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“Mr. Breeland, you speak with great passion about the Union cause. No one here could mistake your dedication to it. Would it be true to say you hold it dearer to you than anything else?”
Breeland faced him squarely, with pride. “Yes, it would.”
Deverill considered for a moment. “I believe you, sir. I am not sure I could be so wholehearted myself.…”
Rathbone knew what was coming next. He even considered interrupting, diverting the jury for a few moments by pointing out that what Deverill had said was hardly a question, and not relevant to the case. But it would be delaying the inevitable. It would emphasize the fact that he had not wished Breeland to answer. He remained in his seat.
“I think …” Deverill resumed, turning sideways to look up at Merrit. “I think that rather than declare the justice of my cause, and my own innocence, I should have been tempted to protest my love for a young woman who had given up everything-home, family, safety, even her own country-to follow me into a foreign land, at war with itself … and to expend my energy in doing all I could to see that she did not hang for my crimes, at the age of sixteen … barely yet a woman, on the verge of her life.…”
The effect was devastating. Breeland blushed crimson. One could only guess what anger and shame consumed him.
Merrit was white with misery. Perhaps never in her life again would she face such a terrible understanding, or humiliation.
Judith bent her head slowly, as if a weight had become too much to endure.
Philo Trace’s lips were twisted with a pity he could not reach across and express.
Casbolt also stared at Judith.
The jurors were torn as to whether they would look at Merrit or not. Some wished to grant her privacy by averting their gaze, as if they had unintentionally intruded upon someone caught naked in an intimate act. Others glared at Breeland in undisguised contempt. Two looked up at Merrit with profound compassion. Perhaps they had daughters her age themselves. There was no condemnation in their faces.
Rathbone forced himself to remember that he was charged equally to defend Breeland and Merrit. He could not take advantage of this, and let Breeland hang to accomplish Merrit’s acquittal, but at that moment he wished he could.
Deverill did not need to add more. Whatever the facts, and those he could
not shake, he had stifled any possible act of mercy. The jury would want to convict Breeland, not for the murders, but because he did not love.
While Rathbone was struggling in the courtroom, Monk was trying to trace Shearer’s actions on the night of Alberton’s death and for the few days before. The only way to clear Breeland of the charge would be to prove that he had not conspired with Shearer. The times of the quarrel at Alberton’s home, the delivery of the note to Breeland’s rooms, and his arrival at the Euston Square station all made it impossible for him to have been at Tooley Street, but they did not prove that he had not either deliberately corrupted Shearer into committing the murders or at the least conspired with him and taken advantage of it.
He began at Tooley Street again, with the surviving warehousemen. It was a dusty, warm day with scurries of wind making little eddies over the cobbles.
“When did you last see Shearer?” Monk asked the man with the sandy hair to whom he had spoken before.
The man’s face creased in concentration. “Not rightly sure. ’E was ’ere two days afore that. Tryin’ ter ’member if ’e was ’ere that day. Don’t think so. In fact I’m certain, ’cos we ’ad a nice load o’ teak in, an’ it weren’t anything as ’e ’ad ter be ’ere for. Dunno w’ere ’e was, but Joe might know. I’ll ask ’im.” And he left Monk standing in the sun while he did so.
“At Seven Sisters, ’e was,” he said on his return. “Went up ter see a feller abaht oak. Can’t see as it’s got anything ter do wi’ guns.”
Neither could Monk, but he intended to follow every movement of Shearer regardless. “Do you know the name of the company in Seven Sisters?”
“Bratby an’ summink, I think,” Bert replied. “Big firm, ’e said. On the ’Igh Street, or just off it. What does it ’ave ter do with poor Mr. Alberton’s death? Bratby’s deals in oak an’ marble an’ the like, not guns.”
“I’d like to know where Shearer was from then onward,” Monk said frankly. There was no point being evasive. “He was at the Euston Square station to pass over the guns to Breeland at just after half-past midnight, and no one has seen him since, for certain.”
“So where is ’e?”
“I should dearly like to know. What does he look like?”
“Shearer? Ordinary sort o’ bloke, really. ’Bout your ’eight, or a bit less, I s’pose. Lean. Not much ’air, but darkish. Got green eyes, that’s different, an’ a spot on ’is cheek, ’bout ’ere.” He demonstrated, touching his cheekbone with his finger. “An’ lots o’ teef.”
Monk thanked him, and after a few more questions which elicited nothing of worth, he took his leave and spent the next hour and a half taking a hansom to Seven Sisters. He found the firm of Bratby amp; Allan just off the main street.
“Mr. Shearer?” the clerk asked, pushing his hand through his hair. “Yes, we know ’im, right enough. What would that be about, sir, if I may ask?”
Monk had already considered his reply. “I’m afraid he has not been seen for several weeks, and we are concerned that some harm has come to him,” he said gravely.
The clerk did not look much concerned. “Pity,” he said laconically. “S’pose people ’o? work on the river ’ave haccidents, like. Not certain wot day it was, but I can look at me books an’ see, if you want?”
“Yes, please.”
