William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

to say anything else without lying, and being caught at it.
    “She asked me to go to America and bring her daughter back,” he replied.
    “Alone?” Deverill was incredulous. “A superhuman task, surely—and one not designed to enhance Miss Alberton’s honor or reputation.”
    “Not alone,” Monk said tartly. “She suggested I take my wife with me. And Mr. Philo Trace also expressed a desire to go, which I was glad to accept, since he knew the country and I did not.”
    “Most practical, at least as far as it extends,” Deverill damned it with faint praise. “Mrs. Alberton can hardly have foreseen this situation today.” He turned on the spot, hiscoat swinging. “Or perhaps she did. Perhaps she loved her husband and wished his murder avenged. Even at this cost!”
    Rathbone started to rise.
    “Not very logical,” Monk criticized with a cold smile. “If all she wanted was justice, she would have employed someone to go to America and kill Breeland—and Miss Alberton also, had she thought her guilty.” He ignored the gasps around the room. “That would have been easier to accomplish, and less expensive. Only one man necessary, and no return fare for Breeland or Miss Alberton, and no chance of their escape.”
    “That is an appalling suggestion, sir!” Deverill said in well-displayed horror. “Barbaric!”
    “No more so than yours,” Monk retorted. “And no sillier.”
    There was a faint titter of laughter around the gallery, more a release of tension than amusement.
    The judge half hid a smile.
    Deverill was annoyed, but as he framed his next question his wording was a great deal more carefully considered.
    “Did Breeland return with you of his own free will?”
    “I gave him no choice,” Monk replied with slight surprise. “But actually he did express a willingness to answer the charge. He said he—”
    “Thank you!” Deverill cut him off, raising his hand, holding the palm forward for silence. “That is sufficient. Whatever Breeland wishes to say, he will no doubt be given the opportunity in due course. Now—”
    “And of course you will believe him,” Monk said sarcastically.
    Rathbone smiled.
    “What I believe is irrelevant,” Deverill snapped. “It is the members of the jury who matter here, Mr. Monk. But while we are considering beliefs, did you believe Breeland’s eagerness to prove his innocence, or did you feel it advisable to bring him back under some restraint?”
    “I have learned that my beliefs may be mistaken,” Monkanswered. “I kept him under restraint. However, I did not think the same necessary for Miss Alberton. I used no restraint whatever upon her.”
    Deverill’s face tightened with irritation. He should have foreseen that Monk might say that.
    “Thank you. I know of nothing further you could usefully add to our deliberations. Unless my learned friend has something to ask you, you are excused.”
    Rathbone rose to his feet slowly, not until the very last minute certain of what he was going to say. How wise was it to pursue the matter? How far could he predict what Monk would say? Should he allow Deverill the opportunity to reexamine? Everything Monk would corroborate in Breeland’s story would be better told by Breeland himself.
    “Thank you.” He inclined his head very slightly. “I agree with Mr. Deverill.”
    The judge looked slightly surprised, but Monk was allowed to return to the body of the court, where he sat beside Hester and Judith Alberton, only once glancing at the brooding figure of Philo Trace.
    Deverill’s last witness was a banker who testified that no money whatsoever had reached Daniel Alberton’s account since the payment made by Philo Trace as a deposit in good faith.
    Deverill offered to have both Casbolt and Trace testify to this, but the court was willing to accept the banker’s word and his documents.
    “The prosecution rests,” Deverill said, facing the jury with a smile. “The guns were stolen. No payment was made to Alberton and Casbolt. Mr. Alberton was murdered in the warehouse yard in Tooley Street and the guns taken and shipped to America, quite openly by Lyman Breeland, in the willing company of Merrit Alberton, whose watch was found at the scene of the murders. None of these things has the defense even attempted to deny. They cannot! Gentlemen, Breeland is manifestly guilty, albeit because he believes in his cause at any cost. And Miss Alberton is swept off her feet in her consuming obsession for him, which