William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

beyond most men’s imagination. Several people looked up at Breeland in the dock, but he studiously ignored them all, keeping his eyes on Deverill.
    “Did you see this money?” Deverill asked, his voice hushed with awe.
    “No, sir. One would not have expected him to bring it with him,” Casbolt answered. “It is a … a fortune!”
    “It is indeed. But he told you, and Mr. Alberton, that the government of the Northern states of America had sent him with this money in order to purchase guns, is that so?”
    “Guns and ammunition for them, yes, sir.”
    “And you believed him?”
    “We had no cause to doubt him. I still have not,” Casboltreplied. “He presented credentials, including a letter from Abraham Lincoln bearing the seal of the President of the United States. Both Daniel Alberton and I were well informed as to the escalating hostilities across the Atlantic, and naturally we were also aware of the fact that representatives from both the Union and the Confederate states had been purchasing guns wherever they were available all over Europe.”
    “Just so,” Deverill agreed. He pushed his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, stared at the polished toes of his boots, then looked up at Casbolt. “And had you, or Daniel Alberton, sold guns before to either party in this war?”
    “We had not.”
    “And you are sure that Daniel Alberton had not, for example, made a private agreement with Lyman Breeland, unknown to you or Mr. Trace?” Deverill prompted.
    Casbolt’s face filled with a curious mixture of emotions which were only too apparently painful. His eyes flickered towards Judith, sitting in the front seat of the gallery.
    Everyone in the room must have been aware of the tension and the personal grief.
    Rathbone looked up at Breeland. He was watching intently, but if he felt any sorrow or fear it was too tightly under control to betray itself. His pride could serve him ill. It looked too much like indifference. The next time he had the opportunity to speak to his client, Rathbone would tell him so, for any good it would do.
    “Are you sure?” Deverill prompted.
    Casbolt drew his attention back. His expression cleared.
    “The other reason was that Daniel Alberton was my friend, and one of the most honorable men I have ever known. In twenty-five years I never knew him to break his word to anyone.” His voice caught. “One could not ask more of a business associate than that, coupled with skill and knowledge of his field.”
    “Indeed one could not,” Deverill agreed softly, looking again at the jury.
    Rathbone swore under his breath. He had never imagined defeating Deverill would be easy, but the reality of his task was becoming sharper by the minute. Brilliant as Rathbone was, and ruthless, he could not alter the truth, nor would he try.
    “What, precisely, was the agreement made with Mr. Trace?” Deverill asked ingenuously.
    “Daniel had given his word to sell six thousand P1853 Enfield rifled muskets,” Casbolt replied clearly.
    Deverill was supremely satisfied. It glowed in his face. Rathbone knew the jurors saw it, and had judged its importance accordingly. They believed he had scored a major point, even if they did not know what it was. One of them, a man with magnificent side-whiskers, shot a malevolent glance up at Breeland.
    Merrit looked as if she had been struck. She moved a fraction closer to Breeland in the dock. The movement was not lost on the jury.
    Rathbone knew how to manipulate emotion also, although at times he found it repugnant. He would have used the slave issue, one most Englishmen deplored, even though many of them favored the South. But he was conscious of Hester sitting beside Judith Alberton, and how she would despise him for the moral dishonesty of it. He was angry with himself that he allowed it to hurt.
    “Why was he prepared to sell guns to Mr. Trace, sir?” Deverill enquired innocently. “Was he a sympathizer with the Confederate cause?”
    “No,” Casbolt answered. “I am not aware that he had a loyalty to either side. The only opinion I heard him express was one of sadness that the issue had come to war at all. In the several months previously he had hoped it would be resolved by negotiation. It was simply that Mr. Trace presented himself and was desperate to purchase. He did not argue his cause greatly. He said the South wanted to be free to decide its own destiny and choose its form of government, but little more than that. It was Mr.