Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [117]
Even with the skills he half remembered and which came back with startling clarity as he read, added, subtracted, Monk found nothing that was less than completely honest.
But he also had no doubt whatever, when he finally closed the last ledger at twenty-five minutes to one, that the guns the pirates’ agents had demanded through blackmail would be worth roughly £1,875. The guns unaccounted for from the warehouse after Alberton’s death and the robbery had not been paid for through the books. There had been no money in Alberton’s possession at the time of his death, and nothing concealed in the warehouse. If money had changed hands at all, it had gone with whoever had left Tooley Street that night, or else Breeland had passed it to Shearer at the Euston Square station, as he had said.
Tomorrow he would go back and speak to Breeland.
When Hester awoke she found Monk’s note. It left her with an increasing sense of loss. She was almost grateful that the trial of Merrit and Breeland loomed so close; it left her less time to torture herself with questions and fears as to what had changed between them.
Thoughts had flickered darkly across her mind that perhaps he regretted the commitment of marriage, that he felt trapped, closed in by the expectations, the constant companionship, the limits to his personal freedom.
But the change in him had been so sudden it made little sense. There had been no hint of it before; indeed, the opposite was true. Finding Mrs. Patrick had been a stroke of good fortune. It freed Hester to pursue her interest in medical reform without neglecting domestic duties. And Mrs. Patrick was undeniably a better cook.
She forced it from her mind and dressed in soft gray, one of her favorite colors, then set out to call upon Judith Alberton. She was not exactly sure what she wished to ask her, or even what she hoped to learn, but Judith was the only person who knew what had happened to her brother and his family, and Hester still had the feeling that the blackmail attempt was at the heart of the murders, whether it had been brought about by Shearer, or by Breeland, or even possibly by Trace, although that was a thought she hoped profoundly was not true. She had liked Philo Trace. The fact that he was from the South, and his people countenanced the keeping of slaves, was an accident of birth and culture. It had nothing to do with the charm of the man or the pleasure she felt in his company. The conflict of morality was something she sensed he was already facing within himself. Perhaps that was because she wished to believe it, but until forced to do otherwise by evidence, she would suppose it to be so.
It might be coincidence that the murders and the theft had followed so soon after the blackmail, for which the price of silence had been guns, but she did not think so. There was a connection, if she could find it.
Judith seemed pleased to see her. Naturally she was not receiving social calls and was wearing full mourning for her husband, but she was perfectly composed and whatever grief she felt was masked by a dignity and warmth which immediately drew Hester’s admiration—and made her task more difficult and seem more intrusive.
Nevertheless, only the truth would serve, and Merrit’s situation was desperate. The trial was due to start at the beginning of the following week.
“How nice of you to call, Mrs. Monk,” Judith welcomed her. “Please tell me what news you have.…”
Hester hated lies, but she knew from many years of nursing that sometimes half-truths were necessary, for a period at least. Some truths were better unknown altogether. The ability to fight the battle was what was needed, and without the death of hope.
“I have never believed Merrit was involved,” she answered, following Judith into a small room which opened onto the garden and was decorated in greens and