William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

enunciation. Many a jury had been mesmerized by it. When he spoke, no one’s attention wandered.
    “Gentlemen,” he began, smiling at the jurors, sitting upright and self-conscious in their high, carved seats. “I shall tell you about a heinous and terrible crime. I shall show you how an honorable man, much like yourselves, was conspired against to be robbed, and then murdered, in order to gain guns for the tragic conflict which is even now being fought out in America, brother against brother.”
    There was a murmur of horror and sympathy around the room.
    Rathbone was not surprised. He had expected Deverill to play for any emotional reaction he could draw. He was perfectly capable of doing the same, were he to suppose it would win him a case. He did not care about individual points, only the verdict.
    “And I shall show you,” Deverill continued, “that this terrible deed was not only an offense against the law of this land, and the laws of God, but against the very laws of nature itself, acknowledged by every race and nation in mankind. It was carried out at the behest and to serve the purposes of the accused, Lyman Breeland. But, gentlemen,it was aided and connived at by the victim’s own daughter, Merrit Alberton.”
    He received the desired gasp of horror, shimmering around the room like a hot wind before a storm.
    “She was infatuated with Breeland,” he continued. “And what he did to induce this obsession in her I cannot prove, so I shall not attempt even to tell you, but suffice it to say, after the terrible deed was done, she fled to America with him, that very night.” He shook his head. “And it was only by the good offices of a private agent of enquiry, employed by her own mother, the widow of the murdered man, that she and Breeland were brought back to this country, at gunpoint, to face you, and your decision as to how justice may be served.
    “To this end, my lord …” He turned at last to face the judge, a lean man with powerful features and clear, silver-gray eyes. “To this end, I call my first witness, Robert Casbolt.”
    There was intense interest as Casbolt came into the court and crossed the open space of the floor in front of the judge and jury and climbed up the short, curving steps to the witness stand. He was immaculately dressed in dark gray, and looked pale but composed. There was not even the shadow of the smile he so often wore, and which had etched the lines around his mouth.
    He swore as to his name and residence, and awaited Deverill’s first questions calmly. Once he glanced down at Judith and his expression softened, but it was only for an instant. He looked like a man at a funeral. He did not look towards the dock.
    “Mr. Casbolt …” Deverill began, smiling apologetically and walking up and down the open floor like an actor facing an audience to deliver a great soliloquy. Although it was the jury to whom he was playing, he never once looked in their direction. “I realize this is acutely painful for you, sir. Nevertheless it is necessary, and I hope you will bear with me while I take the court through the events which led to this tragedy. You were aware of almost all of them, eventhough you can have had no idea to what terrible end they were destined.”
    Rathbone looked at the jury. They ranged from about forty to sixty in age, and seemed decent and prosperous, like most jurors. There were qualifications of property required which ruled out many younger men, or those of a different social class. They sat serious, unhappy, and concentrating fiercely upon every word that was said.
    “Mr. Casbolt, would you tell the court how and when you first encountered Lyman Breeland?”
    “Of course,” Casbolt said quietly, but his voice fell with perfect clarity in the faint rustling around the room. “I do not recall the exact date, but it was early in May of this year. He presented himself at the business premises of Daniel Alberton and myself.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “He was interested in the armaments aspect of our business.”
    “And what did Mr. Breeland say to you?” Deverill asked innocently.
    “That he was authorized to purchase guns for the Union cause in the American conflict,” Casbolt answered. “He said he was entrusted by his superior with a very large sum of money, approximately twenty-three thousand pounds, which he had deposited at the Bank of England.”
    There was a gasp of amazement around the room. It was a fortune