Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [74]
Fury and humiliation flared in Breeland’s face. “I did not kill Alberton!” He forced the words between his teeth, standing upright from the rail now and facing Monk, the wind tugging at his hair. “I had no need to—even if you believe I was capable of it. He sold me the guns. Ask Shearer. Why don’t you ask him?”
Was it conceivable? For the first time Monk actually considered the possibility that Breeland might not be guilty.
Breeland saw the wavering in his eyes.
“Not much of a policeman, are you?” he said contemptuously.
Monk was stung. He knew he had allowed himself to be read.
“So Merrit gave the watch to Trace, who just happened to go and murder Alberton minutes after someone took the guns from the warehouse yard, and Trace left the watch there?” he said in feigned amazement. “And unfortunately this Shearer, unknown to Alberton or Casbolt, took the guns to you, then took the money you paid him and disappeared?” He shrugged. “Or alternately, Merrit gave the watch to Shearer, perhaps? And he murdered his employer and took the guns to you? His motive would be clear enough, the money. But why did Merrit do that? She did do that, didn’t she? You have no idea where she was while you were conducting this elusive business with the vanishing Mr. Shearer.”
Breeland drew in his breath sharply, but he had no answers, and the confusion in his face betrayed him. He looked away at the blue water again. “No … she was with me at the time. But she’ll swear I bought the guns fairly from Shearer, and I never went anywhere near Tooley Street. Ask her!”
Of course Monk did ask her, although he was almost certain what she would say. Nothing that had happened in Washington or on the battlefield, or on the journey through the South to the ship, had altered her devotion to Breeland or the fierce, defensive compassion she had for him in his army’s defeat. She watched him in the bitterness of his knowledge and the ache to help was naked in her face. He could never have doubted her.
What Breeland felt for her was far harder to read. He was gentle with her, but the wound to his pride was too raw for anyone to touch, perhaps least of all the woman he loved, and to whom he had spoken so fiercely of the greatness of the cause and the victory they would win. He would not be the first or the last man to boast overmuch of his courage or honor, but he seemed to find it harder than most to accommodate himself to a setback, great or small. There was no flexibility in him, no capacity to mock himself or step, even for an instant, outside his consuming passion.
Monk was uncertain whether he admired Breeland or not. Perhaps it was only such men who achieved the great changes in governments or nations. It might be the price of such mighty gains.
Hester had no doubt about it. She thought him innately selfish, and she said so.
“Perhaps Merrit understands him?” Monk suggested to her as they walked together on the deck as the dying sun splashed across the ruffled water, spilling color like fire over the blue. “Words or gestures are not always necessary.”
“Rubbish!” She dismissed the argument, narrowing her eyes against the light and staring seawards. “Of course they aren’t. But a look is … or a touch, something. She’s feeling for both of them now, sharing his pain and loving him desperately. But what about her pain? It’s her father who’s dead, not his! She’s not a soldier, William, any more than you are.” Her eyes were very gentle, searching his for the wound she could heal. “Maybe he doesn’t have nightmares about the battlefield, about Sudley Church, and the men we couldn’t help … but she does.” Her lips were soft, full of pain. “So do I. Perhaps we should. But we need someone to hold on to.”
“Maybe he’s already said all he can to her?” he answered, moving closer and putting his arm around her.
Her face in the beautiful light was quite suddenly