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“He claims he is innocent, and knew nothing about Alberton’s death.” He ignored Rathbone’s expression. “I don’t believe it either, but it is not completely inconceivable. He says Alberton changed his mind about selling him the guns and sent him a message to that effect. The hall porter at Breeland’s rooms did deliver a message to him that night, on receipt of which Breeland packed his belongings and he and Merrit Alberton left immediately.”
“Could have been anything,” Rathbone pointed out. “But continue.”
“He said a man called Shearer, an agent of Alberton’s, brought the entire shipment of guns and ammunition-”
“How much?” Rathbone asked.
“Six thousand rifles and over half a million rounds of ammunition,” Monk replied.
Rathbone’s eyes widened.
“Quite a weight. Not something you carry around in a barrow. Do you know how much that is? A wagon load, two, three?”
“Three at least, large wagons,” Monk replied. “He says Shearer took them to the railway station, where he paid the full price for them, and Shearer went on his way. Breeland never saw Alberton at all, and certainly never harmed him.”
“And what does Merrit Alberton say?” Rathbone glanced at Hester.
“The same,” she answered. “She says they went by train to Liverpool, and from there by sea, calling in at Queenstown in Ireland, and then to New York, and further by train to Washington. We went the same way. She described it pretty accurately.”
Rathbone thanked her. It was impossible to know if he had read anything of her emotions in her face.
“I had thought the police had traced the guns to a barge down the river,” he said thoughtfully. “Did I misread?”
“No. They did. And I was with them,” Monk affirmed. “We traced the barge all the way to Greenwich, where we assume it met a seagoing ship and transferred the guns.”
“So they are both lying?”
“They must be. Unless there is some other explanation we haven’t thought of.”
“And what is it you want of me?” Although there was a rueful, sad shadow of it already in his eyes, there was a smile on his lips, perhaps in memory of other battles they had fought together, both losses and victories that held their hurt.
Hester drew in her breath sharply and left it to Monk to reply.
“To defend Merrit Alberton,” he answered. “She swears she did not murder her father, and I think I believe her.”
Hester leaned forward urgently. “Either way, she is only sixteen, and completely under Breeland’s influence. She believes passionately in his cause and thinks he is a hero, all the noble and brave ideals that any young woman would have.”
Rathbone’s dark eyes widened. “The Union of the American states? Why, for heaven’s sake? Whatever difference could that possibly make to an English girl?”
“No, not the Union, the fight against slavery!” Her own fierce urgency for it, her utter loathing of all the evils of dominion, cruelty and denial were burning in her face. If Merrit Alberton had felt even part of what she did, it would be painfully easy to believe she would have followed to the ends of the earth a man whose crusade was freedom, and thought little of the cost.
Rathbone sighed. Monk knew in a moment of intense understanding exactly what he thought, and was proved correct when he spoke.
“That may well earn her some sympathy with a British jury, who have no more love for slavery than a Unionist, but it will not excuse anything in the eyes of the law. Is she married to this Breeland?”
“No.”
He sighed very slightly. “Well, I suppose that is something. And she is sixteen?”
“Yes. But she won’t testify against him anyway.”
“I assumed as much. And if she would, that would not help us greatly. Loyalty is a very attractive quality; disloyalty is not, even if it is well justified. I swear, Monk, I sometimes think you spend your time trying to find ever more complicated cases for me, until you have one which will confound me completely. You have excelled yourself this time. I barely know where to begin.” But the expression on his face showed that already his mind was racing.
Monk felt the first tiny lift of his spirits. If Rathbone saw it as a personal challenge, he would take it up. Nothing would ever allow him to retreat in front of Hester. The flash of humor, mockery and self-knowledge was there in his eyes, as if he knew Monk’s thoughts as well as he knew his own, and accepted them. If there was a moment of pain, of loneliness, it was hidden instantly.
He began to question them both on every detail he could think of: questions about Casbolt, Judith Alberton, Philo Trace, and the whole of their journey to America and all they had done there. Particularly he was interested in Monk’s journey down the Thames with Lanyon.
He looked distressed, and for a moment seriously out of composure, when Monk told of finding Alberton’s body in the yard, and of almost treading on the watch.
