William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

someone as stole it ’emselves, so they couldn’t say much. Or could be it were put back afore it were missed?”
    “Or maybe it belonged to whoever used it,” Monk added. “They might have been well paid to keep silent.”
    “Could be,” the sergeant agreed glumly. “Daresay yer’ll never know. Sorry I can’t ’elp yer. I can’t even tell yer w’ere ter begin. There’s ’undreds o’ wharfs an’ docks along the river, an’ scores of ’em ’d do yer a favor, if yer paid ’em right, an’ keep their mouths shut.”
    Monk stared across the busy river, light reflecting off the gray water between strings of barges going upstream with the incoming tide. They carried goods from all over the world, everything from timber, coal and machinery, to silks, spices and exotic furs, perhaps cotton from the Confederate states to feed the mills of Manchester and the north, and tobacco for the gentlemen’s cigars in Mayfair and Whitehall.
    A pleasure boat passed, decks lined with people, their straw hats on against the sun, scarves and handkerchiefsbright. Somewhere a hurdy-gurdy was playing. The air smelled of salt and fish and a whiff of tar.
    “Do you know an agent named Shearer?” Monk asked.
    The sergeant thought for a few moments. “Tall feller, thin, long nose an’ a lot o’ teeth?” he asked. “Crooked at the front, like?”
    “Actually, I don’t know. I’ve not met him.” And he had not seen Judith Alberton to ask her for a physical description. “He worked for Daniel Alberton, in Tooley Street.”
    “That’s the one. Sharp feller. Very quick ter see the advantage in anything.”
    “Do you know him, professionally, I mean?”
    “Criminally, like? No. Too fly for that, an’ no need, as I can see. Jus’ ’eard of him up an’ down the river.”
    “Do you know anything else about him?” Monk pressed him. “Do you know where he came from? Has he any political beliefs?”
    “Political beliefs?” The sergeant looked startled. “Like wot? Anarchist, or the like? Never ’eard ’e were dangerous, ’ceptin’ if yer crossed ’im over money. Could be nasty then, but so can a lot o’ folk.”
    “I was thinking of sympathies with either side in the American civil war.” Monk knew it sounded ridiculous as he said it, standing side by side with this river sergeant watching the barges nudging each other upstream towards the docks, the commerce of the world coming and going. This was trade, cargo, profit. It was tides, weather, tonnages, who bought and who sold and at what price. Washington and Bull Run were another life.
    “Shouldn’t think so.” The sergeant shrugged. “Shouldn’t think ’e even knew there was a war, ’less they bought summink for someone an’ wanted it shipped. S’pose that’s the guns, eh? Wouldn’t think a man like Shearer’d give a toss where they went, long as they were paid for.”
    That fit in with Monk’s theory that Breeland could have paid Shearer with the price of the guns, and Shearer could have been the one who murdered Alberton and took the guns down the river while Breeland himself and Merrit wentto Liverpool by train. The only question then was why had Breeland been rash enough to trust Shearer? And obviously he had been right to do so, because the guns had arrived in Washington.
    But Monk could not believe it, not without some compelling reason why Breeland would trust Shearer. Yet it seemed there must have been such a fact.
    Was there another person involved? Not likely, unless it had in some way been Alberton himself, and he had then been betrayed by Shearer. Breeland had said the note sent to him had been from Shearer, but he would not know that. Anyone could sign Shearer’s name.
    One thing was absolutely certain: Monk was still a considerable distance from the truth.
    He made his way back to Tooley Street and the warehouse. It was busy now. Storage and shipment, buying and selling continued in spite of Alberton’s death. Perhaps it was not as thriving as it had been, but his reputation had been excellent, and Casbolt was still alive, although his part in the business had apparently been more to do with purchase.
    Monk went in through the open gates with an icy shiver of memory. There was a wagon in the center of the yard, horses shifting restlessly on the cobbles, flies buzzing around, a smell of manure, wood shavings, oil, sweat and tar heavy in the air. Two men were working together lowering a wooden crate from the winch into the