mankind. It was carried out at the behest and to serve the purposes of the accused, Lyman Breeland. But, gentlemen, it was aided and connived at by the victim’s own daughter, Merrit Alberton.”
He received the desired gasp of horror, shimmering around the room like a hot wind before a storm.
“She was infatuated with Breeland,” he continued. “And what he did to induce this obsession in her I cannot prove, so I shall not attempt even to tell you, but suffice it to say, after the terrible deed was done, she fled to America with him, that very night.” He shook his head. “And it was only by the good offices of a private agent of enquiry, employed by her own mother, the widow of the murdered man, that she and Breeland were brought back to this country, at gunpoint, to face you, and your decision as to how justice may be served.
“To this end, my lord …” He turned at last to face the judge, a lean man with powerful features and clear, silver-gray eyes. “To this end, I call my first witness, Robert Casbolt.”
There was intense interest as Casbolt came into the court and crossed the open space of the floor in front of the judge and jury and climbed up the short, curving steps to the witness stand. He was immaculately dressed in dark gray, and looked pale but composed. There was not even the shadow of the smile he so often wore, and which had etched the lines around his mouth.
He swore as to his name and residence, and awaited Deverill’s first questions calmly. Once he glanced down at Judith and his expression softened, but it was only for an instant. He looked like a man at a funeral. He did not look towards the dock.
“Mr. Casbolt …” Deverill began, smiling apologetically and walking up and down the open floor like an actor facing an audience to deliver a great soliloquy. Although it was the jury to whom he was playing, he never once looked in their direction. “I realize this is acutely painful for you, sir. Nevertheless it is necessary, and I hope you will bear with me while I take the court through the events which led to this tragedy. You were aware of almost all of them, even though you can have had no idea to what terrible end they were destined.”
Rathbone looked at the jury. They ranged from about forty to sixty in age, and seemed decent and prosperous, like most jurors. There were qualifications of property required which ruled out many younger men, or those of a different social class. They sat serious, unhappy, and concentrating fiercely upon every word that was said.
“Mr. Casbolt, would you tell the court how and when you first encountered Lyman Breeland?”
“Of course,” Casbolt said quietly, but his voice fell with perfect clarity in the faint rustling around the room. “I do not recall the exact date, but it was early in May of this year. He presented himself at the business premises of Daniel Alberton and myself.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “He was interested in the armaments aspect of our business.”
“And what did Mr. Breeland say to you?” Deverill asked innocently.
“That he was authorized to purchase guns for the Union cause in the American conflict,” Casbolt answered. “He said he was entrusted by his superior with a very large sum of money, approximately twenty-three thousand pounds, which he had deposited at the Bank of England.”
There was a gasp of amazement around the room. It was a fortune beyond most men’s imagination. Several people looked up at Breeland in the dock, but he studiously ignored them all, keeping his eyes on Deverill.
“Did you see this money?” Deverill asked, his voice hushed with awe.
“No, sir. One would not have expected him to bring it with him,” Casbolt answered. “It is a … a fortune!”
“It is indeed. But he told you, and Mr. Alberton, that the government of the Northern states of America had sent him with this money in order to purchase guns, is that so?”
“Guns and ammunition for them, yes, sir.”
“And you believed him?”
“We had no cause to doubt him. I still have not,” Casbolt replied. “He presented credentials, including a letter from Abraham Lincoln bearing the seal of the President of the United States. Both Daniel Alberton and I were well informed as to the escalating hostilities across the Atlantic, and naturally we were also aware of the fact that representatives from both the Union and the Confederate states had been purchasing guns wherever they were available all over Europe.”
“Just so,” Deverill agreed. He pushed his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, stared at the polished toes of his boots, then looked up at Casbolt. “And had you, or Daniel Alberton, sold guns before to either party in this war?”
“We had not.”
“And you are sure that Daniel Alberton had not, for example, made a private agreement with Lyman Breeland, unknown to you or Mr. Trace?” Deverill prompted.
Casbolt’s face filled with a curious mixture of emotions which were only too apparently painful. His eyes flickered towards Judith, sitting in the front seat of the gallery.
Everyone in the room must have been aware of the tension and the personal grief.
Rathbone looked up at Breeland. He was watching intently, but if he felt any sorrow or fear it was too tightly under control to betray itself. His pride could serve him ill. It looked too much like indifference. The next time he had the opportunity to speak to his client, Rathbone would tell him so, for any good it would do.
“Are you sure?” Deverill prompted.
Casbolt drew his attention back. His expression cleared.
“The other reason was that Daniel Alberton was my friend, and one of the most honorable men I have ever known. In twenty-five years I never knew him to break his word to anyone.” His voice caught. “One could not ask more of a business associate than that, coupled with skill and knowledge of his field.”
“Indeed one could not,” Deverill agreed softly, looking again at the jury.
Rathbone swore under his breath. He had never imagined defeating Deverill would be easy, but the reality of his task was becoming sharper by the minute. Brilliant as Rathbone was, and ruthless, he could not alter the truth, nor would he try.
“What, precisely, was the agreement made with Mr. Trace?” Deverill asked ingenuously.
