Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [28]
“Go and find the police,” Monk told him steadily. “We can’t do anything here. It’s not just robbery, it’s triple murder.”
Casbolt’s jaw fell. “Good God! Do you think I give a damn about the guns? I just wanted to know if it was he who did this. They’ll hang him!” He turned and walked away, stiff-legged, a little awkwardly.
When he was out of the yard and the main gate closed, Monk began again to examine the whole place, this time more closely. He did not go back to the bodies. The sight of them, beyond all human help, sickened him, and he did not feel there was anything he could learn from them. Instead he looked closely at the ground. He began at the entrance, it being the one place any vehicle must have come. The yard was cobbled, but there was a definite film of mud, dust, smudges of soot from nearby factory chimneys, and the dried remnants of old manure. With care it was possible to trace the most recent wheel tracks of at least two heavy carts coming in, probably backing around and turning so their horses faced the exit and the wagons were tail to the warehouse doors.
He paced out roughly where the horses would have stood, possibly for as long as two hours, to load six thousand guns, twenty to a box, and all the ammunition. Even using the warehouse crane it would have been an immense task. That would explain what the men were doing for the two hours between midnight and their deaths—they had been forced to load the guns and ammunition first.
He found fresh manure squashed flat by at least two sets of wheels.
Would they have left any carts outside waiting?
No. They would draw attention. They might be remembered. They would have brought them all in at the same time and had them wait idle in the yard. It was large enough.
Obviously, Breeland had had accomplices, ready and only waiting for the word. Who had the message come from? What had it said? That they were ready, wagons obtained, even a ship standing by to take them out on the morning tide? The police would look into that. Monk had no idea when the river tides were. They changed slightly every day.
He walked all around the yard, and then the inside of the warehouse, but he found nothing more that told him anything beyond what was already obvious. Someone had brought at least two wagons, more probably four, sometime last night after dark, probably about midnight, and killed the guards and Alberton, and taken the guns. One of them had been Lyman Breeland, who had dropped his watch during the physical exertion of loading the cases of guns. It was conceivable it had been in some other exertion, a fight between his own men, or with the guards, or even with Alberton. The varieties of possibility did not alter the facts that mattered. Daniel Alberton was dead, the guns were gone, so was Breeland, and it appeared as if Merrit had gone with him, whether or not she had had any idea what he planned. If she was now with him willingly or as a hostage there was also no way to tell.
Monk heard wheels stop outside and the yard gate opened. A very tall, thin policeman came in, his limbs gangling, his expression at once curious and sad. His face was long and narrow, and looked as if by nature it was more suited to comedy than this present stark death. He was followed by an older, more stolid constable, and behind him an ashen-faced Casbolt, shivering as if with cold, although it was now broad daylight and the air mild.
“Lanyon,” the policeman introduced himself. He looked Monk up and down with interest. “You found the bodies, sir? Along with Mr. Casbolt here …”
“Yes. We had cause to believe something was wrong,” Monk explained. “Mrs. Alberton called Mr. Casbolt because her husband and daughter had not returned home.” He knew the procedure, what they would need to know, and why. He had been in similar positions himself often enough, trying to get the facts that mattered from shocked and bereaved people, trying to weed out the truth from emotion,