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“They’re gone,” Casbolt said. “He’s taken them … every last one. And all the ammunition. Six thousand rifled muskets and above half a million cartridges to go with them. Everything Breeland wanted and five hundred more besides!”
“Go and find the police,” Monk told him steadily. “We can’t do anything here. It’s not just robbery, it’s triple murder.”
Casbolt’s jaw fell. “Good God! Do you think I give a damn about the guns? I just wanted to know if it was he who did this. They’ll hang him!” He turned and walked away, stiff-legged, a little awkwardly.
When he was out of the yard and the main gate closed, Monk began again to examine the whole place, this time more closely. He did not go back to the bodies. The sight of them, beyond all human help, sickened him, and he did not feel there was anything he could learn from them. Instead he looked closely at the ground. He began at the entrance, it being the one place any vehicle must have come. The yard was cobbled, but there was a definite film of mud, dust, smudges of soot from nearby factory chimneys, and the dried remnants of old manure. With care it was possible to trace the most recent wheel tracks of at least two heavy carts coming in, probably backing around and turning so their horses faced the exit and the wagons were tail to the warehouse doors.
He paced out roughly where the horses would have stood, possibly for as long as two hours, to load six thousand guns, twenty to a box, and all the ammunition. Even using the warehouse crane it would have been an immense task. That would explain what the men were doing for the two hours between midnight and their deaths-they had been forced to load the guns and ammunition first.
He found fresh manure squashed flat by at least two sets of wheels.
Would they have left any carts outside waiting?
No. They would draw attention. They might be remembered. They would have brought them all in at the same time and had them wait idle in the yard. It was large enough.
Obviously, Breeland had had accomplices, ready and only waiting for the word. Who had the message come from? What had it said? That they were ready, wagons obtained, even a ship standing by to take them out on the morning tide? The police would look into that. Monk had no idea when the river tides were. They changed slightly every day.
He walked all around the yard, and then the inside of the warehouse, but he found nothing more that told him anything beyond what was already obvious. Someone had brought at least two wagons, more probably four, sometime last night after dark, probably about midnight, and killed the guards and Alberton, and taken the guns. One of them had been Lyman Breeland, who had dropped his watch during the physical exertion of loading the cases of guns. It was conceivable it had been in some other exertion, a fight between his own men, or with the guards, or even with Alberton. The varieties of possibility did not alter the facts that mattered. Daniel Alberton was dead, the guns were gone, so was Breeland, and it appeared as if Merrit had gone with him, whether or not she had had any idea what he planned. If she was now with him willingly or as a hostage there was also no way to tell.
Monk heard wheels stop outside and the yard gate opened. A very tall, thin policeman came in, his limbs gangling, his expression at once curious and sad. His face was long and narrow, and looked as if by nature it was more suited to comedy than this present stark death. He was followed by an older, more stolid constable, and behind him an ashen-faced Casbolt, shivering as if with cold, although it was now broad daylight and the air mild.
“Lanyon,” the policeman introduced himself. He looked Monk up and down with interest. “You found the bodies, sir? Along with Mr. Casbolt here …”
“Yes. We had cause to believe something was wrong,” Monk explained. “Mrs. Alberton called Mr. Casbolt because her husband and daughter had not returned home.” He knew the procedure, what they would need to know, and why. He had been in similar positions himself often enough, trying to get the facts that mattered from shocked and bereaved people, trying to weed out the truth from emotion, preconceptions, threads of half observations, confusion and fear. And he knew the difficulties of witnesses who say too much, the shock that makes one need to talk, to try to convey everything one has seen or heard, to make sense of it long before there is any, to use words as a bridge simply not to feel drowned by the horror.
“I see.” Lanyon still regarded Monk closely. “Mr. Casbolt says you used to be in the police yourself, sir. Is that right?”
So Lanyon had never heard of him. He was not sure whether he was pleased or not. It meant they started without preconceptions now. But what about later, if he heard Monk’s reputation?
“Yes. Not for five years,” he said aloud.
For the first time Lanyon gazed around, his eyes ending inevitably on the crumpled bodies twenty yards away.
“Best look at them,” he said quietly. “Surgeon’s on his way. Do you know when Mr. Alberton was last seen alive?”
“Late yesterday evening. His wife says he left home then. It will be easy enough to confirm with the servants.”
They were walking towards the bodies of the two guards. They stopped in front of them and Lanyon bent down. Monk could not avoid looking again. There was a peculiar obscenity in the grotesqueness of their positions. The sun was high enough to shed warmth into the yard. There were one or two small flies buzzing. One settled in the blood.
Monk found himself almost sick with rage.
Lanyon made a little growling sound in his throat. He did not touch anything.
“Very odd,” he said softly. “Looks more like a sort of execution than an ordinary murder, doesn’t it? No man sits like that because he wants to.” He reached out his hand and touched the skin at the side of the nearest man’s neck, half under the collar. Monk knew he was testing the temperature, and that he would come to the same conclusion he had earlier. He also knew he would find the T-shaped incision.
“Well …” Lanyon said with an indrawn breath as he uncovered the cut. “Definitely an execution, of sorts.” He looked up at Monk. “And the guns were all taken, Mr. Casbolt said?”
“That’s right. The warehouse is empty.”
Lanyon stood up, brushing his hands down t
he sides of his trousers and stamping his feet a little, as if he were cold or cramped. “And they were the best-quality guns-Enfield P1853 rifled muskets-and a good supply of ammunition to go with them. That right?”
“That’s what I was told,” Monk agreed. “I didn’t see them.”
“We’ll check. There’ll be records. And daytime staff. The constable will keep them outside for the moment, and the new watch, if there is one.” He glanced at the bodies again. “The night shift can’t tell us, poor devils.” He led the way over to where Alberton lay. Again he bent down and looked closely.
Monk remained silent. He was aware of the constable and Casbolt in the distance, examining the warehouse itself, the doors, the tracks in the thin film of mud, crisscrossing where the wagons had backed and turned, where they must have loaded the cases of guns.
