Slaves of Obsession (31 page)

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 handkerchiefs
bright. 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 went
to 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 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. But
I 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 that. That ’ad ter be the Yankee.”

“What about for the price of six thousand first-class rifled muskets?” Monk persisted.

“Well—s’pose so. That’s a lot o’ money in any man’s reckonin’,” Sandy acknowledged.

“Could he have sympathized with the Union cause?” Monk tried a last question on the subject.

They all looked mystified.

“Against slaving,” Monk explained. “To keep all the states of America as one country.”

“We don’t ’ave no slaving in England,” Sandy pointed out. “Least not black slaving,” he added wryly. “There’s some as thinks they got it ’ard. an’ as for the states o’ America, why should we care? Let ’em do whatever they likes, I says.”

Bert shook his head. “I’d be agin slavery. In’t right.”

“Me too,” the first man added. “Can’t say as Shearer gave a toss, though, not so as ter kill anyone over it, like.”

“Do you know where Shearer lives?” Monk asked them.

“New Church Street, just off Bermondsey Low Road,” Bert replied. “Dunno the number, but ends in a three, as I recall. About ’alfway along.”

“Was he married?”

“Shearer? Not likely!”

Monk thanked them and left the yard to try New Church Street.

It took him nearly half an hour to find where Shearer had lived, and an irate landlady who had waited three weeks with an empty property.

“Bin ’ere near on nine year, ’e ’ad!” she said belligerently. “Then ups and goes Gawd knows where, an’ without a by-your-leave! Says nothing to nobody, an’ left all ’is rubbish ’ere fer me ter clear out. Lorst three weeks o’ rent money, I did.” Her eyes glared stonily at Monk. “You a friend o’ ’is, then?”

“No,” Monk lied quickly. “He owes me money too.”

She laughed abruptly. “Well, yer got no chance ’ere, ’cos I got nuffink an’ I ain’t partin’ wif the li’l I got from sellin’ ’is clothes ter the rag an’ bone, an’ I tell yer that fer nothin’.”

“Do you think something could have happened to him?”

Her thin eyebrows shot up.

“That one? Not likely! Too fly by ’alf, ’im. Got a better offer an’ took it, I s’pec. Or the rozzers is after ’im.” She looked Monk up and down. “That wot you are, a rozzer?”

“I told you, he owes me money.”

“Yeah? Well, I never knew a rozzer wot was close kin ter the truth. But if ’e owes yer money, I reckon as ’e’s in for trouble if yer finds ’im, like. Yer look like trouble ter me.”

Monk had an instant of recollection, as if someone else had said exactly the same to him, but it was gone before he could place it. Such jolts of memory from before the accident were becoming fewer, and he no longer actively searched for them or tried to hold them with him. What she had said was probably true. He did not forgive easily, and if someone had cheated him, he would have pursued the culprit to the last hiding place and exacted what was due. But that was a long time ago. Then his carriage had overturned, robbing him of all his past, in the summer of 1856. In the five years since he had built a new life, a new set of memories and characteristics.

He thanked her and left. There was nothing more to be learned here. Shearer had disappeared. What mattered was where he had gone, and why. Tomorrow he would speak with dockers and bargees who would have known him. He might even find where the barge had come from that had taken the guns down the river. Then he would go on to the shipping offices Shearer would have dealt with to export Alberton’s guns, or machinery and whatever else he traded in.

That evening he told Hester a little of what he had learned.

“Do you think it was Shearer who actually killed Mr. Alberton?” she asked with a lift of hope in her voice.

They were sitting at the table over a meal of cold chicken pie and fresh vegetables. He noticed that she looked a little tired.

“Where have you been all day?” he asked.

“Do you?” she insisted.

“What?”

“Do you think Shearer killed Daniel Alberton?”

“Possibly. Where have you been?”

“At the Small Pox Hospital at Highgate. We’re still trying to improve the quality of staff caring for the patients there, but it’s difficult. I’ve been writing letters most of the time.”

It was on the edge of his tongue to make some remark about Florence Nightingale, who was inexhaustible in her letter writing in her efforts to bring about hospital reform, but he forbore. It explained Hester’s tiredness. He had promised months ago to employ a woman to keep house, and forgotten about it.

“It would mean Merrit was not guilty,” she said, watching him keenly. “It would explain how Breeland did it without her knowledge.”

He smiled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” It was a statement.

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” she admitted. “I can’t see any way he is innocent, but I really want to believe she is.”

He relaxed a little. “You should start looking for someone to come in every day, even if it’s only for a few hours.”

She thought about it for several minutes, watching his face, trying to judge if he was being overgenerous.

He could read her thoughts as if they were written in front of him.

“Look for someone,” he repeated. “Maybe three days a week, long enough to clean and do some cooking.”

“Yes,” she accepted. “Yes, I will.” She looked at him very levelly, a smile beginning in her eyes.

He felt remarkably pleased, as if he had given her the best gift imaginable, and perhaps it was, because his real gift was time to devote to what she was good at, time to use the skills she possessed in abundance, instead of laboring to develop those she would never find natural. He smiled back, more and more broadly.

She knew his thoughts too. She bit her lip. “I can cook!” she said quickly. “Moderately.”

He did not argue; he just grinned.