Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [120]
“I have already told you everything I have to say,” he began before Monk had spoken at all. “You brought me back to stand trial and to prove my innocence. I assume your friend Rathbone will do his duty, although I have little confidence in his belief in my innocence. I trusted you, Monk, but I now fear my trust may have been misplaced. I think you would be pleased enough to see me hang, as long as Miss Alberton is acquitted and you are paid your fee for rescuing her. I apologize if I accuse you unjustly. I hope I do.”
Monk searched the smooth, chiseled face and saw no surface emotion, no fear, no weakness, no doubt in his own courage to face the ordeal now only two days away. He should have admired it. Instead it filled him with a strange fear of his own. He was not certain whether Breeland’s demeanor was more than human, or less. He could see none of his own vulnerabilities reflected there.
“I accept your apology,” he said coolly. “Certainly I would like Miss Alberton acquitted, and I admit I don’t give a damn whether you hang or not … provided you are guilty … whether you actually fired the gun doesn’t matter. If you corrupted Shearer, or anybody else, into doing it for you, that’s all the same to me. If you didn’t, and it had nothing to do with you, then I’ll fight as hard to clear you as I would any man.”
There was no flash of humor in Breeland’s face, not even the ghost of recognition of irony. Monk had a sudden thought that Breeland did not perceive himself except as a hero, or a martyr. Human foibles and absurdities eluded his grasp. Monk saw a vision of an endless desert of existence, always on the grand scale, stripped of the laughter and trivia that bring proportion to life and are the measure of sanity.
Poor Merrit.
He pushed his hands into his pockets. “How many guns did you buy?” he asked casually. “Exactly.”
“Exactly?” Breeland repeated, his eyebrows lifted. “To the gun? I didn’t count them. There was hardly time. I assumed every crate was full. Alberton was a stubborn man, with limited views and no moral or political understanding, but I never doubted his financial integrity.”
“How many guns did you pay for?”
“Six thousand. And I paid him the agreed amount per gun.”
“You paid Shearer?”
“I already told you that.” Breeland frowned. “For that amount of money you could build several streets’ worth of four-bedroom houses in any part of London. It seems obvious to me that Shearer double-crossed Alberton, shot him and the guards in a manner to make it look as if it were Union soldiers who did it, sold the guns to me, and escaped with the money. I am innocent, and Rathbone will be able to demonstrate that.”
Monk made no reply. Breeland was perfectly correct. Monk did not care whether he hanged or not … not at this moment.
10
ON THE FOLLOWING Monday the trial began of Lyman Breeland and Merrit Alberton, jointly accused of the Tooley Street murders. Oliver Rathbone was as well prepared as he was able to be, given the information he possessed. From what Monk had told him, he believed Breeland had not committed the crimes himself, but assuring the jury that he had not instigated them, and profited from them knowing what had occurred, was quite another matter. And Rathbone was aware of having a client who would not naturally elicit the sympathy of the jury.
He had spoken to both Merrit and Breeland on the Friday before. He had weighed whether to suggest to Breeland a softer manner, more expression of humility, even of regret for the tragedy of Alberton’s death, but he formed the belief that it would be a wasted attempt, perhaps even produce a pattern of behavior that was obviously false.
Now as the court was called to order and the proceedings began, Rathbone looked up at Breeland’s face in the dock, expressionless, staring straight ahead as if he had no interest in the people assembled there, no regard or respect for them, and Rathbone wished he had made some effort to warn him how dearly that could cost.
Merrit, on the other hand, looked young and frightened, and very