William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

loved her,” Casbolt went on, “and were an honorable man, he would have waited until the war was over, and then returned with a proper offer, when he could support her and care for her as a man should. Provide a home for her … not leave her with strangers in a besieged city while he went off to a battle from which he might never return … or return crippled and unable to care for her.” He was shaking as he stood gripping the rails, his face white.
    He had not given a single fact tying Breeland to the murder of Daniel Alberton, but he had damned him in the eyes of every person in the room, and Deverill knew it. It was there in the confident stance of the barrister’s body, the smooth velvet of his voice.
    “Just so, Mr. Casbolt. I am sure we all feel as you do, and might well have had no more foresight as to the tragedy to come. We hold no condemnation, sir, no wisdom after the event. Could you now tell us what you observed the night of Daniel Alberton’s death …?”
    Casbolt closed his eyes, his hands still gripping the rail.
    “Are you all right, Mr. Casbolt?” Deverill said anxiously. He stepped forward, as if afraid that Casbolt might actually collapse.
    “Yes,” Casbolt said between his teeth. He took a deep breath and lifted his head, staring with fixed eyes at the paneled wall above the gallery. “I know only from learning what happened earlier that evening. I assume you will call Monk, who was present, to tell you what he saw and heard. I had been dining late with friends and had not yet retired. Itwas about half-past three when a messenger brought me a note from Mrs. Alberton.”
    “Exhibit number one, my lord,” Deverill said to the judge.
    The judge nodded and the usher handed a piece of paper to Casbolt.
    “Is this the note you received?” Deverill asked.
    Casbolt’s hand trembled as he took it. He had difficulty finding his voice. “It is.”
    “Will you read it for us?” Deverill requested.
    Casbolt cleared his throat.
    “ ‘My dear Robert: Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, but I am deeply afraid something serious may have happened. Daniel and Merrit had a terrible quarrel this evening. Mr. Breeland was here, and Mr. Monk. Mr. Breeland swore that he would not be defeated in his cause, regardless of what it cost him. Merrit has left home. I discovered an hour ago that she has packed a bag and gone, I fear to Breeland. Daniel left shortly after the quarrel. He must have gone after her, but he has not returned. Please find him and help. He will be so distressed.’ ”
    He looked up, his voice thick as if he fought tears. “It is signed ’Judith.’ Of course I did not hesitate more than a moment to wonder what was the best course of action. I realized it would be to enlist Monk’s help, in case of unpleasantness, and then go straight to Breeland’s rooms. If necessary we could bring Merrit back by force … before her reputation was ruined.” A bitter humor flashed across his face and disappeared, replaced by misery.
    Deverill nodded his head slowly.
    The jury looked suitably grieved.
    The judge glanced at Rathbone to see if he had any response, but there was none to make.
    “Please continue,” Deverill requested. “I assume you went to find Mr. Monk?”
    “Yes,” Casbolt agreed. “I awoke him and told him briefly what had happened. He came with me, first to Breeland’s rooms, which were empty. We were let in by the night porter, who told us Breeland and a young lady had left.…”
    Again the judge glanced at Rathbone.
    “I have no objection, my lord,” Rathbone said clearly. “I intend to call the night porter myself. He has information which supports Mr. Breeland’s version of events.”
    The judge nodded, and turned to Casbolt. “Please restrict yourself to what you know, not what others have told you.”
    Casbolt bowed acknowledgment and continued with his story. “Because of what the night porter told us, we went with all possible haste back to my carriage, which was waiting outside, and drove to the warehouse in Tooley Street.” He stopped for a moment to regain his composure. It was obviously a struggle for him. Anyone in the room could see that the events of that night were so overpowering that he was transported back to the yard in the early-morning light, and the horror he had seen there. He spoke in a harsh, almost toneless voice, as if he could not bear to remember with the reality of feeling.
    Rathbone listened, finding the