Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [133]
“It sounds marvelous,” Rathbone said wearily, but with total sincerity. “I am not sure if it can exist. Liberty is always a matter of balancing one thing against another, gains and losses. But that is not the issue. You can fight for whatever you wish once you are free to leave the dock. First accomplish that, and to do it you will need to behave with a little more humanity. Believe me, Mr. Breeland, I am very good at my profession … easily as good as you are at yours. Take my advice.”
Breeland stared at him, his eyes steady and fixed, fear far down in their depths bright and hard.
“Do you … do you think you can prove me innocent?” he said softly.
“I do. Now make the jury pleased to see me do it!”
Breeland said nothing, but some of the ice in him melted.
In the morning Monk was called to the witness stand to corroborate first Casbolt’s evidence of their visit to Breeland’s rooms, and then their terrible discovery in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street.
Deverill treated him with civility, but he could draw him to say little beyond a simple “Yes” or “No.” He knew perfectly well, as was his skill to know, that Monk worked with Rathbone and his interest was in the defense. He had no intention of allowing Monk to cloud the issue or raise questions.
Monk wished there were some he could raise. So far he could think of nothing to add, even had Deverill allowed him to.
He substantiated all that Lanyon had already told them about their pursuit of the barge down the river as far as Greenwich and Bugsby’s Marshes beyond.
“Now tell me, Mr. Monk, when you reported your findings to Mrs. Alberton, did she then request you to undertake any further activities on her behalf?” Deverill asked with wide eyes and acute interest in every line of his body.
It angered Monk to have to play out Deverill’s charade, but he had no choice. Deverill asked his questions far too cleverly to give him room to say anything else without lying, and being caught at it.
“She asked me to go to America and bring her daughter back,” he replied.
“Alone?” Deverill was incredulous. “A superhuman task, surely—and one not designed to enhance Miss Alberton’s honor or reputation.”
“Not alone,” Monk said tartly. “She suggested I take my wife with me. And Mr. Philo Trace also expressed a desire to go, which I was glad to accept, since he knew the country and I did not.”
“Most practical, at least as far as it extends,” Deverill damned it with faint praise. “Mrs. Alberton can hardly have foreseen this situation today.” He turned on the spot, his coat swinging. “Or perhaps she did. Perhaps she loved her husband and wished his murder avenged. Even at this cost!”
Rathbone started to rise.
“Not very logical,” Monk criticized with a cold smile. “If all she wanted was justice, she would have employed someone to go to America and kill Breeland—and Miss Alberton also, had she thought her guilty.” He ignored the gasps around the room. “That would have been easier to accomplish, and less expensive. Only one man necessary, and no return fare for Breeland or Miss Alberton, and no chance of their escape.”
“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