some harm may also have come to Mr. Shearer. He was a loyal employee of her late husband for many years. She feels some responsibility to ascertain that he is alive and well, and not in need of assistance. And of course, he is sadly missed, especially now.”
“I see.” Cummins nodded. “Yes, of course.” He frowned. “Frankly, I can’t understand him not being there. I confess, Mr. Monk, you have me worried now. When I didn’t see or hear from him, I took it he was away on a trading matter. He does go to the Continent now and then.”
“When did you last see him?” Monk pressed. “Exactly.”
Cummins thought for a moment. “The night before Alberton was killed. But I suppose you know that, and that’s why you’re here. We talked about moving some timber to Bath. As I said, he was in good spirits. We had dinner together, at the Hanley Arms, next to the omnibus station on Hornsey Road.”
“What time did you leave?”
Cummins looked anxious. “What is it you’re thinking, Mr. Monk?”
“I don’t know. What time?”
“Late. About eleven. We … we dined rather well. He said he was going back to the city.”
“How? Cab?”
“Train, from Seven Sisters Road Station. It’s just down the bottom of the street from the Hanley Arms, then along a bit.”
“How long would the journey take?”
“That time of night? Not many stops: Holloway Station, through Copenhagen Tunnel, then into King’s Cross. Best part of an hour. Why? I wish you’d tell me what it is you’re thinking!”
“Anyone see you together, swear to what time he left?”
“If you want. Ask the landlord of the Hanley Arms. Why?” Cummins’s voice was sharp with alarm.
“Because I believe he was at the Euston Square station at half-past one,” Monk answered, rising to his feet.
“What does that mean?” Cummins demanded, standing also.
“It means he couldn’t have been at Tooley Street,” Monk replied.
Cummins was startled. “Did you think he was? Good God! You … you didn’t think he did that? Not Walter Shearer. He was a hard man, wanted the best, but he was loyal. Oh, no …” He stopped. He knew from Monk’s face there was no need to say more. “It was the American!” he finished.
“No, it wasn’t,” Monk replied. “I don’t know who the hell it was. Will you swear to this?”
“Of course I will! It’s the truth.”
Monk checked with the landlord of the Hanley Arms, but he received the answer he expected, and corroboration from the landlord’s wife. He retraced Shearer’s steps to the Euston Square station, and found thirty-two minutes unaccounted for. No one could have gone south to Tooley Street, murdered three men and loaded six thousand guns in that time. But he could have stopped at King’s Cross and walked from there to the Euston Square station to claim a wagon load of guns already stored there and waiting.
He recounted all these things to Rathbone that evening.
In the morning Rathbone asked for the court to be delayed for sufficient time for the landlord of the Hanley Arms to be called, and it was granted him.
By early afternoon all evidence had been given and both Deverill and Rathbone had made their summations. No one knew who had murdered Daniel Alberton or the two guards in Tooley Street, but it was quite clear it could not have been either Breeland or Shearer—acting for Breeland, or with his knowledge. Rathbone could not say how Breeland’s watch had come to be in the yard, or account for the movement of the guns from Tooley Street or to Euston Square, but a mystified and unhappy jury returned a verdict of not guilty.
Judith was weak with relief. For her the immediate fact that Merrit was free from the threat of death was sufficient. She allowed herself to have a few moments’ respite from grief.
Hester stood in the crowded hallway outside the courtroom watching as Merrit came towards her mother, hesitantly at first. Philo Trace was standing a dozen yards to the left of them. He did not wish to be included in the circle, but it was nakedly apparent in his face how much it mattered to him that Judith should be happy. His eyes were soft as he looked at her, oblivious to everyone else coming and going.
Robert Casbolt was closer, pale-faced, exhausted by the emotional turmoil of the trial, but now also, if not relaxed, at least no longer struggling to rescue Merrit.
Lyman Breeland stood back. It was impossible to tell from the stunned pallor of his face what he felt. He was free, but neither his character nor his cause had been understood as he would have liked. He was at least sensitive enough to the pain that had been experienced not to come forward now. Of this immediate reunion he was not a part. They were left with the grief, and the anger, all the things that had had to be unsaid, even unthought, until the battle was over.
Merrit’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was the sight of her mother in black, the color and vitality in her stifled, drained away by loss and then by fear.
Judith held her arms out.
Silently, Merrit stepped forward and they clasped each other, Merrit sobbing, letting go of all the terror and pain that she had held so desperately in control over the last month since Hester had first told her of her father’s death.
Philo Trace blinked hard several times, then turned and walked away.
Robert Casbolt remained.
Rathbone came out of the courtroom door, smiling. Horatio Deverill was a couple of steps behind him, still
