William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

Alberton, instead of merely rendering him unconscious? Was it Judith herself, as much as the guns?
    Monk was alone with him, possibly this moment under the water, dependent on him for skill, for life!
    But Casbolt had gone to fetch Lanyon and rescue him. He would be there far before … There! Where?
    Suddenly she froze like ice, her limbs shaking. Casbolt had not asked her where Monk was diving for the barge! He knew!
    Everything that was true about Alberton and the private investment in the Chinese war was equally true about Casbolt himself. He could have lost money, and all the glamour and generosity that money allowed. This beautiful house and everything in it, the admiration and respect that go with success. And Casbolt was used to success. Everything around him showed he had had it all his life … except with Judith. She had given him no more than the love of a cousin and friend, never passion. He was too close.
    She went over to the door and turned the handle. But it was locked. Damnation! That old manservant must have seen Casbolt leave and locked it up behind him.
    She rattled the handle and called out.
    Silence.
    She tried shouting.
    Either he was deaf or he did not care. Perhaps Casbolt had even told him to keep her there?
    The watch! Casbolt would have seen it when he and Monk had gone to Breeland’s rooms looking for Merrit. Hecould easily have taken it then, concealed it from Monk, and then dropped it himself when they were in the Tooley Street yard. No wonder he had been so startled when he discovered Breeland had given it to Merrit.
    She shook the door as violently as she could, shouting for help. It had no effect whatever.
    She swung around and went to the French doors and opened them. The balcony had wisteria climbing up it. Was it enough for a toehold? It would have to be! Monk’s life depended on it. Gingerly, disregarding the ruin of her skirts, she clambered over the edge, refusing to look down, and began to slip and clutch and slip again until she could jump the last few feet to the grass, landing in a heap.
    She stood up, brushed herself down and set off at a run to reach the street.
    It had all been about money, not guns, and because of Judith. The American war had nothing to do with it at all. The guns had been sold twice, and paid for at least once and a half. Casbolt had employed Shearer, and someone else who had committed the actual murders, carefully making sure he was accounted for that night. Then, as Monk had guessed, the following night they had all met up down the river at Bugsby’s Marshes to pay and be paid.
    She ran out into the middle of the road, waving her arms and shouting out, her voice high and shrill, verging on hysteria.
    A carriage slowed to a stop to avoid striking her. A hansom pulled up with a screech and a curse.
    She called up to the driver. “I need to get to the Bermondsey police station. My husband’s life depends on it … please!”
    There was an elderly man already inside. He looked momentarily alarmed, then seeing the anguish in her face and every aspect of her body, he acquiesced with startling generosity, offering his hand to help her.
    “Come in, my dear. Driver, as the lady wishes, with all possible speed!”
    The coachman hesitated only long enough to make certain Hester was safely inside, then he swung the whip wide and high, and urged the horses forward.
    Monk gasped, then the hose fell loose. Air surged back around his face. There was a touch on his shoulder and he tried to swing around, but he was too slow, achingly clumsy.
    Trace was beside him, shaking his head, holding the air hose, smiling.
    Monk was ashamed of his thoughts, of his panic, but above all weak with relief. He was grinning idiotically at Trace through the filthy water and the thick glass.
    He raised his hand in thanks.
    Trace waved back, still shaking his head, then pointing to the nearest of the piled crates.
    Monk took out his knife and together they prized the lid off. There were guns there. He could feel their outlines.
    Trace held up his lamp, close, only inches above them. Now it was possible to see that they were old models, flintlocks mostly, many of them useless, without firing pins, a far cry from the latest Enfields Breeland had purchased. They were little more than sham.
    Laboriously they unpacked the top layer. Underneath was only bricks and ballast.
    They tried a second case, and a third. They were all the same; a few guns on top, then just weight.
    Now at