William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

trouble in having the guns stored temporarily, of finding space on a ship bound first for Queenstown in Ireland, then for New York. With every new fact she spoke of, the pictures became more real, the more he was convinced her story was told from experience rather than imagination.
    “Thank you,” he said at last. “You have been very patient, Miss Alberton, and you have helped greatly in your defense.”
    “I will not allow you to defend me at Lyman’s expense!” she said quickly, leaning forward across the table, her faceflushed. “Please understand that. I shall dismiss you, or whatever it takes, if …”
    “I understood you when you first told me, Miss Alberton,” he said calmly. “I shall not do so; you have my word. I cannot promise what the court will do, and I have never promised to anyone what a jury will do. But for myself, I can answer absolutely.”
    She sank back. “Thank you, Sir Oliver. Then I shall be very glad if you will act for me and … and do what you can.”
    He rose to his feet, feeling a twist of pity for her, almost like a physical spasm. She was so young, a child, trying to behave like a woman, trying to keep a dignity she was so close to losing. He wished profoundly he could have comforted her, that either her mother or father were here, even that Breeland was … damn him. But all he could do to help her was to remain formal, keep the fierce control she depended upon.
    “I shall return to tell you how I am progressing,” he said carefully. “If you do not see me for a few days, it is because I am working on your behalf. Good day, Miss Alberton.” He turned a little quickly, not waiting to look at her as the tears spilled from her brimming eyes.
    Rathbone was driven to see Lyman Breeland by curiosity as well as by duty, but it was still not a task he expected to find either easy or pleasant.
    He was received in a room markedly similar to the one in the women’s section of the prison, with the same bare lime-washed walls, simple table and two wooden chairs.
    In some ways Breeland was exactly what Rathbone had expected: tall, lean, a hard body used to exercise. One would have judged him a man of action. “Military” was the first thing that came to mind because of his upright bearing and a certain pride in him, even in these crushing circumstances. He was dressed in a plain shirt and trousers an inch or two short for him. Presumably they were borrowed. He wouldhave left the battlefield at Manassas in his dirty, bloodstained uniform.
    But Breeland’s face surprised Rathbone. Without realizing it he had formed preconceptions in his mind, expected to see a man of readable passions, an arresting face in which one could see zeal and loyalty and a will that overrode all obstacles, all pain or rebuff. Perhaps unconsciously he had envisioned someone like Monk.
    Instead he saw a handsome man, but unreachable in an entirely different way. His face was smooth, features perfectly regular, but there was something in it which struck him as remote. Perhaps there were not enough lines yet, as if his emotions were all within, smothered.
    “How do you do, Mr. Breeland,” he began. “My name is Oliver Rathbone. Mrs. Alberton has engaged me to defend her daughter, and as I daresay you will appreciate, it is necessary that her defense and yours be conducted either by the same person or by two people who are acting as one.”
    “Of course,” Breeland agreed. “Neither of us is guilty, and we were in each other’s company the entire time when the crime occurred. Surely you have already been informed of that?”
    “I have spoken with Miss Alberton. However, I should like to hear it from you, on your own behalf if you wish me to act for you, and on hers if you prefer to retain someone else.”
    No smile touched Breeland’s face. “I am told you are the best, and it would seem sensible that one person should represent us both. Since apparently you are willing, I accept. I have sufficient funds to meet whatever your charges are.”
    It was an oddly discourteous way of putting it, as if Rathbone had been touting for business. But he could understand Breeland’s feelings. He had been brought back to a foreign country by force to stand trial for a crime for which he would be hanged if he were found guilty. He would be defended by strangers he was obliged to trust without the ability to test them himself. Any man who was not a fool would be defensive, afraid and angry.
    Rathbone decided