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“That is an appalling suggestion, sir!” Deverill said in well-displayed horror. “Barbaric!”
“No more so than yours,” Monk retorted. “And no sillier.”
There was a faint titter of laughter around the gallery, more a release of tension than amusement.
The judge half hid a smile.
Deverill was annoyed, but as he framed his next question his wording was a great deal more carefully considered.
“Did Breeland return with you of his own free will?”
“I gave him no choice,” Monk replied with slight surprise. “But actually he did express a willingness to answer the charge. He said he-”
“Thank you!” Deverill cut him off, raising his hand, holding the palm forward for silence. “That is sufficient. Whatever Breeland wishes to say, he will no doubt be given the opportunity in due course. Now-”
“And of course you will believe him,” Monk said sarcastically.
Rathbone smiled.
“What I believe is irrelevant,” Deverill snapped. “It is the members of the jury who matter here, Mr. Monk. But while we are considering beliefs, did you believe Breeland’s eagerness to prove his innocence, or did you feel it advisable to bring him back under some restraint?”
“I have learned that my beliefs may be mistaken,” Monk answered. “I kept him under restraint. However, I did not think the same necessary for Miss Alberton. I used no restraint whatever upon her.”
Deverill’s face tightened with irritation. He should have foreseen that Monk might say that.
“Thank you. I know of nothing further you could usefully add to our deliberations. Unless my learned friend has something to ask you, you are excused.”
Rathbone rose to his feet slowly, not until the very last minute certain of what he was going to say. How wise was it to pursue the matter? How far could he predict what Monk would say? Should he allow Deverill the opportunity to reexamine? Everything Monk would corroborate in Breeland’s story would be better told by Breeland himself.
“Thank you.” He inclined his head very slightly. “I agree with Mr. Deverill.”
The judge looked slightly surprised, but Monk was allowed to return to the body of the court, where he sat beside Hester and Judith Alberton, only once glancing at the brooding figure of Philo Trace.
Deverill’s last witness was a banker who testified that no money whatsoever had reached Daniel Alberton’s account since the payment made by Philo Trace as a deposit in good faith.
Deverill offered to have both Casbolt and Trace testify to this, but the court was willing to accept the banker’s word and his documents.
“The prosecu
tion rests,” Deverill said, facing the jury with a smile. “The guns were stolen. No payment was made to Alberton and Casbolt. Mr. Alberton was murdered in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street and the guns taken and shipped to America, quite openly by Lyman Breeland, in the willing company of Merrit Alberton, whose watch was found at the scene of the murders. None of these things has the defense even attempted to deny. They cannot! Gentlemen, Breeland is manifestly guilty, albeit because he believes in his cause at any cost. And Miss Alberton is swept off her feet in her consuming obsession for him, which even now she does not abandon. But murder is a deed he cannot walk away from with impunity. We shall show him so!” And he turned to Rathbone with an inviting gesture of his hand. “But please give us your best efforts to try … when the court reconvenes tomorrow.”
11
Monk was angry on the witness stand, but once the court had adjourned for the day and the heat of antagonism had died down, his feelings were different. Hester had gone with Judith Alberton. Casbolt had been there also, but perhaps a sense of decorum had prevented him from remaining too close to her.
The other, far uglier thought came unbidden-that perhaps he was beginning to suspect that Alberton himself had been involved in the sale of the extra five hundred guns to the pirates, and had been betrayed by them, and he could not bear Judith to know it. He did not want to face having to lie, nor did he know enough to tell her beyond doubt. Perhaps Alberton had intended that she should never know.
How much does one protect the people one loves? What is protection, and what is stifling, denial of their right to be themselves, to make their own choices? He would bitterly have resented such protection himself. He would have felt it belittled him and made him less than equal.
The sun was fading a little in the street, but the air was still hot from the day. The slanted light was hazy and the dust rose in clouds from the dry cobbles.
Monk had looked at Breeland from the witness-box and wondered what he felt, what emotions there were under his cold exterior. He had never been able to read him except perhaps on the battlefield at Manassas. There his passion, his dedication and his disillusion had all been naked. But he was an acutely private man. He seemed driven to speak of his ideals to rid America of slavery, but whatever more personal, human emotions he felt he could not show. It was almost as if his fire were all in the mind, nothing in the heart or the blood.
Was it actually an evasion of real feeling, a way of making sure the object of his passion never asked of him anything he could not govern, direct, guard from hurting him?
Love was not like that. No choice could be made between the giving and the taking. He saw that in Philo Trace’s eyes as he looked at Judith Alberton. Trace held no hope of receiving anything from her more than friendship, and perhaps he would not have withdrawn his help from her if she had refused even that. Whether he could have escaped from it was irrelevant. He had not tried to. There was no meanness of spirit in him, no self-regarding, at least where she was concerned.
But was Monk thinking of Philo Trace or what he himself had learned of love?
