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Casbolt glanced across at Judith, then down at the polished surface of the table with its silver and flowers. “There seems no way in which we can protect her from hurt. The best we can do will be to save her from being implicated in Breeland’s guilt in law. The story about our agent Shearer is absurd. Obviously, Breeland organized the stealing of the guns, whether he was there in person or not. We must distance her from that.” He looked at Judith, his face softening again, his voice gentle. “Will you call Pilbeam to handle it for you? If you would rather, I can take care of it, make sure the best possible barrister represents Merrit. There is no need for you to do anything.”
Her eyes softened. “Thank you, Robert,” she said quickly, reaching up and taking his hand. “I don’t know how I would have endured these past terrible weeks without your kindness. You have not spared yourself in the slightest, and I know you must be nearly as deeply grieved as I am. Daniel was your friend for even more years than he was my husband. He would be nearly as grateful to you as I am for your tireless care.”
Casbolt colored in an oddly self-conscious way, showing a vulnerability that startled Monk.
“I don’t believe Merrit will consent to be represented separately from Breeland,” Hester said urgently. “And certainly she will not allow him to sacrifice himself for her in any way at all. She is far more disposed to see it as the measure of her love to suffer with him, no matter how innocent she is in fact.”
“But that is …” Casbolt began, then, seeing her face, fell silent. Perhaps he knew Merrit well enough to realize the truth of Hester’s words. He turned to Monk.
But again it was Hester who spoke. “We know Sir Oliver Rathbone quite well. He is the best barrister in London. He can defend her if anyone can.”
Judith turned to her quickly, hope flaring in her eyes. “Would he? She may not be willing to be of any help to herself. Will he not refuse … in the circumstances?” She bit her lip. “I will pay him whatever his price, if that is the question. Please, Mrs. Monk, if there is anything you can do to prevail upon him. I will sell the house, the jewelry I have, everything, to save my daughter.”
“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Hester said softly. “It will not be money that matters to him, although I will tell him how much you care. It will be a question of finding a way to separate Merrit from Breeland’s guilt.”
“Try them separately!” Casbolt could not keep from interrupting; his body was locked with tension, his eyes hollow. “It is transparently unjust to charge them as if they were of one mind and one responsibility. Surely a decent barrister could persuade a jury of that?” There was an edge of desperation in his voice, a sharp, high note close to panic.
“Of course!” Monk said quickly, before he could say more, and Judith would know his fear. “We shall tell him all the circumstances, and if he is willing to take the case, he can then come to you and make all the necessary arrangements.”
“Thank you!” Judith’s face was flooded with relief, and then sudden shame. “You have done so much already. You must be exhausted, and I have sat half the evening pouring out more troubles and expecting your help, when you must be worn to a shadow for lack of sleep, and want more than anything on earth to reach your own home and your own bed. I am sorry.”
“There is no need to be.” Hester reached across quickly and touched Judith’s hand. “We have grown fond of Merrit ourselves, and are almost as angry as you are at the injustice that could be done were Breeland not to pay the price of his crime. Even had you not asked, we should not have wished to leave the task half completed.”
Judith said nothing. She was too full of emotion to retain command of herself.
“Thank you.” Casbolt spoke for her. “It was a fortunate day for us when you crossed our path. Without you this would have been an unmitigated tragedy.” He turned to Trace. “And I have been remiss in acknowledging your part also, sir. Your knowledge and your willingness to take your time and risk your safety in pursuit of justice, and towards Merrit, a very considerable mercy, marks you as a true gentleman. We are in your debt also.”
“There is no debt between friends,” Trace replied. He spoke to Casbolt, but Monk was quite certain his words were meant for Judith.
It was not a task to which Monk looked forward. He had half hoped Judith Alberton would have a lawyer in whom she had such explicit trust that she would look no further, but he had always acknowledged the possibility that in the end Rathbone would have to be approached. This was a desperate case.
Still, as he and Hester rode homeward at last, he felt a weight of oppression settle over him at the prospect of having to go to Vere Street the following day and speak to Oliver Rathbone-worse than that, to ask a favor of him.
Their relationship was long, and tense. Rathbone was by birth everything that Monk was not: privileged, financially comfortable, excellently educated, part of the establishment, effortlessly a gentleman. Monk was a fisherman’s son from Northumberland, a self-made man, grasping his education where he could, bettering himself by imagination and hard work. He could appear a gentleman to the undiscerning eye. He had every whit as much elegance as Rathbone, but it cost him effort. He had learned how to behave, imitated those he admired, but sometimes made mistakes and remembered them with the fire of embarrassment.
Rathbone never made the point that he was superior; to do so would have been unnecessary. Monk was learning that only now, in his forties.
All of which was only a natural abrasion between two men who had equal intelligence and ambition, quickness of thought and word, passion for justice. The issue that mattered, that was always at the front of both their minds, was that they had loved the same woman. And she had chosen Monk.
Now Monk had to go to him and ask his help, offer him a case which could certainly prove complicated and highly emotive, and very possibly incapable of resulting in a satisfactory conclusion. But it was a kind of compliment that he considered Rathbone the only man who could and would attempt such a task.
Hester insisted on going with him.
They came without an appointment and were told by an apologetic clerk that Sir Oliver was in court. However, if the matter was of the urgency they claimed, considering their long association, a message could be sent to the Old Bailey, and Sir
Oliver might meet them there during the luncheon recess.
So it proved. The three of them sat together in a crowded inn, hunched over a small table, talking as softly as possible while still loudly enough to be heard above the babble of voices, which were all attempting to do the same thing.
Rathbone acknowledged Hester, then listened studiously to Monk as he told the story, concentrating on putting the case succinctly. Monk was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt.
“I daresay you will have read of the murders in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rathbone said guardedly. “All England has. Extremely ugly. One of the newspapers this morning said that Lyman Breeland had been brought back to London to stand trial, and Alberton’s daughter also. It is probably nonsense.” He moved the vegetables delicately around his plate. “Someone was seen who resembles them. Why on earth would he leave his cause and his country when they must need him and come back here to face almost certain hanging? I suppose it is conceivable President Lincoln may wish accommodation reached, at a diplomatic level, because of Breeland’s importance to the Union cause, but I cannot see any way of making that sit well with public opinion here, not to mention with the law.” He frowned. “Why? I assume you have some part in it, or you would not have raised the subject.”
“We brought him back,” Monk replied, watching Rathbone’s long, patrician face with its thin cheeks and sensitive mouth. He saw the start of surprise. “At gunpoint,” he added. “But he is not as unwilling as one would suppose.”
“Indeed?” Rathbone’s eyebrows rose.
