Breeland has done Daniel some harm. Apparently when he left the house he was in a terrible rage, and said that he would win one way or another.”
“That is true,” Monk agreed. “I was there when he said it.” He remembered with a chill the passion in Breeland’s voice. It was the fire of the artist who creates from nothing a great vision for the world, the explorer who ventures into the unknown and opens the way for lesser men, the inventor, the thinker, the martyr who dies rather than deny the light he has seen … and the fanatic who sees any act justified by the cause he serves.
Casbolt was right to be afraid of Breeland; so was Judith Alberton.
“Yes, of course I’ll come with you,” he answered. “I’ll go and dress, and tell my wife. I’ll be five minutes, or less.”
“Thank you! Thank you very much.”
Monk nodded, then went hastily back to the bedroom.
Hester was sitting up with a shawl around her.
“Who is it?” she asked before he had closed the door.
“Casbolt,” he answered, taking off his dressing gown and putting on his shirt. “Alberton went out shortly after I left and hasn’t come home, and Merrit is missing. It looks as if she might have gone after Breeland. Stupid child!”
“Can I help?”
“No! Thank you.” He fastened his shirt with clumsy fingers, moving too hastily, then reached for his trousers.
“Be careful what you say to her,” Hester warned.
He would have been delighted to put Merrit Alberton over his knee and spank her until she was obliged to eat off the mantelpiece for a week. It must have shown in his face, because Hester stood up quickly and came to him.
“William, she is young and full of ideals. The harder you argue with her, the more stubborn she will be. Fight with her, and she’ll do the last thing she really wants to rather than be seen to give in. Plead for her help, her understanding, earn her mercy, and she’ll be reasonable.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was sixteen once,” she said a trifle tartly.
He grinned. “And in love?”
“It is a natural state of affairs.”
“Was he a gun buyer for a foreign army?” He put his jacket on. There was no time to shave.
“No, actually he was a vicar,” she replied.
“A vicar? You … in love with a vicar?”
“I was sixteen!” There was warm color in her cheeks.
He smiled and kissed her quickly, feeling her respond after only an instant’s hesitation.
“Be careful,” she whispered. “Breeland may be …”
“I know.” And before she could add anything further he went out and back to where Casbolt was standing near the door impatiently.
Casbolt’s carriage was waiting outside in the street, and he climbed in ahead of Monk, shouting at the driver sitting huddled on the box. The summer dawn was hardly cold, but too chilly to wait in, and the man had been woken barely halfway through his sleep.
The carriage lurched forward and reached a good speed within moments. It was altogether fourteen minutes since Casbolt had interrupted Monk’s dream.
“Where are we going?” Monk asked as they rolled over the cobbles and were flung together by the swerve around a corner.
“Breeland’s rooms,” Casbolt answered breathlessly. “I nearly went straight there without you, but for the cost of a street or so out of my way, I could have you with me. I don’t know what we should find there. It may need more than one of us, and I formed the opinion you are a good man to have beside me in a scrap-if it should come to that. God knows what is in Merrit’s mind. She must have lost all sense of … everything. She hardly knows the man! He …” He gasped as they were bumped again and the carriage swerved the other way, this time throwing him half on top of Monk.
“He could be anything!” he went on. “The man’s a fanatic, prepared to sacrifice everything and everybody to his damned cause! He’s madder than any of our own military men, and God help us, they are insane enough.” His voice was rising with a wild note in it. “Look at some of their antics in the Crimea. Any price to be a hero-glory of victory, blood and bodies all over the place, and for what? Fame, an idea … medals and a footnote in history.”
They were clattering through a leafy square, the trees making a temporary darkness.
“Damn Breeland and his idiotic ideals!” he said in an explosion of fury. “He has no business preaching to a sixteen-year-old girl who thinks everyone else is as noble and as uncomplicated as she is.” There was a startling venom in his voice, a passion so deep it broke through his control and was raw in the air in the broadening light as they careered through the dawn streets.
Monk wished there were some help he could offer, but he knew that what Casbolt said was true. He deplored fatuous words, so he remained silent.
Suddenly the carriage drew up, Casbolt glanced out to make sure it was not a crossroads, apparently recognized where he was, and all but threw himself out.
Monk followed after him as he strode across the pavement to a doorway, opened it abruptly, and went inside. It was merely the outer entrance to a set of apartments, and the night doorman was sitting comfortably half asleep in a chair in the hallway.
“Breeland’s rooms!” Casbolt said loudly as the man started awake.
“Yes, sir.” He scrambled to his feet, fishing for his cap and setting it crookedly on his head. “But Mr. Breeland in’t ’ere. ’E’s gorn, sir.”
“Gone?” Casbolt looked staggered. “He was here last night. What do you mean ‘gone’? Where to? When will he be back?”
“ ’E won’t be back, sir.” The doorman shook his head. “ ’E’s gorn for good. Paid up an’ took ’is bags. Not that ’e ’ad but the one.”
“When?” Casbolt demanded. “What time did he go? Was he alone?”
The doorman squinted. “I dunno, sir. ’Bout ’alf-past eleven, or summink like that. Were before midnight, anyway.”
“Was he alone?” Casbolt persisted. His body was shaking and his face was white, a fine sweat on his brow.
“No, sir.” The doorman was definitely frightened now. “There were a young lady wif ’im. Very pretty. Fair ’air, much as I could see of it. She ’ad a bag wif ’er as well.” He swallowed. “Was they elopin’?” His breath caught in his throat and he coughed convulsively.
“Probably,” Casbolt replied, the pain naked in his voice.
The doorman controlled his coughing. “Are you ’er father? I din’t know, I swear ter Gawd!”
“Godfather,” Casbolt replied. “Her father may have come looking for her as well. Was there anyone else here?”
The doorman screwed up his face. “There were a message for Mr. Breeland, but it just come wi’ a reg’lar lad. Took it up ter Mr. Breeland, personal, an’ went orff again. An’ there were someone after that too, but I only just saw the back of ’im as ’e went up.”
“What time was the message?” Casbolt said, desperation rising in his voice.
“Jus’ afore ’e went orff.” The doorman was now thoroughly alarmed. “I gave Mr. Breeland a knock an’ ’e answered the door. The lad give ’im the message. Wouldn’t trust me ter do it. Sounds as ’e’d bin paid ter give it personal, like I said, an’ wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“About half-past eleven?” Monk interrupted.
“Yeah, or a bit later. Anyway, Mr. Breeland came out jus’ minutes arter that, wi’ ’is things in ’is bag and the young lady arter ’im, and paid me wot ’e owes, for me ter give the landlord, an’ orff ’e goes. An ’er wif ’im.”
“May we see his rooms?” Casbolt asked. “It may tell us something, although I have little hope.”
“Course, if yer want.” The doorman was more than amenable and started leading the way.
“Have you any idea what was in the note?” Monk asked, keeping pace with him. “Any idea at all? How did he
