Still, as he and Hester rode homeward at last, he felt a weight of oppression settle over him at the prospect of having to go to Vere Street the following day and speak to Oliver Rathbone—worse than that, to ask a favor of him.
Their relationship was long, and tense. Rathbone was by birth everything that Monk was not: privileged, financially comfortable, excellently educated, part of the establishment, effortlessly a gentleman. Monk was a fisherman’s son from Northumberland, a self-made man, grasping his education where he could, bettering himself by imagination and hard work. He could appear a gentleman to the undiscerning eye. He had every whit as much elegance as Rathbone, but it cost him effort. He had learned how to behave, imitated those he admired, but sometimes made mistakes and remembered them with the fire of embarrassment.
Rathbone never made the point that he was superior; to do so would have been unnecessary. Monk was learning that only now, in his forties.
All of which was only a natural abrasion between two men who had equal intelligence and ambition, quickness of thought and word, passion for justice. The issue that mattered, that was always at the front of both their minds, was that they had loved the same woman. And she had chosen Monk.
Now Monk had to go to him and ask his help, offer him a case which could certainly prove complicated and highly emotive, and very possibly incapable of resulting in a satisfactory conclusion. But it was a kind of compliment that he considered Rathbone the only man who could and would attempt such a task.
Hester insisted on going with him.
They came without an appointment and were told by an apologetic clerk that Sir Oliver was in court. However, if the matter was of the urgency they claimed, considering their long association, a message could be sent to the Old Bailey, and Sir Oliver might meet them there during the luncheon recess.
So it proved. The three of them sat together in a crowded inn, hunched over a small table, talking as softly as possible while still loudly enough to be heard above the babble of voices, which were all attempting to do the same thing.
Rathbone acknowledged Hester, then listened studiously to Monk as he told the story, concentrating on putting the case succinctly. Monk was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt.
“I daresay you will have read of the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rathbone said guardedly. “All England has. Extremely ugly. One of the newspapers this morning said that Lyman Breeland had been brought back to London to stand trial, and Alberton’s daughter also. It is probably nonsense.” He moved the vegetables delicately around his plate. “Someone was seen who resembles them. Why on earth would he leave his cause and his country when they must need him and come back here to face almost certain hanging? I suppose it is conceivable President Lincoln may wish accommodation reached, at a diplomatic level, because of Breeland’s importance to the Union cause, but I cannot see any way of making that sit well with public opinion here, not to mention with the law.” He frowned. “Why? I assume you have some part in it, or you would not have raised the subject.”
“We brought him back,” Monk replied, watching Rathbone’s long, patrician face with its thin cheeks and sensitive mouth. He saw the start of surprise. “At gunpoint,” he added. “But he is not as unwilling as one would suppose.”
“Indeed?” Rathbone’s eyebrows rose.
“He claims he is innocent, and knew nothing about Alberton’s death.” He ignored Rathbone’s expression. “I don’t believe it either, but it is not completely inconceivable. He says Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. The hall porter at Breeland’s rooms did deliver a message to him that night, on receipt of which Breeland packed his belongings and he and Merrit Alberton left immediately.”
“Could have been anything,” Rathbone pointed out. “But continue.”
“He said a man called Shearer, an agent of Alberton’s, brought the entire shipment of guns and ammunition —”
“How much?” Rathbone asked.
“Six thousand rifles and over half a million rounds of ammunition,” Monk replied.
Rathbone’s eyes widened.
“Quite a weight. Not something you carry around in a barrow. Do you know how much that is? A wagon load, two, three?”
“Three at least, large wagons,” Monk replied. “He says Shearer took them to the railway station, where he paid the full price for them, and Shearer went on his way. Breeland never saw Alberton at all, and certainly never harmed him.”
“And what does Merrit Alberton say?” Rathbone glanced at Hester.
“The same,” she answered. “She says they went by train to Liverpool, and from there by sea, calling in at Queenstown in Ireland, and then to New York, and further by train to Washington. We went the same way. She described it pretty accurately.”
Rathbone thanked her. It was impossible to know if he had read anything of her emotions in her face.
“I had thought the police had traced the guns to a barge down the river,” he said thoughtfully. “Did I misread?”
“No. They did. And I was with them,” Monk affirmed. “We traced the barge all the way to Greenwich, where we assume it met a seagoing ship and transferred the guns.”
“So they are both lying?”
“They must be. Unless there is some other explanation we haven’t thought of.”
“And what is it you want of me?” Although there was a rueful, sad shadow of it already in his eyes, there was a smile on his lips, perhaps in memory of other battles they had fought together, both losses and victories that held their hurt.
Hester drew in her breath sharply and left it to Monk to reply.
