William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

spoke. Casbolt’s carriage was still waiting, the driver peering anxiously up and down. The street was busy with laborers, dockers and other workmen arriving for their duties. A cart laden with bricks passed one way, a heavy wagon of coal the other.
    Casbolt shook his head impatiently. “We can’t help Daniel now.” His voice was hoarse. His eyes looked as if he had seen hell and the image of it was stamped on him forever. “We must think of Judith, and of Merrit. The police may believe she went willingly with Breeland, or they may think she is a hostage.” He shook his head minutely. “But if they have already left England, there is nothing they can do. America is consumed in its own civil war. There will be little or no point in anyone here making representations to Washington to have Breeland deported to face a charge of triple murder. He will be the hero of the hour. He has just taken the Union enough guns to arm nearly five regiments. They will simply refuse to believe he obtained them by murder.”He licked dry lips. “And there is still the matter of the blackmail. Please … come with me. See what Judith would like. Isn’t that the least we can do?”
    “Yes,” Monk said softly, more moved than he wished to be. He dreaded going to tell Judith Alberton that her husband was dead. He had been filled with relief that this time it was not his task. He understood only too well why Lanyon was willing to allow Casbolt to do it. And now it was inescapable. He could alter nothing about what had happened, but Casbolt was right, he might be able to help with Merrit in a way the police could not, and it was impossible to refuse. It did not even seriously occur to him to try.
    They rode in silence from the warehouse through the morning streets away from the heavy industrial area with its traffic and smoke, the grime-stained shirts and cravats of men in grays and browns moving towards other yards, factories and offices. Still without speaking, they entered the smarter city streets with men in dark suits, traders, clerks, and paperboys calling the morning news.
    Too soon they arrived at Tavistock Square. Monk was not ready yet to face Judith, but he knew delaying would not help. He got out of the carriage behind Casbolt and followed him up the steps.
    The front door opened before Casbolt could touch the bell. The butler, pale-faced, ushered them in.
    “Mrs. Alberton is in the withdrawing room, sir,” he said to Casbolt, barely acknowledging Monk’s presence. He must have seen from Casbolt’s face the nature of the news he brought. “Shall I fetch her maid, sir?”
    “Yes, please.” Casbolt’s voice was little above a whisper. “I am afraid the news is … terrible. You might also send word for Dr. Gray.”
    “Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do?”
    “I could use a brandy, and I daresay Mr. Monk could also. It has been the worst morning of my life.”
    “Did you find Mr. Alberton, sir?”
    “Yes, I am afraid he is dead.”
    The butler drew in his breath and swayed for a moment,then regained his self-control. “Was it the American gentleman, sir, over the guns?”
    “It looks like it, but say nothing to anyone yet. Now I must go and—”
    He got no further. Judith opened the withdrawing room door and stood staring at them. She read in Casbolt’s agonized face what she must already have dreaded.
    He stepped forward as if to catch her should she fall, but with an effort so intense it was plain to see, she steadied herself and remained upright.
    “Is he … dead?”
    Casbolt seemed to be beyond words. He merely nodded.
    She breathed out very slowly, her face ashen. “And Merrit?” Her voice cracked.
    “No sign of her.” He took her by the arm, gently, but almost supporting her weight. “There is no reason to suppose any harm has come to her,” he said clearly. “That is why I brought Monk. He may be able to help us. Come in and sit down. Hallows will send for Dr. Gray and bring us some brandy. Please … come in.…” He turned her as he spoke, half leading her into the room, and Monk followed after, closing the door. He felt like an intruder in an intensely private grief. Casbolt was family, perhaps all she had left now. They had known each other since childhood. Monk was an outsider.
    Judith stood in the middle of the floor, and it was not until Casbolt guided her to a chair that she finally sank into it. She looked devastated, hollow-eyed, her skin bloodless, but she did not