by Anne Perry
Henry took a pipe out of his pocket but did not bother even to pretend to light it. He seemed to like just to hold it by the bowl, waving it to emphasize a point as he spoke.
“Well, are you going to tell me about it?” he asked. He gestured towards a clump of wood anemones. “Self-seeded,” he observed. “Can’t think how they got there. Really want them in the orchard. What sort of case?”
“Breach of promise,” Oliver replied.
Henry looked at him sharply, his face full of surprise, but he made no comment.
Oliver explained anyway. “At first I refused. Then the same evening I went to a ball, and I was so aware of the matrons parading their daughters, vying with one another for any available unmarried man, I felt like a quarry before the pack myself. I could imagine how one might be cornered, unable to extricate oneself with any grace or dignity, or the poor girl either.”
Henry merely nodded, putting the pipe stem in his mouth for a moment and closing his teeth on it.
“Too much is expected of marriage,” Oliver went on as they came to the end of the grass and stepped across the terrace to the door. He held it open while Henry went inside, then followed him in and closed it.
“Draw the curtains, will you?” Henry requested, going over to the fire and taking away the guard, then placing several more coals on it and watching it flame up satisfactorily.
Oliver walked over towards the warmth and sat down, making himself comfortable. There was always something relaxing about this room, a familiarity, books and odd pieces of furniture he remembered all his life.
“I’m not decrying it, of course,” he went on. “But one shouldn’t expect someone else to fill all the expectations in our lives, answer all the loneliness or the dreams, provide us with a social status, a roof over our heads, daily bread, clothes for our backs, and a purpose for living as well, not to mention laughter and hope and love, someone to justify our aspirations and decide our moral judgments.”
“Good gracious!” Henry was smiling but there was a shadow of anxiety in his eyes. “Where did you gather this impression?”
Oliver retracted immediately. “Well, all right, I am exaggerating. But the way these girls spoke, they hoped everything from marriage. I can understand why Melville panicked. No one could fill such a measure.”
“And did he also believe that was expected of him?” Henry enquired.
“Yes.” Oliver recalled it vividly, seeing Zillah in his mind. “I met his betrothed. Her face was shining, her eyes full of dreams. One would have thought she was about to enter heaven itself.”
“Perhaps,” Henry conceded. “But being in love can be quite consuming at times, and quite absurd in the cold light of others’ eyes. I think you are stating a fear of commitment which is not uncommon, but nevertheless neither is it admirable. Society cannot exist if we do not keep the promises we have made, that one above most others.” He regarded him gently, but not without a very clear perception. “Are you certain it is not your rather fastidious nature, and unwillingness to forgo your own independence, which you are projecting onto this young man?”
“I’m not unwilling to commit myself!” Oliver defended, thinking with sharp regret of the evening not long before when he had very nearly asked Hester Latterly to marry him. He would have, had he not been aware that she would refuse him and it would leave them hesitant with each other. A friendship they both valued would be changed and perhaps not recapturable with the trust and the ease it had had before. At times he was relieved she had forestalled him. He did value his privacy, his complete personal freedom, the fact that he could do as he pleased without reference to anyone, without hurt or offense. At other times he felt a loneliness without her. He thought of her more often than he intended to, and found her not there, not where he could assume she could listen to him, believe in him. There were times when he deeply missed her presence to share an idea, a thing of beauty, something that made him laugh.
Henry merely nodded. Did he know? Or guess? Hester was extraordinarily fond of him. Oliver had even wondered sometimes if part of his own attraction for her was the regard she had for Henry, the wider sense of belonging she would have as part of his family. That was something William Monk could not give her! He had lost his memory in a carriage accident just after the end of the Crimean War, and everything in his life before that was fragments pieced together from observation and deduction, albeit far more complete now than even a year ago. Still, there was no one in Monk’s background like Henry Rathbone.
Could that be it? Was it not Zillah who was unacceptable but someone else in her family? Barton Lambert? Delphine? No, that was unlikely in the extreme. Barton Lambert had been Melville’s friend far more than most men could expect of a father-in-law. And Delphine was proud of her daughter, ambitious, possibly overprotective, but then was that not usual, and what one expected, even admired, in a mother? If she disliked Melville now, she certainly had ample cause.
“There seems to be no defense,” he said aloud.
“What does he say?” Henry asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth and knocking the bowl sharply against the fireplace. He looked enquiringly at Oliver as he cleaned out the pipe and refilled it with tobacco. He seldom actually smoked it, but fiddling with it seemed to give him satisfaction.
“That’s it,” Oliver replied with exasperation. “Nothing! Simply that he did not ask her in the first place and he cannot bear the thought of marrying anyone at all. He states emphatically that he knows nothing to her discredit, and has no impediment to marriage himself, and trusts in me to defend him as well as may be done.”
“Then surely there is something he is not telling you,” Henry observed, putting the pipe between his teeth again but still not bothering to light it.
“I know that,” Oliver agreed. “But I have no idea what it is. Every moment in court I dread Sacheverall facing him with it. I imagine he is going to produce it, like a conjurer, and any hope I have will evaporate.”
“Is that Wystan Sacheverall?” Henry asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes. Why?”
Henry shrugged. “Knew his father. Always thought him very ambitious socially, something of an opportunist. Big man with fair hair and large ears.”
Oliver smiled. “Definitely his son,” he agreed. “But he is a very competent man. I shall not make the error of underrating him simply because he has a clownish face. I think he is extremely serious beneath it.”
“Then you had better find out for yourself what your client will not tell you,” Henry stated. “Have you told Hester about this situation? A ferninine point of view might help.”
“I hadn’t thought of it,” Oliver admitted. She had been in his mind on many occasions, but not as a possible source of help. “Actually, I have not been in touch with her for a few weeks. She will almost certainly be with a new patient.”
“Then you can ask Lady Callandra Daviot,” Henry pointed out. “She will know where Hester is.”
“Callandra is in Scotland,” Oliver replied stubbornly. “Traveling around from place to place. I had a letter from her posted from Ballachulish. I believe that is somewhere on the west coast, a little short of Fort William in Inverness-shire.”
“I know where Fort William is,” Henry said patiently. “Then you will have to enquire from Monk. It should not be beyond his ability to find her. He is an excellent detective … assuming he does not already know.”
Oliver loathed the idea of going to Monk to ask him where Hester was. He would feel so vulnerable. It would entirely expose his disadvantage that he did not know himself, and yet he assumed Monk would. His only satisfaction would be if Monk did not know either. But then he would be no further forward. Now that Henry had suggested it, he realized how much he wanted to consult Hester. In fact, this case could provide the perfect reason to go to her again without their personal emotions intruding so much that the whole meeting would be impossibly awkward. On reflection, it had been a mistake not to see her more often in the inte
rvening time. It would then have been so much easier.
Now he was reduced to going to Monk, of all people, for help.
Henry was watching him reflectively.
“I suppose it would be quite a good idea,” Oliver conceded. “I may even end up employing him myself!” He meant it as a joke. He could not use a detective against his own client, but he was tempted to do it simply to have the weapon of knowledge in his hand.
“What will happen to him if you lose?” Henry asked after another few moments of thoughtful silence by the fire.
“Financial penalty and social ruin,” Rathbone answered. “And considering his profession, probably professional catastrophe as well.”
“Does he realize that?” Henry frowned.
“I’ve told him.”
“Then you must find out the truth, Oliver.” Henry leaned forward, his face very grave, worry creasing his brow. “What you have told me so far does not make any sense. No man would throw away a brilliant career, about which he obviously cares passionately, for such a reason.”
“I know,” Oliver agreed. He sat a little lower in his chair. It was soft and extremely comfortable. The whole room had a familiar feeling that was far more than mere warmth; it was a deep sense of safety, of belonging, of values which did not change. “I’ll ask Monk. Tomorrow.”
Monk was startled to see Rathbone on his step at half past eight the following morning. He opened the door dressed in shirtsleeves, his dark hair smoothed back off his brow and still damp. He surveyed Rathbone’s immaculate striped trousers and plain coat, his high hat and furled umbrella.
“I can’t guess,” he said with a shrug. “I cannot think of anything whatever which would bring you, dressed like that, to my door at this hour on a Saturday morning.”
“I don’t expect you to guess,” Rathbone replied waspishly. “If you allow me in, I shall tell you.”
Monk smiled. He had a high-cheekboned face with steady gray eyes, a broad-bridged aquiline nose and a wide, thin mouth. It was the countenance of a man who was clever, as ruthless with himself as with others, possessed of courage and humor, who hid his weaknesses behind a mask of wit—and sometimes of affected coldness.
Rathbone knew all this, and part of him admired Monk, part of him even liked him. He trusted him unquestioningly.
Monk stood back and invited him in. The room where he received his prospective clients was already warm with the fire bright in the hearth, the curtains drawn wide and a clock ticking agreeably on the mantel. That was new since the last time Rathbone had been there. He wondered if it had been Hester’s idea, then dismissed the thought forcibly. The rest of the room was filled with her suggestions. Why not this, and what did it matter if it were?
Monk waved to him to sit down. “Is this professional?” he asked, standing by the fire and looking down at Rathbone.
Rathbone leaned back and crossed his legs, to show how at ease he was.
“Of course it is. I don’t make social calls at this hour.”
“You must have an appalling case.” Monk was still amused, but now he was also interested.
Rathbone wanted to make sure Monk understood it was professional, and not that he wanted to find Hester for personal motives. For him to believe that would be intolerable. In his own way he would never allow Rathbone to forget it.
“I have,” he said candidly. “I am out of my depth, because of the nature of it, and I know I am being lied to. I need a sound judgment on it, one from a very different point of view.” He saw Monk’s interest increase.
“If I can be of help,” Monk offered. “What is the case? Tell me about it. What is your client accused of? Murder?”
“Breach of promise.”
“What?” Monk could hardly believe it. “Breach of promise? To marry?” He laughed in spite of himself. “And you don’t understand it?” It was not quite contempt in his voice, but almost.
“That’s right,” Rathbone agreed. He was a past master at keeping his temper. Better men, more skilled at these tactics than Monk, had tried to provoke him and failed. “My client stands to forfeit not only money but his professional reputation if he loses. And he has a brilliant career. Some might even say he has genius.”
The humor vanished from Monk’s face. He stared at Rathbone with gravity, and the curiosity returned.
“So why did he court someone and then break the engagement?” he asked. “What did he discover about her?”
“He says there was nothing,” Rathbone replied. Now that it had come to it, he might as well hear Monk’s opinion as well. Whatever his emotions towards Monk, and they were wildly varied, he respected Monk’s intelligence and his judgment. They had fought too many issues side by side, embraced too many causes together passionately, at any cost, not to know each other in a way few people are privileged to share.
“Then either he is lying,” Monk responded, watching Rathbone closely, “or there is something about himself he is not telling you.”
“Precisely,” Rathbone agreed. “But I have no idea which it is or what the something may be.”
“Are you employing me to find out … against your own client?” Monk asked. “He’ll hardly pay you for that! Or thank you, either.”
“No, I’m not,” Rathbone said sharply. “I would like a woman’s judgment on the situation. Callandra is in Scotland. I want to ask Hester.” He searched Monk’s face and saw his eyes widen very slightly but no more. Whatever Monk thought, he kept it concealed. “I don’t know her present case. I thought you might.”
“No, I don’t,” Monk answered without a flicker. “But I know how to find out. If you wish I shall do so.” He glanced at the clock. “I assume it is urgent?”
“Are you expecting someone?” Rathbone misunderstood deliberately.
Monk shrugged very slightly and stepped forward from the mantel. The half smile touched his lips again. “Not for breakfast,” he answered, crossing the room. He managed to move with the grace of suppressed energy. Always, even when weary or seeming beaten, he gave the air of one who might be dangerous to antagonize. Rathbone had never tested his physical strength, but he knew that not even the despair or the defeats of the past, the close and terrible personal danger which had plumbed the bottom of his emotional power, had broken him. The last dreadful moments of the affair in Mecklenburg Square must have come close. Hester had seen the worst extreme, but she had not betrayed it, and he knew she never would—just as she would never have told Monk anything about the moments between herself and Rathbone.
“I suppose you have eaten?” Monk asked with assumption of the answer in his voice. “I haven’t. If you want to join me for at least a cup of tea, you’re welcome. Tell me a little bit more about this life-and-death case of yours … for breach of promise, hurt feelings and questioned reputation. Business must be hard for you to be reduced to this!”
It was nearly noon before Monk arrived at Rathbone’s rooms and simply handed him a slip of paper on which was written an address and the name “Gabriel Sheldon.” He passed it to Rathbone with a slight smile.
Rathbone glanced at it. “Thank you,” he said simply. He did not know what else to add. It was a strangely artificial situation. They knew each other in some ways so well. Rathbone knew far more of Monk than anyone else except Hester—and possibly Callandra Daviot and John Evan, the sergeant who had worked with Monk before Monk left the police force following a violent quarrel with his superior. But Evan had seen him only intermittently since then; Rathbone had worked with him every few months. They had stood together in victory and despair, in mental and physical exhaustion, in the elation of triumph and the strange, acute pain of pity. Even if they had never voiced it, they each understood what the other felt.
Rathbone knew that Monk had lost his past, everything, until four years ago. He had discovered himself as a man in his forties, not a man he always liked, sometimes a man he despised, even feared. Rathbone had watched Monk struggle to regain his memory, and had seen the courage it requir
ed of Monk to look at what he had been: the occasional cruelty, the hasty judgments, made too often in ignorance and from fear. Monk had hesitated at times, flinching from what he would find, but in the end he had never refused to look.
Rathbone admired him for it. Indeed, he would have protected him and defended him were it possible. A part of him liked Monk quite naturally, despite their widely differing backgrounds. Rathbone was born to comfort and had received an excellent education with all the grace and social status which such an eduction afforded. Monk was the son of a fisherman from the far northeast, on the Scottish borders. His education had been struggled for, given as charity by the local vicar, who appreciated a boy of intellectual promise and driving will, and was prepared to tutor him for nothing. He had come south to London to make his fortune, assisted quickly by a man of wealth who had trained him in merchant banking until his own unjust prosecution and ruin.
Then, burning with indignation, Monk had joined the police, driven by anger and filled with passion to right the intolerable wrongs he saw.
That was so unlike Rathbone, who had studied law at Cambridge and risen easily from one position to another assisted by a mixture of patronage and his own brilliance.
Only his sense of purpose was similar, his ambition to achieve the highest, and perhaps his love of the beautiful things of life, of elegance and good taste. In Rathbone it was natural to dress perfectly. He looked and sounded the gentleman he was. It took no effort whatever.
For Monk it was an extravagance which had to be paid for by going without other things, but he never hesitated. Rathbone could not accuse him of vanity, but someone else might have, possibly even Hester herself, certainly Callandra Daviot. Rathbone had never known a woman who gave less considered thought to her appearance. But for all Monk’s natural elegance and carefully attentive grooming, he would never have the assurance Rathbone did, because it came with breeding and could not be acquired.
