William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

shoulder.
    Monk was startled at how angry he felt, and how grieved.He realized only now how much he had liked the man. He had not expected such a sense of loss. He understood why Casbolt was so shattered he could barely move or speak. They had been lifelong friends.
    Nevertheless he must make Casbolt get mastery of himself and go to find the nearest constable on duty, and have him fetch a senior officer and the mortuary wagon for the bodies. He turned and began to walk back. He was almost up to Casbolt when his foot kicked something solid in the mud over the cobbles. At first he thought it was a stone and he barely glanced at it. But a gleam of light caught his eye and he bent to look. It was metal, yellow and shining. He picked it up and brushed off the caked mud. It was a man’s watch, round and simple, with engraving on the back.
    “What is it?” Casbolt asked, looking up at him.
    Monk hesitated. The name on the watch was “Lyman Breeland” and the date was “June 1, 1848.” He put it back exactly where it had been.
    “What is it?” Casbolt repeated, his voice rising. “What have you got?”
    “Breeland’s gold watch,” Monk said quietly. He wished he could offer more compassion, but nothing he said would alter the horror of it, and they needed to act. “You had better gather your strength and go and fetch the police.” He looked closely at Casbolt’s white face to judge if he was up to it. “There’s bound to be a constable on the beat somewhere near here. Ask. There are people about. Someone’ll know.”
    “The guns!” Casbolt cried, staggering to his feet, swaying for a moment, then going at a shambling run towards the great double wooden doors of the warehouse.
    Monk followed after him and had almost caught up with him when Casbolt yanked at the handle and it swung open. Within the visible part of the warehouse there was nothing at all, no boxes, crates, or anything else.
    “They’re gone,” Casbolt said. “He’s taken them … every last one. And all the ammunition. Six thousand rifled muskets and above half a million cartridges to go with them. Everything Breeland wanted and five hundred more besides!”
    “Go and find the police,” Monk told him steadily. “We can’t do anything here. It’s not just robbery, it’s triple murder.”
    Casbolt’s jaw fell. “Good God! Do you think I give a damn about the guns? I just wanted to know if it was he who did this. They’ll hang him!” He turned and walked away, stiff-legged, a little awkwardly.
    When he was out of the yard and the main gate closed, Monk began again to examine the whole place, this time more closely. He did not go back to the bodies. The sight of them, beyond all human help, sickened him, and he did not feel there was anything he could learn from them. Instead he looked closely at the ground. He began at the entrance, it being the one place any vehicle must have come. The yard was cobbled, but there was a definite film of mud, dust, smudges of soot from nearby factory chimneys, and the dried remnants of old manure. With care it was possible to trace the most recent wheel tracks of at least two heavy carts coming in, probably backing around and turning so their horses faced the exit and the wagons were tail to the warehouse doors.
    He paced out roughly where the horses would have stood, possibly for as long as two hours, to load six thousand guns, twenty to a box, and all the ammunition. Even using the warehouse crane it would have been an immense task. That would explain what the men were doing for the two hours between midnight and their deaths—they had been forced to load the guns and ammunition first.
    He found fresh manure squashed flat by at least two sets of wheels.
    Would they have left any carts outside waiting?
    No. They would draw attention. They might be remembered. They would have brought them all in at the same time and had them wait idle in the yard. It was large enough.
    Obviously, Breeland had had accomplices, ready and only waiting for the word. Who had the message come from? What had it said? That they were ready, wagons obtained, even a ship standing by to take them out on the morningtide? The police would look into that. Monk had no idea when the river tides were. They changed slightly every day.
    He walked all around the yard, and then the inside of the warehouse, but he found nothing more that told him anything beyond what was already obvious. Someone had brought at least two wagons, more