William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

could not be seen, but the emotion, the effort at self-mastery and the fear were all in her voice.
    “Of course. Thank you, Sir Oliver.” It was painfully apparent that she wanted to say more, and also that she would be asking for something he could not give her. She waited only a moment longer, then slowly turned away. After shehad moved a step or two she was facing Philo Trace. She must have seen his expression, his remarkable eyes. Perhaps she was the fortunate one, to be able to hide behind a veil, to have no one know how much she had seen of his emotions, or to pretend she had not read them.
    Then the moment was gone, and with Hester beside her she walked away. Rathbone went to find himself some luncheon, although he had little appetite for it.
    The afternoon resumed late with Lanyon giving evidence for the police. In the rather stiff language of officialdom he corroborated all that Casbolt had said, at Deverill’s insistence, also confirming that Casbolt had indeed dined with friends and remained in their company until after the time Alberton and the guards were believed to have been killed.
    It was unnecessary. Rathbone had never considered Casbolt a possible suspect, nor did he believe anyone else had.
    Deverill thanked Lanyon effusively, as if he had made an important point.
    Rathbone was pleased to see several jurors looking mystified.
    “And did you find anything remarkable at the scene of the murders which led you to the identity of any of the persons present, apart from the victims?” Deverill asked.
    “Yes,” Lanyon said unhappily. “A gentleman’s gold watch.”
    “Where did you find it?”
    The jury were only mildly interested. They already knew, and their distaste was apparent. A couple of them looked up at Breeland.
    He ignored them almost as if he were unaware. Rathbone had seen innocent men with that sublime detachment, knowing the crime spoken of had nothing to do with them. He had also seen guilty men with a coldness that appeared just the same, because they had no understanding that what they had done was repellent. They felt no pain except their own.
    Merrit was utterly different. She was pale, shivering, and it cost her a very obvious effort to muster even a semblance of composure. She had been stunned by Casbolt’s account of finding the bodies. Lanyon’s less emotional telling of essentially the same facts had been even harder for her. His tightly controlled voice made it more real. Yet in his own way he was also shocked. It was in the keenness of his speech, the way he kept his eyes down and did not once look at Judith in the front row of the gallery, nor up at Merrit herself.
    Deverill took Lanyon through the exact circumstances of finding the watch, and of the name engraved on the back. Then he moved on to Lanyon’s following of the trail of wagons from the yard to Hayes Dock and the beginning of their journey down the river by barge.
    At four o’clock the judge adjourned the court for the day.
    In the morning, Deverill resumed exactly where he had left the story. It took him the rest of the morning to proceed detail by detail until Lanyon admitted to losing the trail at Bugsby’s Marshes. Deverill very graciously offered to call every bargee, docker and waterman who had given Lanyon evidence.
    Wearily, the judge asked Rathbone if he contested the issue, and immensely to the court’s relief Rathbone said that he did not. He was happy to concede that everything Lanyon had said was true.
    Deverill looked startled, and pleased, as if his adversary had unexpectedly surrendered.
    “Are you well, Sir Oliver?” he enquired solicitously.
    There was a faint titter around the gallery, instantly hushed at a glare from the judge.
    “In excellent health, thank you,” Rathbone replied. “Quite well enough for a trip down the river to Bugsby’s Marshes, if I felt like it. I don’t. But please don’t let me stop you, if you feel it will serve your cause.”
    “It will certainly not serve yours, sir!” Deverill returned.
    “Nor harm it either.” Rathbone smiled. “It is irrelevant, a diversion. Please continue.…”
    The judge had a very dry smile and directed them to proceed.
    “Your witness,” Deverill invited.
    Rathbone stood up and walked across the floor to stand in the middle of the open space. This time every eye was on him, waiting for him to begin the fight. So far he had not even parried a blow, much less struck one. He knew he must make a mark immediately or