Slaves of Obsession

Rathbone sat opposite him. “Would you begin with your first acquaintance with Daniel Alberton.”

“I heard of him through the arms trade,” Breeland answered. “His name is well known, and trusted, and he could provide the most excellent guns, and rapidly. I called upon him and attempted to purchase first-class muskets and ammunition for the Union. I told him of the cause for which we were fighting. I did not expect him to understand that the Union itself was of the profoundest value. An Englishman could not be expected to grasp the damage of secession, but I believed any civilized nation would be against the enslavement of one race of people by another.” The contempt in his voice was stinging. They had been speaking for only minutes, and surely Breeland must be aware that his own life was in jeopardy, but already he had made an opportunity to express his passion for the Union cause.

Rathbone found it oddly disconcerting, and he was not sure why.

Breeland went on to describe his attempts to deal with Alberton, and his failure. Alberton had given his word to Philo Trace and accepted his money, and he considered himself bound. Breeland allowed a grudging admiration for that, but still believed the justice of the Union cause should have overridden any one man’s sense of commitment.

Rathbone’s reply was instant, not weighed.

“Can any group claim collective honor without that of the individuals who compose it?”

“Of course,” Breeland responded with a direct, almost confrontational stare. “The group is always greater than the one. That is what society is; that is civilization. I am surprised you need to ask. Or are you testing me?”

Rathbone was about to deny it, then realized that in a sense he was testing him, but not as Breeland meant.

“What is the difference between that and saying that the end justifies the means?” the barrister asked.

Breeland gazed back at him, his clear gray eyes unwavering. “Our cause is just,” he replied with an edge to his voice. “No sane person could doubt it, but I did not kill Daniel Alberton for it, or anyone else, except on the battlefield, face-to-face as a soldier does.”

Rathbone did not answer him. “Tell me what happened the night you quarreled with Alberton and later Miss Alberton left her home and came to you.”

“You spoke with her. Did she not tell you?”

“I wish to hear your account of it, Mr. Breeland. Please oblige me.” Rathbone was angry without knowing why.

“If you wish. She will bear out all I say, because it is the truth.” Then Breeland proceeded to describe the evening in essence exactly as Merrit had. Rathbone pressed him for details of the train journey to Liverpool, of the carriage in which they rode and such trivia as the other occupants and what they were wearing.

“I don’t see the relevance,” Breeland protested, a shadow of anger darkening his face. “How can it have anything whatever to do with Alberton’s death what kind of a hat some woman in a railway carriage was wearing hours later?”

“I do not tell you how to purchase guns, Mr. Breeland,” Rathbone said tartly. “Please do not advise me how to conduct a case in court, or what information I shall need.”

“If you feel you need a description of the woman’s hat, Mr. Rathbone, then I shall give it to you,” Breeland said coldly. “But Miss Alberton would be in a better position to judge such a thing. It seems to me both trivial and absurd.”

“Sir Oliver,” Rathbone corrected with a chilly smile.

“What?”

“My name is ‘Sir Oliver,’ not ’Mr. Rathbone.’ And the hat is important. Please describe it.”

“It was large and extremely ugly. As far as I can recall, there was a lot of red in it, and some other, duller shade, brown or something like that-Sir Oliver.”

“Thank you. I believe your account of your journey, even though it seems to contradict the facts that the police have.” He rose to his feet.

“It is the truth,” Breeland said simply, also standing up. “Is that all?”

“For the time being. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you wish any messages sent to your family, or anyone else? Do you have all you require in the way of clothes-toiletries, for example?”

“Sufficient.” Breeland gave a slight grimace. “A soldier should think nothing of personal privation. And I have been permitted to write such letters as I wished to, so that my family might know I am in good health. I should prefer they did not learn of this absurd accusation until after it has been proved false.”

“Then I shall continue investigating every avenue of proof that someone else is responsible for the deaths of Daniel Alberton and the two guards at the warehouse,” Rathbone said, inclining his head in the slightest of gestures and taking his leave.

He was outside in the sun amid the traffic of the street with its noise and haste before he realized why he was so angry. Breeland’s account of his actions had tallied so precisely with Merrit’s, even to the complete irrelevancies such as the woman’s hat, that he did not doubt it was the truth. An invented tale would not run to such trivia. He was quite certain that both Merrit and Breeland had indeed made the journey by train from London to Liverpool, and there seemed no other occasion on which it could have happened. Nevertheless, he would have Monk make absolutely certain, produce witnesses if possible.

What made him clench his hands as he strode along the footpath, holding his shoulders tight, was that not once had Breeland asked if Merrit was all right, if she was frightened, suffering, unwell, or in need of anything that could possibly be done for her. She was little more than a child, in a place that was more terrible than anything her life could have prepared her to meet, and facing the possibility of being hanged for a crime which depended wholly upon his passion for his own political cause, however justified. And yet it had not entered his mind to ask after her, even when he knew Rathbone had only just left her.

Rathbone might admire Breeland’s dedication in time, but he could not imagine liking a man who devoted himself to the cause of mankind in general but could not care for the individuals closest to him, and who was blind to their suffering when even a word from him would have helped. The question crossed his mind whether it was people he loved at all, or simply that he needed some great, absorbing crusade to lose himself in as an excuse for evading personal involvement with its sacrifices of vanity, its compromises, its patience and its generosity of spirit. With a great cause one could be a hero. One’s own weaknesses did not show; one was not tested by intimacy.

There was a prick of familiarity in that, an understanding of regret. The slow, quiet ache inside when he thought of Hester was also a self-knowledge, now made sharper by coming face-to-face with Lyman Breeland.

It was late afternoon by the time Rathbone went to see Monk. It was not an interview he was looking forward to, but it was unavoidable. Breeland’s story must be substantiated by facts and witnesses. Monk was the person to find them, if they existed, and Rathbone was inclined to believe that they did.

He arrived at Fitzroy Street just after six, and found Monk at home. He was glad. He would not have chosen to be alone with Hester. He was surprised by how little he trusted his emotions.

Monk appeared almost to have expected him, and there was a look of satisfaction in his lean face as Rathbone came in.

“Of course,” Monk agreed, waving for Rathbone to sit down. Hester was not in the room. Perhaps she was about some domestic duty. He did not ask.

“I’ve heard her story.” Rathbone crossed his legs elegantly and leaned back, exactly as if he were at ease. He was a brilliant barrister, which meant he was articulate, thought rapidly and logically. He was also a very fine actor. He would not have described himself in those terms, however, at least not the last one. “And Breeland’s also,” he added. “I think it more likely true than not, but naturally we shall require substantiation.”

“You believe it,” Monk said thoughtfully. It was impossible to tell from his expression what his own ideas were. Rathbone would have liked to know but he would not ask, not yet.

“Merrit gave a very detailed description of the train journey to Liverpool,” Rathbone explained, telling Monk about the woman with the hat. “Breeland gave the same description, more or less. It is not proof, but it is highly indicative. You might even be able to find someone else on that train who may have seen them. That would be conclusive.”

Monk chewed his lower lip. “It would,” he conceded. “Then who killed Alberton? And rather more awkwardly, how did the guns get from the river at Bugsby’s Marshes across the city to the Euston Square station?”

Rathbone smiled very slightly. “That is what I shall employ you to discover. There appears to be some major