fisherman’s son from Northumberland, a self-made man, grasping his education where he could, bettering himself by imagination and hard work. He could appear a gentleman to the undiscerning eye. He had every whit as much elegance as Rathbone, but it cost him effort. He had learned how to behave, imitated those he admired, but sometimes made mistakes and remembered them with the fire of embarrassment.
Rathbone never made the point that he was superior; to do so would have been unnecessary. Monk was learning that only now, in his forties.
All of which was only a natural abrasion between two men who had equal intelligence and ambition, quickness of thought and word, passion for justice. The issue that mattered, that was always at the front of both their minds, was that they had loved the same woman. And she had chosen Monk.
Now Monk had to go to him and ask his help, offer him a case which could certainly prove complicated and highly emotive, and very possibly incapable of resulting in a satisfactory conclusion. But it was a kind of compliment that he considered Rathbone the only man who could and would attempt such a task.
Hester insisted on going with him.
They came without an appointment and were told by an apologetic clerk that Sir Oliver was in court. However, if the matter was of the urgency they claimed, considering their long association, a message could be sent to the Old Bailey, and Sir Oliver might meet them there during the luncheon recess.
So it proved. The three of them sat together in a crowded inn, hunched over a small table, talking as softly as possible while still loudly enough to be heard above the babble of voices, which were all attempting to do the same thing.
Rathbone acknowledged Hester, then listened studiously to Monk as he told the story, concentrating on putting the case succinctly. Monk was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt.
“I daresay you will have read of the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rathbone said guardedly. “All England has. Extremely ugly. One of the newspapers this morning said that Lyman Breeland had been brought back to London to stand trial, and Alberton’s daughter also. It is probably nonsense.” He moved the vegetables delicately around his plate. “Someone was seen who resembles them. Why on earth would he leave his cause and his country when they must need him and come back here to face almost certain hanging? I suppose it is conceivable President Lincoln may wish accommodation reached, at a diplomatic level, because of Breeland’s importance to the Union cause, but I cannot see any way of making that sit well with public opinion here, not to mention with the law.” He frowned. “Why? I assume you have some part in it, or you would not have raised the subject.”
“We brought him back,” Monk replied, watching Rathbone’s long, patrician face with its thin cheeks and sensitive mouth. He saw the start of surprise. “At gunpoint,” he added. “But he is not as unwilling as one would suppose.”
“Indeed?” Rathbone’s eyebrows rose.
“He claims he is innocent, and knew nothing about Alberton’s death.” He ignored Rathbone’s expression. “I don’t believe it either, but it is not completely inconceivable. He says Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. The hall porter at Breeland’s rooms did deliver a message to him that night, on receipt of which Breeland packed his belongings and he and Merrit Alberton left immediately.”
“Could have been anything,” Rathbone pointed out. “But continue.”
“He said a man called Shearer, an agent of Alberton’s, brought the entire shipment of guns and ammunition-”
“How much?” Rathbone asked.
“Six thousand rifles and over half a million rounds of ammunition,” Monk replied.
Rathbone’s eyes widened.
“Quite a weight. Not something you carry around in a barrow. Do you know how much that is? A wagon load, two, three?”
“Three at least, large wagons,” Monk replied. “He says Shearer took them to the railway station, where he paid the full price for them, and Shearer went on his way. Breeland never saw Alberton at all, and certainly never harmed him.”
“And what does Merrit Alberton say?” Rathbone glanced at Hester.
“The same,” she answered. “She says they went by train to Liverpool, and from there by sea, calling in at Queenstown in Ireland, and then to New York, and further by train to Washington. We went the same way. She described it pretty accurately.”
Rathbone thanked her. It was impossible to know if he had read anything of her emotions in her face.
“I had thought the police had traced the guns to a barge down the river,” he said thoughtfully. “Did I misread?”
“No. They did. And I was with them,” Monk affirmed. “We traced the barge all the way to Greenwich, where we assume it met a seagoing ship and transferred the guns.”
“So they are both lying?”
“They must be. Unless there is some other explanation we haven’t thought of.”
“And what is it you want of me?” Although there was a rueful, sad shadow of it already in his eyes, there was a smile on his lips, perhaps in memory of other battles they had fought together, both losses and victories that held their hurt.
Hester drew in her breath sharply and left it to Monk to reply.
“To defend Merrit Alberton,” he answered. “She swears she did not murder her father, and I think I believe her.”
Hester leaned forward urgently. “Either way, she is only sixteen, and completely under Breeland’s influence. She believes passionately in his cause and thinks he is a hero, all the noble and brave ideals that any young woman would have.”
Rathbone’s dark eyes widened. “The Union of the American states? Why, for heaven’s sake? Whatever difference could that possibly make to an English girl?”
“No, not the Union, the fight against slavery!” Her own fierce urgency for it, her utter loathing of all the evils of dominion, cruelty and denial were burning in her face. If Merrit Alberton had felt even part of what she did, it would be painfully easy to believe she would have followed to the ends of the earth a man whose crusade was freedom, and thought little of the cost.
Rathbone sighed. Monk knew in a moment of intense understanding exactly what he thought, and was proved correct when he spoke.
“That may well earn her some sympathy with a British jury, who have no more love for slavery than a Unionist, but it will not excuse anything in the eyes of the law. Is she married to this Breeland?”
“No.”
He sighed very slightly. “Well, I suppose that is something. And she is sixteen?”
“Yes. But she won’t testify against him anyway.”
“I assumed as much. And if she would, that would not help us greatly. Loyalty is a very attractive quality; disloyalty is not, even if it is well justified. I swear, Monk, I sometimes think you spend your time trying to find ever more complicated cases for me, until you have one which will confound me completely. You have excelled yourself this time. I barely know where to begin.” But the expression on his face showed that already his mind was racing.
Monk felt the first tiny lift of his spirits. If Rathbone saw it as a personal challenge, he would take it up. Nothing would ever allow him to retreat in front of Hester. The flash of humor, mockery and self-knowledge was there in his eyes, as if he knew Monk’s thoughts as well as he knew his own, and accepted them. If there was a moment of pain, of loneliness, it was hidden instantly.
He began to question them both on every detail he could think of: questions about Casbolt, Judith Alberton, Philo Trace, and the whole of their journey to America and all they had done there. Particularly he was interested in Monk’s journey down the Thames with Lanyon.
He looked distressed, and for a moment seriously out of composure, when Monk told of finding Alberton’s body in the yard, and of almost treading on the watch.
Monk said little of the Battle of Bull Run. The horror of it was not something for which he had words. The few he found were difficult and stilted, the emotion too deep to be shared in this noisy, friendly, peaceful inn. And he was not ready to look at it again himself. It was too closely bound with his love for Hester, and with a strange,
