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Mrs. Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
“He’s gone diving,” Hester explained. “In the river. I’m not sure what he expects to find.”
“Water and mud,” Mrs. Patrick said tartly. “For heaven’s sake, why would he be doing such a thing?” She looked at Hester narrowly, as if she suspected she had been lied to regarding the nature of Monk’s employment.
Hester was very keen to keep Mrs. Patrick’s services. Life had been altogether much easier since her advent. “He is still trying to find out who killed Mr. Alberton in the Tooley Street murder,” she said tentatively.
Mrs. Patrick’s eyebrows were still raised and a trifle crooked, her mouth twisted into profound skepticism.
“There are other guns,” Hester went on, not sure if she was making matters better or worse. “Something went down the river on the barge from Hayes Dock. It might have been to pay the blackmailers.”
Mrs. Patrick had not intended to admit that she had been following the case. She disapproved of reading about such things, but the words were out of her mouth before she realized their implication. “That was why they asked for Mr. Monk in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was,” Hester admitted.
“If you ask me, they don’t exist.” Mrs. Patrick smoothed her apron over her narrow hips. “I reckon as Mr. Alberton did that himself … probably sold the guns to the pirates anyway!”
“That wouldn’t make any sense,” Hester argued. “If there were no blackmailer then he could sell them anywhere he wanted.”
“Highest bidder,” Mrs. Patrick said darkly. “Money, mark my words, that’s what’ll be at the bottom of it … the love of money is at the root of all evil.” And with that she turned and went back to the kitchen and her duties.
Hester sat for another fifteen minutes turning it over in her mind, then she went through to the kitchen herself and informed Mrs. Patrick that she was going out and had very little idea when she would be back.
“You’re not going along the river?” Mrs. Patrick asked in some alarm.
“No, I’m not,” Hester assured her. “I’m going to consider the question of blackmail again, more carefully.”
Mrs. Patrick grunted and returned her attention to the sink, but her square, stiff shoulders were eloquent of her mixed satisfaction and disapproval. She was obviously not at all certain that the position she had accepted was a wise one, but it was undoubtedly interesting, and she would not leave just yet, unless it seriously threatened either her personal safety or her reputation.
Hester went again to see Robert Casbolt. She hoped to find him at home. If not she would have to seek an appointment with him in his offices, or wait there for him to return from whatever business had taken him away.
Fortunately he was at home, apparently reading. An ancient manservant informed her Mr. Casbolt would be happy to see her, and led her, not into the golden room in which they had talked before, but to an upstairs room which was, if anything, even more beautiful. French doors opened onto a balcony which overlooked the garden, at the moment full of flowers and quiet in the sun. The room was done entirely in soft earth colors and creams, extraordinarily restful, and Hester felt immediately comfortable in it.
Casbolt welcomed her, inviting her to be seated in one of the chairs facing the garden, a little to the left of a magnificent Italian bronze lion.
“It’s beautiful!” she said, moved by something more than mere admiration. There was a tenderness in the room, as if it were a place apart from ordinary life.
He was pleased. “You like it?”
“More than that,” she said honestly. “It’s … unique.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed simply. “I spend time here alone. When I am out it is locked. I am glad you see its quality.”
Hester hoped even more profoundly that it was not as Mrs. Patrick suggested, but she must face the truth. If Alberton had intended to deal with the pirates in any manner at all, or had given them to
believe he would, then perhaps his death had nothing to do with the American civil war but was a matter of money, or perhaps after all those years, an old vengeance for Judith’s brother’s death. Since Casbolt was her cousin, and obviously cared for her deeply, perhaps he even knew that, or had guessed it since. If it were either of these two answers, she longed for it to be the latter. A vengeance would be understandable. Any man might well have hungered to exact some kind of justice in the circumstances, and reached where the law could not.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Monk?” Casbolt asked graciously. “I feel we owe you so much, believe me, you would have only to name your favor.”
“We still do not know who was responsible for the crimes.” She chose evasive words and she spoke softly. Somehow in this lovely room it would seem coarse to use words like murder when euphemisms would be understood.
He looked down at his hands for a moment. He had fine hands, strong and smooth. Then he raised his eyes.
“No, and I fear we may not,” he answered. “I had believed it was Breeland himself, or Shearer at his instigation. I am delighted that Rathbone proved it was not Merrit, and not learning who it was is a small price to pay for that.”
“It is not necessarily a trade, Mr. Casbolt,” she argued. “Merrit is perfectly safe now. I have considered the matter quite carefully, and I have wondered if it does not stem back to the original letter of blackmail over which you first consulted my husband. After all, they asked for guns as a payment for their silence. And they have been silent.”
He frowned, uncertainty in his face. He hesitated for several moments before replying.
