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Monk said as little as he could about it while still making sense of the account. Judith grew more tense with every few moments. Her face softened once, when Monk very briefly spoke of Merrit’s helping to prepare the ambulances for the wounded.
“It must have been … terrible beyond words,” she said huskily.
“Yes …” He did not offer to tell her of it, and watching his face, the brightness of the smooth, burned skin over his cheeks, Hester knew it was his own pain he could not relive, not Judith’s he was sparing. She had seen how the horror had overwhelmed him, how the helplessness to do anything in the face of such enormity had robbed him of his belief in himself. She had experienced it herself the first time she had seen battle, and for her it was not so total, because she had at least some medical knowledge, and a function in being there. She could lose herself in the individual she could affect, even if not save. It was not always the success that made it bearable; it was the ability to try.
She had seen it in him, and understood, but it was too raw, too powerful to be touched even by her, or perhaps especially by her. Some wounds have to heal alone, or they do not heal at all.
“Did Breeland not go to the battlefield after all?” Casbolt asked incredulously.
“Yes. It was there we found him.”
“And he came with you?” Casbolt frowned in incomprehension. “Why? He did not have to, surely? I cannot believe his own people would give him up to answer English law.”
“The Union lost,” Monk answered, offering no explanation beyond that simple sentence. He said nothing of the slaughter, the panic, as if the men he had been defending from the shame of it were people he knew. He did not look at either Trace or Hester, or give them time to interrupt. “We went south through the Confederate lines to Richmond, and then Charleston. No one hindered us.”
Judith’s eyes were wide with fierce admiration. Even in these tragic circumstances, Hester could not help thinking what a beautiful woman she was. She was not surprised that Philo Trace was drawn to Judith. She would have found it harder to understand were he not.
“But the police have arrested Merrit,” Judith said to Casbolt. “They found Breeland’s watch in the warehouse yard.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I was there when Monk picked it up.” He seemed puzzled.
Judith lowered her voice. “Breeland gave it to Merrit as a keepsake. I knew that, but I hoped the police would not. However, Dorothea Parfitt told them … in all innocence, I imagine. But it cannot be taken back. Merrit showed it to her, boasting a little, as girls will.” Her composure cracked and she had to struggle to regain it.
Casbolt put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer to him. His face was full of pain, and the strength of his emotion was for a moment completely unguarded.
“Breeland is despicable,” he said softly. “He must have taken it back from her and dropped it there himself, even accidentally, or with the intention of trying to stop us from pursuing him for the harm it could do her. Either way, Judith, I swear we will fight him. We shall obtain the finest lawyers there are, and a Queen’s counsel to defend Merrit, if we cannot prevent it from coming to that.” He turned to Monk. “Is it conceivable Breeland will exonerate her? Does he have any love towards her at all, any honor? After all, he is a grown man, she is little more than a child, and she could never in her life have imagined stealing guns for any cause of her own!”
Hester knew what Monk would say before he spoke. She even glanced at Trace and saw the shadow in his face also.
“No,” Monk answered bluntly. “He denies he ever killed Mr. Alberton or stole anything.” He ignored their disbelief and continued. “He says Mr. Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. He says he bought them quite legally, and paid a man named Shearer for them.”
“What?” Casbolt jerked his head up.
Judith stared at Monk incredulously.
“And he says he has no idea who murdered the men in the warehouse yard,” Monk continued. “But he suggests it migh
t have been Trace, out of revenge for not having been able to purchase the guns.”
“Preposterous!” Casbolt could keep silent no longer. “That’s totally absurd. No one would believe it.” He turned to Judith. “Did you receive any money?”
“No,” she said decisively.
“Who is Shearer anyway? Where is he?” Monk asked her.
“I don’t know where he is,” she admitted. “There has been no money paid for the guns-except, I believe, the money Mr. Trace paid in the beginning.”
Casbolt swung around to Philo Trace. “You paid the first half deposit on the whole shipment, did you not?”
“You know I did, sir.”
“Did you ever receive any part of it refunded because you were not to make the purchase after all?”
“No, not a cent.” Trace’s voice was tight and low, as if he was embarrassed for Judith, although it was in no way her fault.
Casbolt looked at Monk. “That should answer your questions, if you still have any. I don’t know what he has done to Merrit to persuade her of his innocence, or else to coerce her into swearing a lie to protect him, but she is only sixteen, a child. Certainly far too young to have her word taken seriously regarding a man she is obviously obsessed with.” He bit his lip, his expression softening to momentary distress. “Do you think he may have threatened her?”
Again Monk answered honestly. “No. It is my opinion she believes he is innocent. I don’t know why. It may be no more than that she cannot bear to think of his guilt. There is little more bitter than disillusion, and we can make ourselves believe what we need to, however preposterous, at least for a while. We call it loyalty, or faith, or whatever virtue counts most highly to us and fits the need.”
