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“It was large and extremely ugly. As far as I can recall, there was a lot of red in it, and some other, duller shade, brown or something like that-Sir Oliver.”
“Thank you. I believe your account of your journey, even though it seems to contradict the facts that the police have.” He rose to his feet.
“It is the truth,” Breeland said simply, also standing up. “Is that all?”
“For the time being. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you wish any messages sent to your family, or anyone else? Do you have all you require in the way of clothes-toiletries, for example?”
“Sufficient.” Breeland gave a slight grimace. “A soldier should think nothing of personal privation. And I have been permitted to write such letters as I wished to, so that my family might know I am in good health. I should prefer they did not learn of this absurd accusation until after it has been proved false.”
“Then I shall continue investigating every avenue of proof that someone else is responsible for the deaths of Daniel Alberton and the two guards at the warehouse,” Rathbone said, inclining his head in the slightest of gestures and taking his leave.
He was outside in the sun amid the traffic of the street with its noise and haste before he realized why he was so angry. Breeland’s account of his actions had tallied so precisely with Merrit’s, even to the complete irrelevancies such as the woman’s hat, that he did not doubt it was the truth. An invented tale would not run to such trivia. He was quite certain that both Merrit and Breeland had indeed made the journey by train from London to Liverpool, and there seemed no other occasion on which it could have happened. Nevertheless, he would have Monk make absolutely certain, produce witnesses if possible.
What made him clench his hands as he strode along the footpath, holding his shoulders tight, was that not once had Breeland asked if Merrit was all right, if she was frightened, suffering, unwell, or in need of anything that could possibly be done for her. She was little more than a child, in a place that was more terrible than anything her life could have prepared her to meet, and facing the possibility of being hanged for a crime which depended wholly upon his passion for his own political cause, however justified. And yet it had not entered his mind to ask after her, even when he knew Rathbone had only just left her.
Rathbone might admire Breeland’s dedication in time, but he could not imagine liking a man who devoted himself to the cause of mankind in g
eneral but could not care for the individuals closest to him, and who was blind to their suffering when even a word from him would have helped. The question crossed his mind whether it was people he loved at all, or simply that he needed some great, absorbing crusade to lose himself in as an excuse for evading personal involvement with its sacrifices of vanity, its compromises, its patience and its generosity of spirit. With a great cause one could be a hero. One’s own weaknesses did not show; one was not tested by intimacy.
There was a prick of familiarity in that, an understanding of regret. The slow, quiet ache inside when he thought of Hester was also a self-knowledge, now made sharper by coming face-to-face with Lyman Breeland.
It was late afternoon by the time Rathbone went to see Monk. It was not an interview he was looking forward to, but it was unavoidable. Breeland’s story must be substantiated by facts and witnesses. Monk was the person to find them, if they existed, and Rathbone was inclined to believe that they did.
He arrived at Fitzroy Street just after six, and found Monk at home. He was glad. He would not have chosen to be alone with Hester. He was surprised by how little he trusted his emotions.
Monk appeared almost to have expected him, and there was a look of satisfaction in his lean face as Rathbone came in.
“Of course,” Monk agreed, waving for Rathbone to sit down. Hester was not in the room. Perhaps she was about some domestic duty. He did not ask.
“I’ve heard her story.” Rathbone crossed his legs elegantly and leaned back, exactly as if he were at ease. He was a brilliant barrister, which meant he was articulate, thought rapidly and logically. He was also a very fine actor. He would not have described himself in those terms, however, at least not the last one. “And Breeland’s also,” he added. “I think it more likely true than not, but naturally we shall require substantiation.”
“You believe it,” Monk said thoughtfully. It was impossible to tell from his expression what his own ideas were. Rathbone would have liked to know but he would not ask, not yet.
“Merrit gave a very detailed description of the train journey to Liverpool,” Rathbone explained, telling Monk about the woman with the hat. “Breeland gave the same description, more or less. It is not proof, but it is highly indicative. You might even be able to find someone else on that train who may have seen them. That would be conclusive.”
Monk chewed his lower lip. “It would,” he conceded. “Then who killed Alberton? And rather more awkwardly, how did the guns get from the river at Bugsby’s Marshes across the city to the Euston Square station?”
Rathbone smiled very slightly. “That is what I shall employ you to discover. There appears to be some major fact which we have not learned. Possibly it has to do with this agent, Shearer. There is also the very unpleasant possibility that Alberton himself was involved in deception of some sort and was double-crossed by Shearer, or even by Breeland.”
A flicker of amusement lit Monk’s eyes. “I take it that you did not greatly like Mr. Breeland.” It was made more in the tone of an observation than a question.
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “That surprises you?”
“Not in the slightest. There is much in him I admire, but I cannot bring myself to like him,” Monk agreed.
“You know, he never once asked me how Merrit was.” Rathbone heard the anger and amazement in his own voice. “He can’t see anything but his damned cause!”
“Slavery is pretty repugnant.”
“A lot of things are, and a great many of them spring from obsession.” Rathbone’s voice suddenly shook with anger. “And an inability to see any point of view except your own, or to empathize with another person’s pain if he is in any way different from yourself.”
Monk’s eyes widened. “You are absolutely right,” he said with sudden, profound seriousness. “Yes … Lyman Breeland is a very dangerous man. I wish to hell we did not have to defend him in order to defend Merrit.”
“I see no alternative, or believe me, I should have taken it,” Rathbone assured him with feeling. “Investigate everything. I don’t believe Merrit is guilty of anything beyond falling in love with a cold fanatic of a man. He may be guilty of no more than an ability to love a theory too much and people too little. And that may lead to many sins, but not necessarily the murder of Daniel Alberton. You had better look very carefully at Philo Trace, and at this agent, Shearer, and anything else you find pertinent.”
“And as always, you are in a hurry.”
“Just so.” Rathbone rose to his feet. “Try hard, Monk. For Merrit Alberton’s sake, and for her mother’s.”
