haired man with a sensitive, mercurial face, the type whose expression conveyed emotion and yet perhaps hid his true feelings. He was handsome, as if charm came easily, and yet there was something elusive about him, and private. Monk judged him to be perhaps ten years older than Breeland, and the moment he spoke it was apparent he came from one of those Southern states which had recently seceded from the Union and with whom the Union was now at war.
“How do you do,” Monk replied when they were introduced, after the butler had brought another chair and discreetly set an additional place at the table.
“I’m truly sorry,” Trace said with some embarrassment. “I seem to have the wrong evening. I certainly did not intend to intrude.” He looked for a moment at Breeland, and it was clear they already knew each other. The animosity between them crackled in the air.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Trace,” Judith said with a smile. “Would you care for a little fruit? Or a pastry?”
His eyes lingered on her with pleasure and a certain earnestness.
“Thank you, ma’am. That is most generous of you.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Monk are friends of Lady Callandra Daviot. I cannot remember whether you met her or not,” Judith continued.
“No, I didn’t, but you told me something of her. A most interesting lady.” He sat down on the chair, which had been drawn up for him. He regarded Hester with pleasant curiosity. “Are you connected with the army also, ma’am?”
“Indeed she is,” Casbolt said enthusiastically. “She has had a remarkable career … with Florence Nightingale. I am sure you must have heard of her.”
“Naturally.” Trace smiled at Hester. “I’m afraid in America these days we are obliged to concern ourselves with all aspects of war, as I daresay you know. But I am sure it is not what you wish to discuss over dinner.”
“Isn’t that what you have come about, Mr. Trace?” Merrit asked, her voice cold. “You did not call socially. You admitted as much when you had mistaken the evening.”
Trace blushed. “I don’t know how I came to do that. I have already apologized, Miss Alberton.”
“I’m sure I don’t know either!” Merrit said. “I can only think you were worried in case Mr. Breeland might at last persuade my father of the justice of his cause, and you should find yourself without the purchase you expected.” It was a challenge, and she made no concession to courtesy. Her passionate conviction rang in her voice so sincerely it almost robbed it of rudeness.
Casbolt shook his head. He looked at Merrit patiently. “You know better than that, my dear. However profound your convictions, you understand your father better than to think he would go back on his word for anyone. I hope Mr. Trace knows that also. If he doesn’t, he soon will.” He looked across at Monk. “We must apologize to you, sir, and to you,” he said, including Hester for an instant. “This must all seem inexplicably heated to you. I daresay no one explained to you, Daniel and I are dealers and shippers, among other things. Guns of good quality are in great demand, with the United States at war, as it regrettably is. Men from both the Union and the Confederacy are scouring Europe and buying up everything they can. Most of the available weapons are quite possibly inferior, as likely to blow up in the faces of the men who use them as to do any damage to the enemy. Some of them have aims so bad you would be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn at twenty paces. Do you know anything about guns, sir?”
“Nothing at all,” Monk said truthfully. If he ever had such knowledge, it had gone with the coach accident five years ago which had robbed him of all memory before that time. He could not recall ever having fired a gun. However, Casbolt’s explanation made clear the turbulence of emotions Monk had felt in the room, the presence of both Breeland and Trace, and the bitter emotion between them. It had nothing to do with Merrit Alberton, or any of the family.
Casbolt’s face lit with enthusiasm. “The best modern gun—say, for example, the P1853, last year’s model—is built of a total of sixty-one parts, including screws and so on. It weighs only eight pounds and fourteen and a half ounces, without bayonet, and the barrel is rifled, of course, and thirty-nine inches long. It is accurate over at least nine hundred yards—well over half a mile.”
Judith looked at him with a slightly reproving smile.
“Of course!” He apologized, glancing at Hester, then at Monk again. “I’m sorry. Please tell us something of your business, if it is not all confidential?” His expression held an interest so sharp it was difficult to imagine it was affected purely for the sake of mere politeness.
Monk had never been asked such a question in the society of a dinner party. Normally it was the last thing people wished to speak of, because he was present to investigate something which had caused them recent pain and in all likelihood was still doing so. Crime not only brought fear, bereavement, and inevitably suspicion, it ripped from quiet lives the decent masks of secrecy everyone put over all manner of smaller sins and weaknesses.
“Robert!” Judith said urgently. “I think you are asking Mr. Monk to tell us about people’s tragedies.”
Casbolt looked wide-eyed and not in the least put out. “Am I? What a shame. How can I circumvent that? I really would like to hear something of Mr. Monk’s fascinating occupation.” He was still smiling, but there was a determination in his voice. He sat back from the table a little, picking up a small bunch of a dozen or so green grapes in his fingers. “Tell me, do you spend a lot of time on robberies, missing jewels, and so on?”
It was a far safer subject than guns or slavery. Monk saw the interest flicker in Judith’s face, in spite of her awareness that the subject was possibly not one a polite society would pursue.
Daniel Alberton also seemed relieved. His fingers stopped twisting the fruit knife he held.
“Mrs. Monk says that her involvement in your cases has replaced the exhilaration, the horror, and the responsibility she felt on the battlefield,” Casbolt prompted. “They can hardly be affairs of finding the lost silver saltcellar or the missing great-niece of Lady So-and-so.”
They were all waiting for Monk to tell them something dramatic and entertaining which had nothing whatever to do with their own lives or the tensions which lay between them. Even Hester was looking at him, smiling.
“No,” he agreed, taking a peach off the dish. “There are a few of that order, but every so often there is a murder which falls to me, rather than to the police—”
“Good heavens!” Judith said involuntarily. “Why?”
