William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

there. I will come for her …”
    Casbolt’s fingers clenched so tightly on hers she winced, but he did not speak. He stared at Monk, beseeching him for a better answer.
    But there was none.
    “I will speak to my wife,” Monk promised again. “I shall return tomorrow with her answer. I … I wish I could have brought you something better.” It was an idle thing to say, and he knew it, but he meant it so fiercely the words were spoken before he weighed their emptiness.
    She nodded, the tears at last spilling down her cheeks.
    He said nothing more, but turned and took his leave, going out into the summer night with his head already full of plans.

4
    H
ESTER HAD
scarcely seen Monk over the last two days. He had come home late and exhausted, too worn out even to eat, and had washed and gone to bed almost straightaway. He had risen early, eaten a solitary breakfast of tea and toast, and been gone again before eight. He had told her nothing, except that he had no hope of catching up with Breeland, who must be far out into the Atlantic by now.
    She could do little to help, except not ask questions he could not answer and keep the kettle singing softly on the hob.
    When he came home from Judith Alberton’s a little after nine o’clock on the second evening she knew immediately that something vital had changed. He was still white-faced with distress, and so weary he moved slowly, as if his body ached. His mouth was dry, and his first glance, after greeting her, was at the kettle. He sat down and loosed his bootlaces and was obviously waiting to talk. Impatiently his eyes followed her as she made him tea, urging her to hurry. And yet he did not begin until she brought the pot, cup and milk on a tray. Whatever he had to say was not simple, nor unmixed good or bad. She found herself hurrying for her own sake as much as his.
    He began by telling her about following the trail of evidence down the river as far as Greenwich, and the inevitable conclusion that the guilty had escaped. The purpose of stealing the guns was to get them to America. Why would Breeland waste even an hour?
    But she knew from his face, the urgency in his voice in spite of his words, that there was something else, something further to say.
    She waited impatiently.
    He was looking at her as if trying to weigh in his mind her reactions.
    “What is it?” she demanded. “What else?”
    “Mrs. Alberton wants us to go to America and do everything we can to bring Merrit home—regardless of the circumstances—or her own wishes.”
    “Us? Who is us?” she said instantly.
    His smile was tired, wry. “You and me.”
    “You … and me?” She was incredulous. “Go to America?” Even as she said it she could see a glimmer of sense, tiny, a spark of light in the darkness.
    “If I find her,” he explained, “if I can persuade her to come back, or must bring her by force, I shall need help from someone else. And I shall need someone to chaperon her. I can’t arrive in England alone with her.” He was watching her as if he could read not just her words but her thoughts, and the emotions which lay deeper than that, perhaps what she refused to think.
    The idea was overwhelming, even with the reasoning that sounded so eminently sensible. To America! Across the Atlantic to a country already in armed conflict with itself. No word of pitched battles had reached England, but without a miracle, it would be only a matter of time before it became war.
    Yet she also saw in his eyes that he had made his own decision already, not in his mind, perhaps, but deeper than that. He had thought of plans, ways to persuade her. Was it for the adventure of it, the challenge, for a sense of justice, of anger for Daniel Alberton, for the arrogance of Breeland? Or out of a misplaced guilt, because it was Daniel Alberton who had asked him to help, and he had failed? It hardly mattered that it had been Breeland and not the blackmailer who had ruined him.
    Or was it pity for Judith Alberton, who, in one dreadful night, had lost everything she loved most?
    It was for Judith that Hester answered.
    “All right. But are you sure Merrit didn’t have anything to do with it, even unwittingly? I think she was very deeply in love with Breeland. She thought of him as some kind of warrior saint.” She frowned. “I suppose you are sure it was Breeland? It couldn’t possibly have been the blackmailer … could it? After all, the price of his silence was guns.”
    “No.” He