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“Of course it is possible. But what are you suggesting happened the night he was killed? I still don’t understand how a loss to the Chinese would bring that about.”
“Yes, you do,” she said softly. “What if Breeland were telling not only what he thought was the truth, but what actually was the truth? Alberton could have taken Philo Trace’s money, given in good faith, then sold the guns to Breeland, using Shearer to deliver them to the Euston Square station. He would then have had two separate amounts of money which would come to an excellent profit … more than sufficient to make up for the Chinese losses.”
He did not argue. His face had a bruised, almost beaten look. “Then who killed him? And why?”
“Whoever represented the pirates,” she answered.
“I … suppose so.”
“Or else there was a confrontation,” she added, her voice lifting with hope in spite of herself. “Perhaps he knew who they were, and he may have said he would deal with them because he planned to exact some kind of justice for Judith’s family.” She chose the word justice deliberately, instead of revenge.
He considered it. It was apparent in his face that he was weighing all the possibilities. He seemed to make a decision at last.
“If your suggestion about Daniel having lost private money on the Chinese war is correct, and that he did indeed sell the guns to Breeland just as Breeland said, and kept Philo Trace’s money … then when Trace discovered that, would he not be the one to exact revenge-or, from his point of view, justice? And the method of … murder … was a peculiarly American one, remember. Do you not think it more likely that Trace went to Tooley Street to face Daniel about it, and there was a furious quarrel, and Trace killed them? Whether he went there alone or not we may never know. Perhaps he had help. He will have had allies here ready to move the guns when he bought them, just as Breeland had. Possibly one man could have made the guards tie each other, at gunpoint, and he could have tied the last himself … I imagine.”
He looked pale, very strained. “Trace seems a gentle man, full of charm, but he is a gun buyer for the Confederate army, fighting to preserve the way of life of the South, and the right to keep slaves. Underneath the easy manner there is a very desperate and determined man whose people are at war for their own survival.”
He hesitated, biting his lip for a moment. “And there is another thing, Mrs. Monk … the watch. Merrit said in court that she didn’t know where she left it, but she was lying. We all know that. She took it off in Breeland’s rooms when she changed her clothes, and forgot it. Someone went up there before we did. The porter said so.” He was looking at her very shakily. “If that were Trace, then he could have taken it and dropped it in the yard to incriminate Breeland. What would be more natural?”
Hester felt her heart lurch and her skin break out in a hot, prickly sweat of horror. Monk was alone with Trace at the bottom of the Thames, trusting him, his life dependent upon Trace’s skill and his honor.
She shot to her feet, her breath rasping. “William is diving.” She almost choked on the words. “He has only Trace with him! They’re looking for the barge that took the guns down.” She turned and stumbled towards the door. “I’ve got to get there! I’ve got to warn him … help … him.”
Casbolt was beside her instantly. “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get to them as fast as I can. I can get out on the river. You stay here, safely. You couldn’t help even if you were there. I’ll tell the river police.” And he moved past her, touching her gently on the arms, as if to hold her there.
“Remain here,” he repeated. “You’ll be safe. I’ll take the police and confront Trace. Monk will be all right.” And before she could argue he went out of the door, closing it behind him, and she heard his footsteps fade away.
She moved back to the center of the room. It really was beautiful. There was
a miniature portrait at one end of the pale marble mantel. At first she had not realized who it was. Now she could see it was Judith as a young woman, perhaps twenty or so. That would be when she had first met Daniel Alberton.
There was another picture, no more than a sketch, three young people climbing over the rocks on a beach, Judith laughing, close to Casbolt, Alberton a little distance away, looking towards them. It was obvious that Judith and Casbolt were the couple, Alberton the newcomer.
Trace, who was so much in love with Judith, was a newcomer too. Had his love for Judith had anything to do with the reason he had killed Alberton, instead of merely rendering him unconscious? Was it Judith herself, as much as the guns?
Monk was alone with him, possibly this moment under the water, dependent on him for skill, for life!
But Casbolt had gone to fetch Lanyon and rescue him. He would be there far before … There! Where?
Suddenly she froze like ice, her limbs shaking. Casbolt had not asked her where Monk was diving for the barge! He knew!
Everything that was true about Alberton and the private investment in the Chinese war was equally true about Casbolt himself. He could have lost money, and all the glamour and generosity that money allowed. This beautiful house and everything in it, the admiration and respect that go with success. And Casbolt was used to success. Everything around him showed he had had it all his life … except with Judith. She had given him no more than the love of a cousin and friend, never passion. He was too close.
She went over to the door and turned the handle. But it was locked. Damnation! That old manservant must have seen Casbolt leave and locked it up behind him.
She rattled the handle and called out.
Silence.
She tried shouting.
Either he was deaf or he did not care. Perhaps Casbolt had even told him to keep her there?
The watch! Casbolt would have seen it when he and Monk had gone to Breeland’s rooms looking for Merrit. He could easily have taken it then, concealed it from Monk, and then dropped it himself when they were in the Tooley Street yard. No wonder he had been so startled when he discovered Breeland had given it to Merrit.
She shook the door as violently as she could, shouting for help. It had no effect whatever.
She swung around and went to the French doors and opened them. The balcony had wisteria climbing up it. Was it enough for a toehold? It would have to be! Monk’s life depended on it. Gingerly, disregarding the ruin of her skirts, she clambered over the edge, refusing to look down, and began to slip and clutch and slip again until she could jump the last few feet to the grass, landing in a heap.
