Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [55]
Hester could not put off her mission any longer. For a few moments they were alone as the other women moved away to begin a different task.
“There was another reason I wanted to speak to you,” she said, hating what she was about to do, the pain she would cause and the judgments she must make.
There was no shadow of premonition in Merrit’s face, which was beaded with perspiration, a smear of dust on her cheek.
Time was short. War overshadowed murder and would soon sweep it away, but for every person bereaved, their own loss was unique.
“Your father was killed the night you left home,” Hester said quietly. There was no way to make it kinder or blunt the edge of it, nor could she afford to. She, Monk and Trace would decide their actions upon what Hester judged to be Merrit’s complicity in the crime.
Merrit stood still, as if she had not understood the words, her face blank.
“I’m sorry,” Hester said slowly. “He was murdered in the yard of his warehouse in Tooley Street.”
“Murdered?” Merrit struggled for sense in what seemed incomprehensible. “What do you mean?”
Hester stared at her, watching every shadow of emotion in her face, every trace of pain, confusion and grief. It was grossly intrusive, but if they were to keep their promises to Judith Alberton, she had no choice.
“He was tied up and shot,” she said clearly. “So were the two guards. Then the whole shipment of guns and ammunition was taken—stolen.”
Merrit looked stupefied, as if a friend had struck her so hard she was breathless, gasping to fill her lungs. Her knees wobbled and she sank back and sat awkwardly on the wheel of the cart behind her, still staring at Hester, wide-eyed with horror.
Hester could not afford to show pity, not yet.
“Who … who did it?” Merrit said hoarsely. “Philo Trace? Because Papa sold the guns to Lyman after all!” She let out a long groan of misery and rage, her hands clenched tight.
Only with difficulty did Hester restrain herself from bending to her. She would have sworn to anyone, to Monk or to Judith, that Merrit believed what she was saying. But she must test it further. This chance would never come again.
“Lyman Breeland’s watch was found in the yard,” she went on. “The one he gave you and you swore you would never let out of your sight.”
Merrit’s hand unclenched and flew to her breast pocket, but it was instinctive, not thought, because the moment after, she remembered. “I changed my dress,” she said in a whisper. “I put it down.…”
“The watch was found in the mud in the yard,” Hester said again. “And there was no money paid for the guns. They were stolen.”
“No! That’s impossible!” Merrit stood up quickly, staggering a little. “Philo Trace must have done it … and I don’t know what happened to the money. But Lyman bought the guns! I was there! He would never … never steal! And … and to think he would … murder … is monstrous … it couldn’t be true, and it isn’t!” Her belief was not a matter of will; it was absolute, shining in her face. There was anger in her, and grief, but nothing that looked like guilt.
Hester could not disbelieve her. There was no judgment to make, no weighing of evidence one way or another. Breeland must have taken the watch himself and left it in the yard, either by mistake or intentionally. But why?
There was a clatter of hooves and a moment later voices raised.
“Hurry! Get those wagons! The battle will be tomorrow for certain, at Manassas! We must get there by dawn!”
Hester responded without hesitating even an instant for thought. There was only one thing to do now. Breeland, Merrit, the questions of hostage or murderer must all wait. There were men who the next day would be wounded, and the tide of war drowned everything else. Horror filled her, familiar as an old nightmare, and she answered as she always had. “We’re coming.”
5
HESTER AND MERRIT left Washington and set out on the journey towards Bull Run. The immediacy of war overtook even personal tragedy, and perhaps Merrit at least found it easier for a few hours to think of the