William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

not to attempt any kind of rapport, at least not yet. First, quite formally, he would establish the facts.
    “Good,” he said graciously. “Perhaps if you will sit down we shall be able to begin discussing the details of strategy.”
    Breeland sat obediently. He moved with ease, even grace, apart from a slight awkwardness in one shoulder.
    Rathbone sat opposite him. “Would you begin with your first acquaintance with Daniel Alberton.”
    “I heard of him through the arms trade,” Breeland answered. “His name is well known, and trusted, and he could provide the most excellent guns, and rapidly. I called upon him and attempted to purchase first-class muskets and ammunition for the Union. I told him of the cause for which we were fighting. I did not expect him to understand that the Union itself was of the profoundest value. An Englishman could not be expected to grasp the damage of secession, but I believed any civilized nation would be against the enslavement of one race of people by another.” The contempt in his voice was stinging. They had been speaking for only minutes, and surely Breeland must be aware that his own life was in jeopardy, but already he had made an opportunity to express his passion for the Union cause.
    Rathbone found it oddly disconcerting, and he was not sure why.
    Breeland went on to describe his attempts to deal with Alberton, and his failure. Alberton had given his word to Philo Trace and accepted his money, and he considered himself bound. Breeland allowed a grudging admiration for that, but still believed the justice of the Union cause should have overridden any one man’s sense of commitment.
    Rathbone’s reply was instant, not weighed.
    “Can any group claim collective honor without that of the individuals who compose it?”
    “Of course,” Breeland responded with a direct, almost confrontational stare. “The group is always greater than the one. That is what society is; that is civilization. I am surprised you need to ask. Or are you testing me?”
    Rathbone was about to deny it, then realized that in a sense he
was
testing him, but not as Breeland meant.
    “What is the difference between that and saying that the end justifies the means?” the barrister asked.
    Breeland gazed back at him, his clear gray eyes unwavering. “Our cause is just,” he replied with an edge to his voice. “No sane person could doubt it, but I did not kill Daniel Alberton for it, or anyone else, except on the battlefield, face-to-face as a soldier does.”
    Rathbone did not answer him. “Tell me what happened the night you quarreled with Alberton and later Miss Alberton left her home and came to you.”
    “You spoke with her. Did she not tell you?”
    “I wish to hear your account of it, Mr. Breeland. Please oblige me.” Rathbone was angry without knowing why.
    “If you wish. She will bear out all I say, because it is the truth.” Then Breeland proceeded to describe the evening in essence exactly as Merrit had. Rathbone pressed him for details of the train journey to Liverpool, of the carriage in which they rode and such trivia as the other occupants and what they were wearing.
    “I don’t see the relevance,” Breeland protested, a shadow of anger darkening his face. “How can it have anything whatever to do with Alberton’s death what kind of a hat some woman in a railway carriage was wearing hours later?”
    “I do not tell you how to purchase guns, Mr. Breeland,” Rathbone said tartly. “Please do not advise me how to conduct a case in court, or what information I shall need.”
    “If you feel you need a description of the woman’s hat, Mr. Rathbone, then I shall give it to you,” Breeland said coldly. “But Miss Alberton would be in a better position to judge such a thing. It seems to me both trivial and absurd.”
    “Sir Oliver,” Rathbone corrected with a chilly smile.
    “What?”
    “My name is ‘Sir Oliver,’ not ’Mr. Rathbone.’ And the hat is important. Please describe it.”
    “It was large and extremely ugly. As far as I can recall,there was a lot of red in it, and some other, duller shade, brown or something like that—Sir Oliver.”
    “Thank you. I believe your account of your journey, even though it seems to contradict the facts that the police have.” He rose to his feet.
    “It is the truth,” Breeland said simply, also standing up. “Is that all?”
    “For the time being. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you wish any messages sent to