A Breach Of Promise Part 14

Rathbone leaned towards Melville, still sitting motionless. He grasped his arm and felt the muscles locked.

"What can he prove?" he whispered fiercely. "What is Wolff to you?"

Melville relaxed very slowly, as if he were waking from a trance.

A smile with a hint of hysteria in it touched his lips and then vanished.

"Not my h.o.m.os.e.xual lover!" he said with a gasp of disbelief, as if the idea had a kind of desperate humor to it. "I swear that in the name of G.o.d! He is as normal, as masculine, a man as ever drew breath."

"Then what? Is he some relative by blood or marriage?" Even as he asked, Rathbone could not believe it was blood. The two men were physically as unalike as possible. Wolff must have been four or five inches the taller and two stones heavier. He was as dark as Melville was fair, as brooding, mystic and Celtic as Melville was open, direct and Saxon. "What?" he repeated firmly.

But Melville refused to answer.

The bailiff was beside the table.

"Mr. Sacheverall is waiting for you, Sir Oliver. I'll take you to him, if you come with me."

"Do you want to withdraw?" Rathbone demanded, still facing Melville. "I can't make that decision for you. I don't know what Sacheverall will find or what these witnesses may say."

"Neither do I!" Melville said jerkily. "But I am not going to marry Zillah Lambert." He closed his eyes. "Just do what you can...." His voice cracked and he turned away.

Rathbone had no choice but to go with the bailiff and meet with Sacheverall, not knowing what he could salvage of the chaos he had been thrown into. Except that if he were honest, he had not been thrown, he had leaped, more or less open-eyed. His own lack of thought had earned him this.

Sacheverall was half sitting on the bare table in the small room set aside for just this sort of meeting. He did not stand when Rathbone came in and closed the door. His fair eyebrows rose quizzically.

"Ready to retreat?"

Rathbone sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, crossing his legs. He realized he disliked Sacheverall, not because he was losing-he had lost cases before, to adversaries he both liked and admired-but for the way in which Sacheverall savored the misfortune this would bring to Melville, and his own part in making it happen. The prosecutor was not serving justice but some emotion of his own. Rathbone resented giving him anything.

"If you mean ready to capitulate, no, I'm not. If you mean discuss the situation, then of course. I thought I had already made that plain in asking for an adjournment."

"For G.o.d's sake, man!" Sacheverall said with a half laugh. "You're beaten! Give in gracefully and I won't call my witnesses who can place Wolff and Melville together in the most intimate and compromising circ.u.mstances. Of course the man doesn't want to marry!" His voice was rich with scorn. "He's a h.o.m.os.e.xual.... I'll use the politest word I can for what he does." His expression made all too evident what manner of word was running through his mind.

"You can use whatever word is natural to you," Rathbone answered with a sneer he did not bother to hide. "You have no reputation to guard in here."

Sacheverall flushed. Perhaps he was more aware than he showed that he was awkward beside Rathbone, clumsy, inelegant, that his ears were too large.

"If you think I won't drag it up, you are mistaken!" Sacheverall said angrily. "I will! Every sordid detail necessary to prove my client's case and claim the damages she's due. Melville will end in prison... which is where he belongs."

"If that is what Barton Lambert wants," Rathbone said very quietly, his voice as calm as if he were addressing an elderly lady disposing her will. His mind was racing. "Then he must hate Melville ... or fear him ... far more than would be explained by anything we know so far. Although I do have an excellent detective working on the case, and if there is anything whatsoever in the history of any one of the Lambert family, from the day they were born, then he will find it."

He saw Sacheverall's face darken with anger, and ignored it. "And, of course, once you have opened the door for this kind of slander then anything will be permissible. The gallery will love it. The press will tear them apart like a pack of dogs." Rathbone adjusted his legs a little more gracefully. "You and I are aware of that, naturally. We have seen it before. But are you sure the Lamberts are? Are you perfectly sure Mrs. Lambert is prepared to have her every act-every flirtation, every gift, every incident, letter, confidence-examined this way and interpreted by strangers? Can anyone at all be so certain of every moment of their lives?"

Two furious spots of color marked Sacheverall's cheeks and he sat forward, his back straight, shoulders hunched.

"How dare you?" he grated. "You have sunk lower than I thought possible. Your client is guilty of acts that all civilized society regards as depraved. He has pursued and deceived an utterly innocent young woman for the furthering of his own ambition-and you threaten her with slander in order to aid him in escaping the consequences of his actions." He jabbed his finger in the air and his lips were drawn into an almost invisible line. "You show that behind that facade of a gentleman you are without honor or principle. The best I can think of you is that you are ambitious and greedy. The worst is that you have a sympathy with your client which extends a great deal further than you would wish it supposed."

Rathbone felt an absurd moment of chill as he realized what Sacheverall meant, then laughter. Then his dislike turned into something much greater.

"You have a prurient mind, Sacheverall, which seems to be fixed in one area. The reason for my refusing to admit to this act on my client's behalf is extraordinarily simple. He has instructed me not to. I am bound by his wishes, as you are-or should be-bound by those of Miss Lambert and her family." He put his fingertips together. "I do not know why Mr. Melville is so unwilling to marry her after having grown to know her as well as is undisputed between us. But if you have a jot of intelligence between your ears"-he saw Sacheverall flush; he had referred to them deliberately-"then you will consider the possibility that the reason has nothing to do with Isaac Wolff and everything to do with Miss Lambert herself."

"She has nothing whatever to hide!" Sacheverall said between his teeth. "Do you imagine she would be foolish enough to go into this if she had? Her father is not an imbecile."

Rathbone smiled patiently. "If he imagines he knows everything about his daughter's life, then he is more than an imbecile," he replied. "He is a babe abroad in the land, and not only deserving your protection, for the fee he pays you, but needing it, in common humanity."

Sacheverall was shaken. It was in his eyes and his mouth. He was also very very angry indeed. His hand on the table was trembling.

Rathbone uncrossed his legs and stood up. "Give the matter a little more thought before you call these witnesses of yours and open up the area of private conduct in an effort to ruin Melville. I think you will find it is not what Lambert wishes. Perhaps you should speak to Miss Lambert alone? You may find she has been maneuvered into this suit by circ.u.mstances and now is unable to withdraw without explaining far more than she wishes to. Fathers, on occasions, can be very... blind... where their daughters are concerned. It is not too late to settle this matter privately."

"With damages?" Sacheverall demanded. "And a statement that Miss Lambert is innocent of any fault whatever?"

"Mr. Melville has never implied that she was less than totally charming and desirable, an excellent bride for any man," Rathbone said truthfully. "He simply does not wish to marry her himself. His reason is no one else's concern. Perhaps Miss Lambert's feelings are engaged elsewhere but she cannot afford to admit it-if the gentleman is unsuitable. Perhaps married already."

"That's untrue!" Sacheverall responded instantly and with considerable heat.

"Probably," Rathbone agreed, standing by the door now. "I am merely pointing out that the possibilities are many, and none of them need to concern the law or the general public. Consult with your clients and let me know." And before Sacheverall could make any further response, Rathbone went out and closed the door, surprised to find his own throat tight and his hands clammy.

As it happened, the court did not resume for another two days, and Rathbone spent the time desperately trying to capitalize on the brief respite he had gained. First he went to see Isaac Wolff, having obtained his address from Melville. He had not known what to expect. Perhaps at the back of his mind was the tear that Sacheverall was right and that visiting Wolff would confirm it beyond anything he could argue to himself- and therefore ultimately to the court.

As he walked along Wakefield Street, just off Regent Square, looking for the correct number, he realized how little defined was the impression he had of Killian Melville. He did not know the man at all. He was usually aware of intense emotion in him; his revulsion, almost terror, at the idea of marrying Zillah Lambert was so real it was almost palpable in the air. His love of his art was real. One had only to look at the work itself to lose all possible doubt of that. The light and beauty that flooded it spoke more of the inner man, of his dreams and his values, than anything he might say.

But there remained in him something concealed, elusive. The core of the man was shielded and, to Rathbone at least, inaccessible. He had made no judgment within himself.

He reached the house in which Wolff had rooms and pulled the bell at the door. A manservant showed him in and up the stairs to a very gracious hall opening into apartments which took up the whole of the front of the house.

Isaac Wolff admitted him and led him to a sitting room which overlooked the street, but the windows were sufficiently well curtained that the sense of privacy was in no way marred. It was old-fashioned. There was nothing of the grace and imagination of Killian Melville's architecture, but it was also restful and extremely pleasing. The furniture was dark and heavy, the walls lined with books, although there was no time to look and see what subjects they covered.

Wolff stared at him levelly and with a cold intensity. It was not unfriendly, but it was guarded. He was antic.i.p.ating attack. Rathbone wondered if it had happened before-suspicion, accusation, innuendo. It must be a wretched way to live.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wolff." Rathbone found himself apologetic. This was an intrusion any man would loathe. "I'm sorry, but I have to speak to you about today's evidence. I have already consulted with Mr. Sacheverall, and it is possible he may persuade Mr. Lambert to settle without returning to court, but it is a very slender hope, and we certainly cannot count on it."

Wolff took a deep breath and let it out silently. A very slight smile touched his lips.

"You must be extremely effective, Sir Oliver. What on earth did you say to him that he would even consider settling? He seems to have won outright. What he says is untrue, but there is no way I could prove it."

"No one can ever prove such things," Rathbone agreed, coming a step or two farther into the room and taking the seat Wolff indicated to him. "That is the nature of slander. It works by innuendo, belief and imagination. It plays upon the ugliest sides of human nature, but so subtly there is no armor against it. It is the coward's tool, and like most men, I despise it." He looked at Wolff's dark face with its brilliant eyes and curious, sensitive mouth. "But as I pointed out to Sacheverall, it is a weapon that fits almost any hand, mine as well as his, if need be."

"Yours?" Wolff looked surprised. He remained standing, his back now to the window, silhouetted against it. "Who could you slander, and how would it help? Would it not simply reduce Melville to the appearance of a viciousness born of desperation?"

"Yes, probably. And it is not inconceivable he would refuse to do it anyway," Rathbone conceded. "But Sacheverall does not know that, nor dare he rely upon it. He cannot be certain that if Melville is staring ruin in the face, he may not alter his. .h.i.therto honorable character and strike anywhere he can."

"He wouldn't," Wolff said simply. There was no doubt in his eyes, only a kind of bitter, powerful laughter.

"I believe you," Rathbone acknowledged, and he spoke honestly. He surprised himself, but he felt no uncertainty at all that Melville would accept complete destruction before he would sink to saying something of Zillah Lambert he knew to be untrue. He was a man whose behavior in the whole affair was a succession of acts which did not have any apparent logical or emotional line of connection. Rathbone was a.s.sailed again with an overwhelming conviction that there was something, one powerful, all-consuming fact, which he did not know but which would explain it all.

Something eased in Wolff's demeanor, something indefinable it was so slight. He was waiting for Rathbone to explain.

"Sacheverall is risking his client's well-being as well as his own, so he has to be certain." Rathbone crossed his legs and smiled up at Wolff, not in humor or even comfort, but in a certain sense of communication that they were in alliance against an att.i.tude, a set of beliefs which they both found repellent but that was too delicate to be given words. "And he may guess or judge that Melville will not react with attack, but he will not judge it of me. He knows better. I too will behave in the interests of my client, not necessarily having sought his permission first."

"Would you?" Wolff said quietly.

"I don't know." Rathbone smiled at himself. It was true; he did not know what he would reveal were Monk to discover anything. What he did know, without doubt, was that he would drive Monk to learn every jot there was to know: about Zillah Lambert, her father, her mother, and anyone else who could conceivably have any bearing on the case. "I don't know if there is anything, but then neither does Sacheverall."

Wolff let out his breath slowly.

"But I must know what they can learn about Melville," Rathbone went on reluctantly. "Not what is true or untrue ... but what witnesses can he call and what will they say?"

Wolff stiffened again and his voice was unnaturally steady. "That Melville and I are friends," he replied without looking away. "That he has visited me here, sometimes during the day, sometimes in the evening."

"Overnight?"

"No."

Rathbone was not sure if there had been a hesitation or if he had imagined it. He was not even sure how much it mattered. Once an idea was sown in someone's mind, without realizing it, memory became slanted towards what was believed. No deception need be intended, nevertheless it was carried out, and when a thing had been put into words it a.s.sumed a kind of reality. No one wanted to go back upon testimony. It was embarra.s.sing. The longer one clung to it and the more often it was repeated, the harder it was to alter.

"Anything else?" Rathbone asked. "No more than that? Please tell me the truth, Mr. Wolff. I cannot defend Melville, or you, from what I do not know."

But Wolff was as stubborn as Melville. He gave the same blank stare and denied it again.

"How long have you known Melville?" Rathbone pursued.

Wolff thought for a moment. "About twelve years, I think, maybe a little less."

"Do you know why he changed his mind about marrying Miss Lambert?"

Wolff was still standing with his back to the window, but the light was shining on the side of his face, and Rathbone could see his expression clearly. There was no change in it, no shadow.

"He didn't," he replied. "He never intended to. He liked her. It was a friendship which he believed she shared in the same spirit. He was appalled when he realized both she and her family read something quite different into it."

Rathbone could see there was no point in attempting to learn anything more from Wolff. He considered asking neighbors himself, but Monk would be far more skilled at it, and he had other things to do. He rose to his feet and excused himself, thanking Wolff for his time and warning him that their hopes of settling without returning to court were still negligible. He left feeling angry and disappointed, although he could not have named what he had hoped to find.

"What do you want me to discover?" Monk asked as they sat together over an excellent meal of roast saddle of mutton and spring vegetables. They were in one of Rathbone's favorite hostelries; he had invited Monk to join him partly because it was a miserable case he was requesting him to follow, but largely because he felt like indulging himself in an undeniable pleasure, like good food, good drink, a roaring fire and someone to wait upon him with courtesy and a cheerful manner. This particular dining room offered all these things. It was bustling with life, and yet not overcrowded. They had been given a table out of the draft from the door and yet not too far into a corner and not near noisy companions.

"The worst they can find for themselves, or create out of confused and prejudiced observations," he answered Monk's question as the serving girl left a tankard of ale for them and he acknowledged it with thanks.

Monk helped himself to another crisp roasted potato. "I presume you have already spoken to this man Wolff and to Melville himself?"

"Of course. They deny it, but add very little."

"Do you believe them?" Monk was curious, there was no decision or a.s.sumption in his eyes.

Rathbone thought for a moment or two, eating slowly. The mutton was excellent.

"I don't know," he said at last. "They are both lying about something. I feel it in Wolff, and I am certain of it in Melville, but I don't know what. I am not at all sure it is that."

"Then what?"

"I don't know!" Rathbone said sharply. "If I did, I wouldn't need you!"

Monk looked amused, even faintly satisfied.

"And I need weapons against Lambert if Sacheverall doesn't settle," Rathbone continued. "And I don't suppose he will. He'll go to Lambert and ask if there is anything I can find. Lambert will swear there isn't. If Sacheverall has any sense he'll speak to Zillah alone and ask her. Whatever there is, or is not, I don't know."

"But you need to," Monk concluded for him, leaning across and taking the last potato.

"Precisely."

"And if there is, would you use it?" Monk asked.

"That is not your concern. Unless, of course, you are telling me you will not look for it if I would."

Monk laughed. "I have often wondered just how hard you would fight if you were tested, which weapon you might decide to use. I was simply interested. I'll learn what I can."

"And tell me what you wish to?" Rathbone said dryly.

"Of course. I presume you are accepting the bill yourself?"

At the nearest table a man roared with laughter.

"Of course. Will you please pa.s.s me the horseradish sauce?" Monk obliged, smiling widely.

Sacheverall sent Rathbone a very clear and tersely worded message that his client would not settle, and Thursday morning saw them back in court, Sacheverall standing in the open s.p.a.ce before the high witness-box and facing first the judge, then the jury. He affected to ignore the public benches, now far more crowded again.

"I call Major Albert Hillman."

Major Hillman duly appeared, walking with a decided limp. He stared straight ahead of him, refusing to look at Rathbone or Melville where they sat, or at Sacheverall himself standing feet a little apart, back straight, like a circus ringmaster with his arms a trifle lifted. Major Hillman climbed the steps with difficulty and took the oath.

"I'm sorry to call you on this distressing matter, sir," Sacheverall apologized. "I hope your injury does not pain you too much?"

Rathbone sighed. Obviously it was going to prove to be a war wound, n.o.bly obtained, which was why Sacheverall had drawn attention to it It was all predictable, but nonetheless effective for that.

"My duty, sir," the major replied stiffly. His distaste was plain in his face and in the downward dropping of his voice.

"Of course." Sacheverall nodded. "I shall be as brief as possible. I would not do this at all... had Mr. Melville been prepared to concede the case"-he glanced at Rathbone briefly, and away again-"and admit his fault without necessitating this unpleasant disclosure."

The judge leaned forward. "You have made sufficient apology, Mr. Sacheverall. Please proceed to your evidence."

"My lord." Sacheverall bowed.

McKeever's wide blue eyes did not seem to change at all, and yet even from where Rathbone was sitting, he could see a coldness in the judge. This should not have been a criminal matter, not even a legal one. A domestic sadness, a misunderstanding of emotions, had escalated into something which was now going to rain lives and perhaps deprive the world of one of its most brilliant and creative talents. One young woman had had her marriagehopes blighted, and no doubt she had suffered a deep and extremely powerful sense of rejection. But she was young, extremely handsome, wealthy and of a charming disposition. She would recover, as everyone does. She could simply have said that they quarreled and she had broken the betrothal. It would have raised a few eyebrows. In a month it would have become uninteresting. In a year it would have been forgotten.

This was ridiculous. Without thinking, Rathbone was on his feet.

"My lord! Before we proceed to drag two men's private lives before the public and suggest matters which cannot be proved, and should not be our concern, over the-"

Sacheverall had swung around, staring with exaggerated amazement at Rathbone.

"My lord! Is Sir Oliver saying that acts of s.e.xual perversion and depravity are not of public concern simply because they do not happen in the middle of the street?" He flung out his arm dramatically. "Is a crime not a crime because it occurs behind closed doors? Is that his view of morality? I hope he cannot mean what he says."