please come and sit down. Are you hungry? Have you had any rest since you arrived?”
They accepted gratefully, without telling her exactly how arduous the journey had been. They were partway through an excellent dinner when Robert Casbolt arrived, coming straight into the dining room without waiting for the footman to announce him. He glanced at the assembled company around the table, but his eyes rested on Judith.
She looked up at him without surprise, as if he frequently appeared in such a way.
Hester saw the glint of anger in Trace’s expression, masked the moment later, but she thought she understood it.
If Casbolt saw it also, he gave no sign.
“She is safe and well,” Judith said in answer to his unspoken question.
Something in him darkened, and he could not hide the foreboding in it. “Where is she?”
Judith’s mouth tightened. “The police have arrested her, and of course Breeland.”
“They have Breeland!” He was startled. For the first time he looked fully at Monk, but still ignored Philo Trace. “You brought him back? I commend you! How did you persuade him?”
“At gunpoint,” Monk said dryly.
Casbolt made no attempt to hide his admiration. “That is truly remarkable! I apologize for underestimating you. I admit, I had little hope you could succeed.” He seemed overwhelmed. He pulled out one of the empty chairs and sat down. He waved away the footman’s offer of food or wine with a smile, not taking his eyes from Monk. “Please tell me what happened. I am most eager to know.” He did not ask Judith’s permission, but perhaps he already understood that she would care even more than he.
Monk began to recount their adventures, condensing the tale as much as he could, but frequently both Casbolt and Judith interrupted him, asking for more detail and offering praise or expressing alarm at their danger. Judith particularly was distressed at the plight of the American people caught up in a terrible war. It seemed there were vivid, fragmented reports of the battle at Bull Run in the newspaper already. They said the slaughter had been fearful.
Monk said as little as he could about it while still making sense of the account. Judith grew more tense with every few moments. Her face softened once, when Monk very briefly spoke of Merrit’s helping to prepare the ambulances for the wounded.
“It must have been … terrible beyond words,” she said huskily.
“Yes …” He did not offer to tell her of it, and watching his face, the brightness of the smooth, burned skin over his cheeks, Hester knew it was his own pain he could not relive, not Judith’s he was sparing. She had seen how the horror had overwhelmed him, how the helplessness to do anything in the face of such enormity had robbed him of his belief in himself. She had experienced it herself the first time she had seen battle, and for her it was not so total, because she had at least some medical knowledge, and a function in being there. She could lose herself in the individual she could affect, even if not save. It was not always the success that made it bearable; it was the ability to try.
She had seen it in him, and understood, but it was too raw, too powerful to be touched even by her, or perhaps especially by her. Some wounds have to heal alone, or they do not heal at all.
“Did Breeland not go to the battlefield after all?” Casbolt asked incredulously.
“Yes. It was there we found him.”
“And he came with you?” Casbolt frowned in incomprehension. “Why? He did not have to, surely? I cannot believe his own people would give him up to answer English law.”
“The Union lost,” Monk answered, offering no explanation beyond that simple sentence. He said nothing of the slaughter, the panic, as if the men he had been defending from the shame of it were people he knew. He did not look at either Trace or Hester, or give them time to interrupt. “We went south through the Confederate lines to Richmond, and then Charleston. No one hindered us.”
Judith’s eyes were wide with fierce admiration. Even in these tragic circumstances, Hester could not help thinking what a beautiful woman she was. She was not surprised that Philo Trace was drawn to Judith. She would have found it harder to understand were he not.
“But the police have arrested Merrit,” Judith said to Casbolt. “They found Breeland’s watch in the warehouse yard.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I was there when Monk picked it up.” He seemed puzzled.
Judith lowered her voice. “Breeland gave it to Merrit as a keepsake. I knew that, but I hoped the police would not. However, Dorothea Parfitt told them … in all innocence, I imagine. But it cannot be taken back. Merrit showed it to her, boasting a little, as girls will.” Her composure cracked and she had to struggle to regain it.
Casbolt put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer to him. His face was full of pain, and the strength of his emotion was for a moment completely unguarded.
“Breeland is despicable,” he said softly. “He must have taken it back from her and dropped it there himself, even accidentally, or with the intention of trying to stop us from pursuing him for the harm it could do her. Either way, Judith, I swear we will fight him. We shall obtain the finest lawyers there are, and a Queen’s counsel to defend Merrit, if we cannot prevent it from coming to that.” He turned to Monk. “Is it conceivable Breeland will exonerate her? Does he have any love towards her at all, any honor? After all, he is a grown man, she is little more than a child, and she could never in her life have imagined stealing guns for any cause of her own!”
Hester knew what Monk would say before he spoke. She even glanced at Trace and saw the shadow in his face also.
“No,” Monk answered bluntly. “He denies he ever killed Mr. Alberton or stole anything.” He ignored their disbelief and continued. “He says Mr. Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. He says he bought them quite legally, and paid a man named Shearer for them.”
“What?” Casbolt jerked his head up.
