“Usually because the police suspect the wrong person,” Monk replied.
“In your opinion?” Casbolt said quickly.
Monk met his eyes. There was banter in Casbolt’s voice, but his look was level, unflickering and highly intelligent. Monk was certain this remark at least was not made idly, to relieve the previous embarrassment between Breeland and Trace.
“Yes, in my belief,” he answered with the weight he thought it deserved. “I have been seriously wrong at times, but only for a while. I was once convinced a famous man was innocent, and worked very hard to prove him so, only to find in the end that he was horribly and cold-bloodedly guilty.”
Merrit did not wish to be interested, but in spite of herself she was. “Did you manage to put right your mistake? What happened to him?” she asked, ignoring the grapes on her plate.
“He was hanged,” Monk said without pleasure.
She stared at him, a shadow flickering in her eyes. There was something in his manner she did not understand, not the words but the emotion. “Weren’t you pleased?”
How could he explain to her the anger he had felt at the loss of the woman who had been killed, and that revenge, which was all that a hanging was, brought nothing back? Justice, as the law contained it, was necessary, but there was no joy in it. He looked at the soft lines of her face; she had barely outgrown the roundness of childhood, and she was so certain she was right about the American war, so burning with indignation, love and consuming idealism.
“No,” he said, needing to be honest to himself whether she understood or not. “I am pleased the truth was known. I am pleased he had to answer for his crime, but I regretted his destruction. He was a clever man, greatly gifted, but his arrogance was monstrous. In the end he thought everyone else should serve his talents. It consumed his compassion and his judgment, even his honor.”
“How tragic,” Judith said softly. “I’m glad Robert asked you; your answer is better than I had expected.” She glanced at her husband, whose expression confirmed her own.
“Thank you, my dear.” Casbolt flashed her a sudden smile, then turned back to Monk. “Tell us, how did you catch him? If he was clever, then you must have been even cleverer!”
Monk answered a trifle smugly. “He made mistakes—old cases, old enemies. I uncovered them. It is a matter of understanding loyalties and betrayals, of watching everything, and never giving up.”
“Hounding him?” Breeland asked with distaste.
“No!” Monk replied sharply. “Seeking the truth, whether it is what you want it to be or not. Even if it is what you dread most and cuts deepest at what you want to believe, never lie, never twist it, never run away, and never give up.” He was surprised at the vehemence with which he meant what he said. He heard it in his voice and it startled him.
He saw the agreement in Hester’s face, and felt himself color. He had not realized her respect mattered so much to him. He had never intended to be so vulnerable.
Merrit was staring at him with a sudden interest, as if in a space of moments he had metamorphosed into a man she could like and she did not know how to deal with the change.
“There you are,” Casbolt said with evident pleasure. “I knew you had invited a most interesting man, my dear,” he said to Judith. “Are you ever defeated, Mr. Monk? Do you ever retire from the fray and concede to the villain?”
Monk smiled back, a trifle wolfishly. Now the passion was gone; they were fencing to entertain.
“Not yet. I’ve come close a few times. I’ve feared my own client was guilty, or that the person I was employed to protect might be, and I have wanted to let go, just walk away and pretend I did not know the truth.”
“And did you?” Alberton asked. He was leaning forward a little across the table, his plate ignored, his eyes intent upon Monk’s face.
“No. But sometimes I liked the villain better than the victim,” Monk answered honestly.
Judith was surprised. “Really? When you understood the crime you had more sympathy with the murderer than the person he killed?”
“Once or twice. There was a woman whose child was systematically molested. I liked her far better than the man she killed for it.”
“Oh!” She sucked in her breath sharply, her face blanched with pain. “Poor creature!”
Trace looked at her, his eyes wide, then at Merrit. “Was he guilty?”
“Oh, yes. And a victim himself.”
“A …” Judith started, then understanding, her eyes filled with pity. “Oh … I see.”
Breeland pushed his chair back from the table and rose slowly to his feet.
“I am sure Mr. Monk’s adventures are fascinating, and I regret having to excuse myself so early, but since Mr. Trace has called on what is apparently business, I feel I should either stay and argue my cause over his, or withdraw and retain your goodwill by not allowing this most agreeable evening to descend into acrimony.” He lifted his chin a little higher. He was angry and self-conscious, but would yield his convictions to no one. “And since you already know every reason why the Union is fighting to preserve the nation we have founded in freedom, against a Confederacy which would encircle us in slavery, and I have argued it with every reason and every emotion in my power, I shall thank you for your hospitality and wish you good night.” He inclined his head stiffly in something less than a bow. “Mrs. Alberton, Miss Alberton.” He looked at Daniel coldly. “Sir. Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, including everyone else. Then he turned on his heel and left.
“I’m so sorry,” Trace repeated. “That was the last thing I meant to have happen.” He turned from Judith to Daniel Alberton. “Please believe me, sir, I never doubted your word. I did not know Breeland was here.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Alberton agreed, rising to his feet also. “Perhaps if the rest of you will excuse us, we shall be able to conclude our business quite quickly. It seems unfortunate, and unnecessary, now that Mr. Trace is here, for me to require him to come again tomorrow.” He looked apologetically to Hester and Monk.
