William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

back of the wagon, and they finished as he approached them. One lashed the crate firmly so it would not shift; the other went to close the warehouse doors.
    “Yeah?” The one at the wagon turned to Monk civilly enough. He was a square, heavy-shouldered man with a mild, blunt face. “ ’Elp yer, sir?”
    “I hope so. I’m looking for Mr. Shearer. I believe he used to work with Mr. Alberton,” Monk replied.
    “Yeah, ’e did an’ all,” the man responded, pushing his hand through what was left of his hair. “Poor Mr. Alberton’s dead, murdered. ’Spect you know that, all Lunnon does. ButI ain’t seen Shearer for weeks. In fact, not since poor Mr. Alberton were done in, an’ that’s a fact.” He turned to the man coming back from closing the warehouse doors. “Eh, Sandy, feller ’ere’s lookin’ fer Shearer. Yer see ’im lately? ’Cos I ain’t.”
    Sandy shook his head. “Ain’t seen ’im since … I dunno. Reckon not in weeks. Mebbe day afore poor Mr. Alberton got done in.” His face reflected sadness and an undisguised anger. Monk was surprised how much it pleased him. He had liked Alberton. He had not allowed himself to think about that lately, suppressing it in his concentration on solving the question of who was responsible for Alberton’s death and proving exactly how it had been accomplished.
    “What was he like?” he asked aloud. Then he realized he had not introduced himself. “My name is Monk. Mrs. Alberton has employed me to help her with regard to Mr. Alberton’s death. She believes there is much more to learn about it than we know at present, and there may be other people involved.” That was true literally, if not in its implication. He did not wish to tell them it was to clear Merrit of the charge of murder. They might well believe her guilty. If the newspapers were accurate, which was highly debatable, the general public had little doubt as to her involvement.
    “Eh! Bert! Over ’ere!” Sandy called to a third man, who had appeared at the warehouse doors. “Come an’ ’elp this gent ’ere. ’E’s workin’ fer Mrs. Alberton.”
    That was sufficient to make Bert move with alacrity. Whether they knew Judith personally or not, mention of her name ensured complete cooperation.
    “Wot yer reckon ter Shearer, then?” Sandy prompted. “ ’Ow would yer describe ’im fer someone as ’ad never met ’im an’ knew nuffink?”
    Bert considered carefully before he answered. “Clever,” he said at last. “Clever as a rat.”
    “Eye ter the best chance,” the first man added, nodding sagely.
    “Ambitious?” Monk asked.
    They all three nodded.
    “Greedy?” Monk ventured.
    “Gonna get ’is share,” Bert agreed. “Never knowed ’im ter cheat, though, ter be fair.”
    “Don’t do ter cheat, not if yer get caught at it,” Sandy added. “This sort o’ business yer’ll be lucky ter land in the clink. More like facedown in the river. But I never knowed ’im ter cheat, neither. Can’t say as I ever ’eard ’e did.”
    “Had ambitions, but not dishonest as far as you know,” Monk summed up.
    “S’right, guv. There’s another five ’undred guns was ’ere, an’ they’re gorn too. But we reckoned as ’ooever was ’ere took ’em all. You think as Shearer ’ad summink to do wif doin’ in the gaffer?” the first man asked, squinting a little at Monk. “Papers says as it were that Yankee.”
    “I’m not sure,” Monk said honestly. “Breeland got the guns, no doubt about that, but I’m not sure he actually killed Mr. Alberton.”
    “Then ’ow’d ’e get ’em?” Sandy said reasonably. “An’ if it weren’t for them guns, why’d anyone do ’im like that? That ain’t even a decent way ter kill anyone. That’s …” He searched in vain for a word.
    “Barbaric,” Monk supplied.
    “Yeah … that an’ all.”
    Bert nodded vigorously.
    “Yer reckon as Shearer ’ad summink ter do wif it?” Sandy persisted. “An’ then he scarpered, like? ’Cos nobody ’round ’ere’s seen ’im since then.”
    “Does it fit in with what you know of him?” Monk asked.
    They looked at each other, then back again. “Yeah, near enough,” Sandy agreed. “Don’ it?”
    “Yeah. If the money were right,” Bert added. “ ’Ave ter be. ’E wouldn’t do it fer nuffink. Sort o’ liked the gaffer, in ’is own way. ’Ave ter be a lot.” He bit his lip. “Still an’ all, the way it were done. I don’t see Shearer doin’ it like