William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

more to the point, according to Monk, Trace did not receive his money back.” He hesitated. “At least, he says he didn’t. And Alberton’s estate has no record of having received Breeland’s money.”
    Henry put his pipe in his mouth. He lit a match, and the sharp smell of it filled the air momentarily. He held it to the tobacco and inhaled. It ignited, puffed smoke for an instant, then went out again. He sucked at it anyway.
    “The most reasonable explanation seems to be that Breeland is lying,” Oliver went on. “Perhaps I need to examine Alberton’s business affairs, and what I can of Mr. Trace, to guard myself from unpleasant surprises.”
    Henry nodded slowly in silent agreement. Oliver was still leaning forward, elbows on his knees. They were facing each other across the space in front of the fireplace, as if the fire were lit, although on this summer evening it was still warm enough for them to be pleased the French doors were open. It was merely a comfortable habit shared over years of discussing all manner of things. Oliver had first done it when he was eleven; then it had been a question of irregular Latin verbs, and trying to find a logic behind their eccentricity. They had reached no conclusion, but the sense of companionship, of having attained some quality of adulthood, was of immeasurable satisfaction.
    “The police traced the guns to the river and onto a barge down as far as Bugsby’s Marshes,” he went on. “Whereas Breeland claims he took delivery of them at the railway station and went by train to Liverpool. Merrit Alberton swears to the same thing.”
    “That doesn’t make a great deal of sense,” Henry said thoughtfully. “How competent are the police? I wonder.”
    “Monk says the man in charge seems excellent. And regardless of that, Monk himself went with him. He says exactly the same. The guns went from the warehouse to the river, and downstream as far as Bugsby’s Marshes. From there it would be an easy matter to transfer them to an oceangoing ship, and across the Atlantic. Even Breeland doesn’t argue that he took them, and they arrived safely in America. Presumably they were used in the battle at Manassas.”
    Henry said nothing, absorbed in thought.
    “Hester believes the girl is innocent,” Oliver said, then instantly wished he had not. He had betrayed too much of himself. Not that Henry was unaware of his feelings. Hester had visited him often enough. She had sat in this room, watched the light fade across the sky and the last sun gilding the tips of the poplars, the evening breeze shimmering through the leaves. She had liked Henry, and she had felt at home here, comforted by more than the beauty of the place, the honeysuckle and the apple trees, also by an inner peace.
    “Not that that is a reason, of course!” he added, and as Henry’s eyes opened wide, he felt himself blushing. It was exactly a reason. He had only drawn attention to it by denying it.
    “There seems to be a great deal that you don’t know yet,” Henry observed, holding his pipe up and examining it ruefully. “The girl may have been used, and unaware of it.”
    “That is possible,” Oliver agreed. “I need to answer a great many questions if I am to go into court with any chance of competence, let alone success.”
    Henry looked at Oliver closely. “You have accepted the case, I assume?”
    “Well … yes.”
    Henry grunted. “A trifle precipitate. But then you are far more impulsive than you like to think.” He smiled, robbing his words of offense. There was deep affection in him, and Oliver had never in his life doubted it.
    “I shall have to see Mrs. Alberton, of course,” he pointed out. “She may not wish to engage me.”
    Henry did not bother to answer that. He had as high an opinion of his son’s professional abilities as had everyone else.
    “What does Monk think?” he asked instead.
    “I didn’t ask him,” Oliver replied a trifle tartly.
    “Interesting that he did not tell you anyway,” Henry said, contemplating his pipe. “He is not usually discreet with his views. He is either being devious or he does not know.”
    “I shall have more ideas when I have seen Merrit Alberton and heard what she has to say,” Oliver went on, perhaps more to himself than to his father. “I shall be able to make some estimate of her character. And naturally, whether I represent him or not, I shall have to speak to Breeland.”
    “Do you intend to represent him?”
    “I would