William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

of her attempt at calm, and her undoubted courage, the effort was costing her dear.
    “A little before midnight a young boy came with a message for Lyman. It was a note. He tore it open and read it immediately. It said that my father had changed his mind about selling the guns, but for obvious reasons he could not say so in front of Mr. Trace. He would return him his money later, and explain that Lyman’s arguments regarding slavery had won him over and he could no longer in good conscience sell the guns to the Confederates. Lyman was to go to the railway station at Euston Square and the guns would be delivered to him there. Liverpool was the best port for them to be shipped to America.” She was watching him intently, willing him to believe her.
    He recognized that she was almost certainly using Breeland’s words for the explanation, but he did not interrupt her.
    “That was what he did,” she continued. “We packed up immediately, taking what was of most importance to him. There was hardly time to do even that. But the guns were themost valuable of all. They were part of the battle for freedom, and a cause that is just must always take precedence over a few material possessions.”
    “You helped him pack?” he asked.
    “Naturally. I had only a few things myself.” Again the tiny smile touched her face. She must have been thinking back now on her own hasty departure, in the name of love and principle, with only what she could put into a bag she could carry in her hand. He tried to imagine what precious things gathered in her short lifetime she had had to leave behind. And apparently she had done it without serious regret. He thought how deeply, how unselfishly, she must love Breeland. It hurt him with surprising force that he might be utterly unworthy of it. When he spoke his voice had more anger in it than he had intended.
    “And who was this note from? I presume it was signed?”
    “Yes, of course,” she said indignantly. “He would hardly have acted upon it, leaving everything, had he not known who sent it.”
    “Who did?”
    Color deepened in her face, and there was a moment’s confusion as she realized how much depended upon the truth of the issue, and that she thought, after all, not knew it.
    “It was signed by Mr. Shearer,” she said defiantly. “Of course in light of the … murders …” She gulped. She seemingly could not bring herself to say her father’s name in this connection. Her chin came up. “But when we got to Euston Square the guns were there, already loaded onto a wagon. Lyman never left me for more than a few moments, and that was after the guns were delivered, and he paid Shearer the money. He had written authority to accept on my father’s behalf, and it was all perfectly in order. I … I was so happy my father had at last seen the justice of what Lyman was fighting for and changed his mind.”
    “But you did not think to return home and tell him so?”
    Misery filled her eyes. “No,” she answered very quietly. “I loved Lyman and still wanted to go with him to America. I … I was still angry that my father had taken so long to seewhat had been plain to me from the beginning. Slavery is wicked. Treating a human being like a possession can never be right.”
    He did not know what to think. The story made no sense, and yet he did not think she was lying to him. She believed what she said. Had Breeland somehow duped her? If he had not murdered Alberton himself, then had he employed someone else to do it? Perhaps this man Shearer? “Tell me about your journey north to Liverpool and what happened there,” he instructed.
    “How can it matter?” She was puzzled.
    “Please do so,” he insisted.
    “Very well. Lyman showed me to a carriage where I was reasonably comfortable and told me to wait for him while he spoke to the guard. He returned in about ten minutes, and shortly after that the train pulled out.”
    “Who else was in the carriage?” he interrupted.
    “How can it matter? No one I know. I did not speak to them. An old man with a lot of whiskers. A woman with a dreadful hat, quite the ugliest I have ever seen, red and brown. Why would anyone wear red and brown together? I don’t know who else. It’s all unimportant.”
    “Where did the train stop?” he pressed.
    Obediently she described the journey in its monotonous details.
    He wrote down her answers in rapid, almost illegible notes.
    “And in Liverpool?”
    She told him of Breeland’s