Anne Perry - Slaves of Obsession

“He was hanged,” Monk said without pleasure.

She stared at him, a shadow flickering in her eyes. There was something in his manner she did not understand, not the words but the emotion. “Weren’t you pleased?”

How could he explain to her the anger he had felt at the loss of the woman who had been killed, and that revenge, which was all that a hanging was, brought nothing back? Justice, as the law contained it, was necessary, but there was no joy in it. He looked at the soft lines of her face; she had barely outgrown the roundness of childhood, and she was so certain she was right about the American war, so burning with indignation, love and consuming idealism.

“No,” he said, needing to be honest to himself whether she understood or not. “I am pleased the truth was known. I am pleased he had to answer for his crime, but I regretted his destruction. He was a clever man, greatly gifted, but his arrogance was monstrous. In the end he thought everyone else should serve his talents. It consumed his compassion and his judgment, even his honor.”

“How tragic,” Judith said softly. “I’m glad Robert asked you; your answer is better than I had expected.” She glanced at her husband, whose expression confirmed her own.

“Thank you, my dear.” Casbolt flashed her a sudden smile, then turned back to Monk. “Tell us, how did you catch him? If he was clever, then you must have been even cleverer!”

Monk answered a trifle smugly. “He made mistakes-old cases, old enemies. I uncovered them. It is a matter of understanding loyalties and betrayals, of watching everything, and never giving up.”

“Hounding him?” Breeland asked with distaste.

“No!” Monk replied sharply. “Seeking the truth, whether it is what you want it to be or not. Even if it is what you dread most and cuts deepest at what you want to believe, never lie, never twist it, never run away, and never give up.” He was surprised at the vehemence with which he meant what he said. He heard it in his voice and it startled him.

He saw the agreement in Hester’s face, and felt himself color. He had not realized her respect mattered so much to him. He had never intended to be so vulnerable.

Merrit was staring at him with a sudden interest, as if in a space of moments he had metamorphosed into a man she could like and she did not know how to deal with the change.

“There you are,” Casbolt said with evident pleasure. “I knew you had invited a most interesting man, my dear,” he said to Judith. “Are you ever defeated, Mr. Monk? Do you ever retire from the fray and concede to the villain?”

Monk smiled back, a trifle wolfishly. Now the passion was gone; they were fencing to entertain.

“Not yet. I’ve come close a few times. I’ve feared my own client was guilty, or that the person I was employed to protect might be, and I have wanted to let go, just walk away and pretend I did not know the truth.”

“And did you?” Alberton asked. He was leaning forward a little across the table, his plate ignored, his eyes intent upon Monk’s face.

“No. But sometimes I liked the villain better than the victim,” Monk answered honestly.

Judith was surprised. “Really? When you understood the crime you had more sympathy with the murderer than the person he killed?”

“Once or twice. There was a woman whose child was systematically molested. I liked her far better than the man she killed for it.”

“Oh!” She sucked in her breath sharply, her face blanched with pain. “Poor creature!”

Trace looked at her, his eyes wide, then at Merrit. “Was he guilty?”

“Oh, yes. And a victim himself.”

“A …” Judith started, then understanding, her eyes filled with pity. “Oh … I see.”

Breeland pushed his chair back from the table and rose slowly to his feet.

“I am sure Mr. Monk’s adventures are fascinating, and I regret having to excuse myself so early, but since Mr. Trace has called on what is apparently business, I feel I should either stay and argue my cause over his, or withdraw and retain your goodwill by not allowing this most agreeable evening to descend into acrimony.” He lifted his chin a little higher. He was angry and self-conscious, but would yield his convictions to no one. “And since you already know every reason why the Union is fighting to preserve the nation we have founded in freedom, against a Confederacy which would encircle us in slavery, and I have argued it with every reason and every emotion in my power, I shall thank you for your hospitality and wish you good night.” He inclined his head stiffly in something less than a bow. “Mrs. Alberton, Miss Alberton.” He looked at Daniel coldly. “Sir. Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, including everyone else. Then he turned on his heel and left.

“I’m so sorry,” Trace repeated. “That was the last thing I meant to have happen.” He turned from Judith to Daniel Alberton. “Please believe me, sir, I never doubted your word. I did not know Breeland was here.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Alberton agreed, rising to his feet also. “Perhaps if the rest of you will excuse us, we shall be able to conclude our business quite quickly. It seems unfortunate, and unnecessary, now that Mr. Trace is here, for me to require him to come again tomorrow.” He looked apologetically to Hester and Monk.

“I daresay it is my fault.” Casbolt looked at Trace and shrugged very slightly. “It was I who last spoke to you about it. I may have given the wrong date. If I did, I am sorry. It was most careless of me.” He turned to Judith, then to Monk and Hester.

“It is quite all right,” Monk said quickly, and he meant it. The friction between Trace and Breeland was more interesting than a blander party might have been, but of course he could not say so.

“Thank you,” Casbolt said warmly. “Shall you and I remain here while the ladies retire to the withdrawing room and Daniel and Mr. Trace conduct their business?”

“By all means,” Monk accepted.

Casbolt looked at the port bottle nestling in its basket, and the sparkling glasses waiting for it, and grinned broadly.

Judith led Hester and Merrit through to the withdrawing room again. The curtains were still open and the last of the evening light still bathed the tops of the trees in a warm apricot glow. An aspen shimmered as the sunset breeze turned its leaves, glittering one moment, smooth the next.

“I am so sorry for the intrusion of this miserable war in America,” Judith said ruefully. “It seems we can’t escape from it at the moment.”

Merrit stood very straight, her shoulders squared, staring out of the long windows at the roses across the lawn.

“I don’t think it is morally right that we should try to. I’m sorry if you feel that it is bad manners to say so, but I honestly don’t believe Mrs. Monk is someone who would use manners as an excuse to run away from the truth.” She turned her head to stare at Hester. “She went to the Crimea to care for our soldiers who were sick and injured when she could have stayed here at home and been comfortable and said it was none of her business. If you had been alive at the time, wouldn’t you have campaigned with Wilberforce to end the slave trade through Britain and on the high seas?” There was a challenge directed at Hester, but in spite of the ring in her voice, her eyes were bright, as if she knew the answer.

“Please heaven, I hope so!” Hester said vehemently. “That we even entered into it was one of the blackest pages in all our history. To buy and sell human beings is inexcusable.”

Merrit gave her a beautiful smile, then turned to her mother. “I knew it! Why can’t Papa see that? How can he be there in his study actually proposing to sell guns to the Confederacy? The slave states!”