Casbolt had said nothing Rathbone disputed, nothing he wished to clarify. He would have liked to stretch out the proceedings in the hope Monk might yet discover something more, but if he did so now Deverill at least would know it, possibly the jury would also.
He half rose from his seat. “I have no questions for the witness, my lord.”
“Good. Then we may adjourn for luncheon,” the judge said bleakly.
Rathbone was barely outside the courtroom when he saw Hester and Judith Alberton coming towards him. Philo Trace was a few yards away, but he did not approach them. It flashed through Rathbone’s mind to wonder again exactly what Trace’s part was in the purchase of guns. Could he have been the one who tried to blackmail Alberton, and was that why Alberton had absolutely refused to deal with Breeland … because he dared not? Had Monk been the catalyst which made him change his mind? It was only the thread of an idea, but it persisted.
“Sir Oliver?” Judith was in front of him. He could hear the fear in her voice.
“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Alberton,” he said with more confidence than he felt. It was a part of his profession he had been obliged to practice so often: the comforting of people in desperate situations, the giving of courage and hope he had no knowledge he could justify. “We have our turn after Mr. Deverill has done all he can. I don’t feel any certainty that I can prove Breeland innocent, but with Merrit it will be far easier. Don’t lose heart.”
“The watch,” she said simply. “If Merrit was not there, how did it come to be in the warehouse yard? She was so proud of it, I cannot imagine her willingly letting it out of her possession.”
“Can you imagine her lying to protect Breeland?” he asked gently. He could not help looking for a moment at Hester and saw in her eyes the fierce need to help, and confusion because she did not know how to.
“Yes,” Judith said quietly. “Sir Oliver … I am terribly afraid I should not have sent Mr. Monk to bring her back. Have I condemned her to death—” Her voice broke.
Hester tightened her grip on Judith’s arm, willing her to have strength. But she could not argue, could not think of any words that would comfort.
“No,” Rathbone lied with authority. He heard the ring of conviction in his own voice, and was stabbed with fear that he would be proved wrong. But he was used to risk, to defying the rules and trusting to fortune, because it was all he had. He was acutely conscious that he did not deserve to succeed as often as he had. “No, Mrs. Alberton. I do not believe that Merrit is guilty of more than foolishness. I am very sorry that I may have to demonstrate that the man she loves is in no way worthy of her, and she will find that very hard. There is little in life as bitter as disillusion. And when it happens she will need your comfort. You must remain strong for that time. It will not be long.”
Judith’s expression could not be seen, but the emotion, the effort at self-mastery and the fear were all in her voice.
“Of course. Thank you, Sir Oliver.” It was painfully apparent that she wanted to say more, and also that she would be asking for something he could not give her. She waited only a moment longer, then slowly turned away. After she had moved a step or two she was facing Philo Trace. She must have seen his expression, his remarkable eyes. Perhaps she was the fortunate one, to be able to hide behind a veil, to have no one know how much she had seen of his emotions, or to pretend she had not read them.
Then the moment was gone, and with Hester beside her she walked away. Rathbone went to find himself some luncheon, although he had little appetite for it.
The afternoon resumed late with Lanyon giving evidence for the police. In the rather stiff language of officialdom he corroborated all that Casbolt had said, at Deverill’s insistence, also confirming that Casbolt had indeed dined with friends and remained in their company until after the time Alberton and the guards were believed to have been killed.
It was unnecessary. Rathbone had never considered Casbolt a possible suspect, nor did he believe anyone else had.
Deverill thanked Lanyon effusively, as if he had made an important point.
Rathbone was pleased to see several jurors looking mystified.
“And did you find anything remarkable at the scene of the murders which led you to the identity of any of the persons present, apart from the victims?” Deverill asked.
“Yes,” Lanyon said unhappily. “A gentleman’s gold watch.”
“Where did you find it?”
The jury were only mildly interested. They already knew, and their distaste was apparent. A couple of them looked up at Breeland.
He ignored them almost as if he were unaware. Rathbone had seen innocent men with that sublime detachment, knowing the crime spoken of had nothing to do with them. He had also seen guilty men with a coldness that appeared just the same, because they had no understanding that what they had done was repellent. They felt no pain except their own.
Merrit was utterly different. She was pale, shivering, and it cost her a very obvious effort to muster even a semblance of composure. She had been stunned by Casbolt’s account of finding the bodies. Lanyon’s less emotional telling of essentially the same facts had been even harder for her. His tightly controlled voice made it more real. Yet in his own way he was also shocked. It was in the keenness of his speech, the way he kept his eyes down and did not once look at Judith in the front row of the gallery, nor up at Merrit herself.
Deverill took Lanyon through the exact circumstances of finding the watch, and of the name engraved on the back. Then he moved on to Lanyon’s following of the trail of wagons from the yard to Hayes Dock and the beginning of their journey down the river by barge.
At four o’clock the judge adjourned the court for the day.
In the morning, Deverill resumed exactly where he had left the story. It took him the rest of the morning to proceed detail by detail until Lanyon admitted to losing the trail at Bugsby’s Marshes. Deverill very graciously offered to call every bargee, docker and waterman who had given Lanyon evidence.
Wearily, the judge asked Rathbone if he contested the issue, and immensely to the court’s relief Rathbone said that he did not. He was happy to concede that everything Lanyon had said was true.
