William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

harder you argue with her, the more stubborn she will be. Fight with her, and she’ll do the last thing she really wants to rather than be seen to give in. Plead for her help, her understanding, earn her mercy, and she’ll be reasonable.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because I was sixteen once,” she said a trifle tartly.
    He grinned. “And in love?”
    “It is a natural state of affairs.”
    “Was he a gun buyer for a foreign army?” He put his jacket on. There was no time to shave.
    “No, actually he was a vicar,” she replied.
    “A vicar? You … in love with a vicar?”
    “I was sixteen!” There was warm color in her cheeks.
    He smiled and kissed her quickly, feeling her respond after only an instant’s hesitation.
    “Be careful,” she whispered. “Breeland may be …”
    “I know.” And before she could add anything further he went out and back to where Casbolt was standing near the door impatiently.
    Casbolt’s carriage was waiting outside in the street, and he climbed in ahead of Monk, shouting at the driver sitting huddled on the box. The summer dawn was hardly cold, but too chilly to wait in, and the man had been woken barely halfway through his sleep.
    The carriage lurched forward and reached a good speed within moments. It was altogether fourteen minutes since Casbolt had interrupted Monk’s dream.
    “Where are we going?” Monk asked as they rolled over the cobbles and were flung together by the swerve around a corner.
    “Breeland’s rooms,” Casbolt answered breathlessly. “I nearly went straight there without you, but for the cost of a street or so out of my way, I could have you with me. I don’t know what we should find there. It may need more than one of us, and I formed the opinion you are a good man to have beside me in a scrap—if it should come to that. God knows what is in Merrit’s mind. She must have lost all sense of … everything. She hardly knows the man! He …” He gasped as they were bumped again and the carriage swerved the other way, this time throwing him half on top of Monk.
    “He could be anything!” he went on. “The man’s a fanatic,prepared to sacrifice everything and everybody to his damned cause! He’s madder than any of our own military men, and God help us, they are insane enough.” His voice was rising with a wild note in it. “Look at some of their antics in the Crimea. Any price to be a hero—glory of victory, blood and bodies all over the place, and for what? Fame, an idea … medals and a footnote in history.”
    They were clattering through a leafy square, the trees making a temporary darkness.
    “Damn Breeland and his idiotic ideals!” he said in an explosion of fury. “He has no business preaching to a sixteen-year-old girl who thinks everyone else is as noble and as uncomplicated as she is.” There was a startling venom in his voice, a passion so deep it broke through his control and was raw in the air in the broadening light as they careered through the dawn streets.
    Monk wished there were some help he could offer, but he knew that what Casbolt said was true. He deplored fatuous words, so he remained silent.
    Suddenly the carriage drew up, Casbolt glanced out to make sure it was not a crossroads, apparently recognized where he was, and all but threw himself out.
    Monk followed after him as he strode across the pavement to a doorway, opened it abruptly, and went inside. It was merely the outer entrance to a set of apartments, and the night doorman was sitting comfortably half asleep in a chair in the hallway.
    “Breeland’s rooms!” Casbolt said loudly as the man started awake.
    “Yes, sir.” He scrambled to his feet, fishing for his cap and setting it crookedly on his head. “But Mr. Breeland in’t ’ere. ’E’s gorn, sir.”
    “Gone?” Casbolt looked staggered. “He was here last night. What do you mean ‘gone’? Where to? When will he be back?”
    “ ’E won’t be back, sir.” The doorman shook his head. “ ’E’s gorn for good. Paid up an’ took ’is bags. Not that ’e ’ad but the one.”
    “When?” Casbolt demanded. “What time did he go? Was he alone?”
    The doorman squinted. “I dunno, sir. ’Bout ’alf-past eleven, or summink like that. Were before midnight, anyway.”
    “Was he alone?” Casbolt persisted. His body was shaking and his face was white, a fine sweat on his brow.
    “No, sir.” The doorman was definitely frightened now. “There were a young lady wif ’im.