A Breach of Promise

by Anne Perry

  “No.” Just the single word.

  “Was anything disturbed?”

  “No. Everything was as always.”

  “Was there a glass or cup in the room, near where he was sitting?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a note or a letter of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wolff. If you will remain there, His Lordship may have some questions for you.”

  Wolff turned slowly towards the judge.

  “No, thank you,” McKeever declined quietly. “It seems perfectly clear. I am sorry we had to trouble you, Mr. Wolff. The court extends you its sympathy.”

  “Thank you.” At another time there might have been a shadow of humor in Wolff’s acceptance. Today there was none. Something inside him was dead and there was no response except words, bare of feeling.

  He turned and stepped down, holding on to the banister as if his sight and his coordination were impaired. He made his way to one of the seats at the back of the gallery and someone rose to give him space. Rathbone watched with his heart beating violently in case it were to shun him, but there was so deep a look of pity on the man’s face his gesture could not have been misunderstood. Rathbone was suddenly uplifted by such compassion from a stranger, such a lack of judgment of frailty, only the awareness of grief.

  He looked at Barton Lambert again. Lambert was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as if he wanted to take some physical action but could think of nothing which answered his needs. There was a profound unhappiness in every line of him. He turned to Delphine, but she was looking the other way, her chin high, making the best of having to be there in these circumstances, but still aware of being the victor. Nothing so far had taken that from her. Zillah’s reputation was vindicated, and that mattered to her above all else.

  Zillah herself sat white-faced and quite still, her eyes on Isaac Wolff and then on the judge, although it was impossible to say if she could actually see either of them, she appeared so sunk in her own sense of loss.

  “Sir Oliver!” McKeever recalled his attention.

  “My lord?”

  “Did you say you had also requested the doctor to attend?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then would you call him.”

  “Yes, my lord. Dr. Godwin.”

  There was instant rustling and creaking in the gallery as a score of people craned around to watch as the doors opened.

  Godwin proved to be a sturdy man with dark hair and the music of the Welsh valleys in his voice. In total silence from the crowd and from the jury, he swore to his name and professional status, then awaited Rathbone’s questions.

  “Dr. Godwin, were you summoned to Great Street at about eleven o’clock yesterday evening?”

  “I was.”

  “By whom, and for what purpose?”

  “By Mr. Isaac Wolff, to attend his friend Killian Melville, who had apparently died.”

  “And when you examined Mr. Melville, was he indeed dead?”

  “Yes sir, he was—at least … at that point I made only a cursory examination. Very cursory.”

  There was absolute silence in the room.

  Everyone was unnaturally still, as if waiting for something extraordinary without knowing what.

  McKeever leaned forward, listening intently, frowning as if he did not completely understand.

  “Your choice of words is curious,” Rathbone pointed out. “Are you suggesting that later examination proved that Mr. Melville was not actually dead?” He asked it only to clarify. He entertained no hope of error.

  “Oh no. Killian Melville was dead, I am afraid, poor soul,” Godwin assured him, nodding and pursing his lips.

  “Can you say from what cause, Dr. Godwin?”

  “Not yet, not for certain, like. But it was poison of some sort, and very probably of the type of belladonna. See it in the eyes. But I’ll know for sure when I’ve tested the contents of the stomach. Not been time for that yet.”

  “Thank you. I have nothing else to ask you at this point.”

  “No—no, I daresay not.” Godwin stood quite still. “But I can tell you something I imagine you did not know.”

  The room seemed to crackle as if there were thunder in the air.

  “Yes?”

  “Killian Melville was a woman.”

  No one moved.

  A reporter broke a pencil in half and it sounded like gunfire.

  A woman screamed.

  “I—I beg your pardon,” Rathbone said, swallowing and choking.

  “Killian Melville was a woman,” Godwin repeated clearly.

  “You mean he was—” McKeever was startled.

  “No, my lord,” Godwin corrected. “I mean she was … in every way a perfectly normal woman.”

  Zillah Lambert slid into a faint.

  There were gasps around the gallery. One of the jurors used an expletive he would not have wished to have owned he even knew.

  Delphine Lambert gave a scream and jerked her hand up to her mouth. Slowly her face turned scarlet with embarrassment and rage. She stared fixedly ahead of her, refusing to risk meeting anyone else’s eyes. She had been completely confounded. It was obvious to anyone who looked at her. Perhaps that, more than anything else, annoyed her now. The shock was total.

  No one seemed to have noticed Zillah as she slumped momentarily insensible.

  Sacheverall at last reacted. He scrambled to his feet, his arms waving.

  “Hardly normal, my lord! Dr. Godwin makes a mockery of the word. Killian Melville was in no way normal. Man or woman.”

  “I meant medically speaking!” Godwin snapped with surprising ferocity. “Physically she was exactly like any other woman.”

  “Then why did she dress like a man,” Sacheverall shouted, waving his arms, “behave like a man, and in every way affect to be a man? For God’s sake, she even proposed marriage to a woman!”

  “No, she didn’t!” Rathbone was on his feet too, shouting back. “That is precisely my case! She didn’t! Mrs. Lambert was so keen to have her daughter make what seemed an excellent match that she assumed Melville’s affection and regard for Miss Lambert was romantic, whereas it was, in fact, exactly what Melville claimed it was: a profound friendship!” He spoke without having thought of it first, something he had sworn never to do in court, but even as he heard his voice he was certain it was the truth. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, it all seemed so apparent. Melville’s passion and his silence—her silence—were all so easily understood. Of course he—she—had laughed when Rathbone had asked if the relationship with Isaac Wolff was homosexual. He remembered now how oblique Melville’s answers had been. He remembered a score of things, tiny things, the burning level eyes, the fairness of Melville’s skin, the small, strong hands, a lack of masculinity in movement and gesture. The husky voice could have been man’s or woman’s.

  He thought ruefully that that must have cost an effort, an aching throat to keep the pitch permanently so unnaturally low.

  She must have enjoyed Zillah’s company, one of her own sex to befriend. No wonder the relationship was peculiarly precious to her.

  Sacheverall was furious, but for once he had no ready answer.

  “She was still unnatural!” he said loudly and angrily. His face was red, and he jerked around in gestures too large to have dignity or meaning. He had lost control of the case. Nothing was as he had meant it to be. When he had come in that morning he had had victory in the grasp of his fingers. Now it had all exploded into tragedy and then absurdity.

  “She was perverted, perhaps insane—”

  “She was not—” Rathbone began angrily, but Sacheverall cut across him.

  “She took advantage of Mr. Lambert’s generosity for the most obvious reasons, to advance her career, if you can call it that!” He jabbed his finger in the air; his voice was almost a shriek. “She deceived him, lied to him at every turn—then deceived Miss Lambert and abused her feelings for the same crass, greedy reason
s, and …”

  Zillah was recovered now, sitting motionless, the tears streaming down her cheeks, although her face did not twist or crumple. She had the curious gift of being able to weep and remain beautiful.

  Barton Lambert rose to his feet.

  “Be quiet!” he commanded so loudly that Sacheverall stopped in the middle of his sentence, his face slack with surprise. “He dressed as a man, in that he did deceive me,” Lambert went on, lowering his voice only slightly. “I never for an instant suspected he was not one. But I was not deceived in his …” He corrected himself: “Her skill. He was still one of the finest architects in Europe, and I’ll swear you’ll not see a better one in your lifetime!”

  Sacheverall burst into laughter, derisive, jeering, an ugly sound.

  McKeever slammed his gavel down like a gunshot.

  “Mr. Sacheverall!” All his passionate distaste of the man was in his face. “Control yourself, sir! This is not a humorous matter!”

  Sacheverall stopped laughing instantly.

  “It is not, my lord! It is disgusting!” His wide mouth curled exaggeratedly. He still waved his arms as he spoke. “Every decent person in this room must be as confused and offended as I am by this unnatural creature, perverse, deceitful and an insult to all decent women who honor their gender by living up to the highest standards of modesty, decency and—and—are proud to be women!” His gesture embraced the gallery. “Who would not for an instant, a fraction of an instant, deny their womanhood with its sacred duties and blessings, or choose to be different!” He flung his arms out again and turned to face them. “What woman among you is not proud to be wife and mother? Do you want to dress in trousers and pretend to be a man? Do you want to deny who you are, what you are, and spit in the face of the God who made you and ordained you to this—this holy calling?”

  “For heaven’s sake, sit down!” It was Zillah who hissed at him, glaring through eyes still filled with tears.

  He leaned forward, staring at her intently. “My dear Zillah.” He lowered his voice until it was tender, almost intimate. “I can hardly imagine the suffering you must be enduring. You have been most cruelly abused. You are the victim in all this insanity, this twisted and terrible masquerade.” He moved one hand as if to touch her, then changed his mind. “I cannot say how much I admire your courage and your dignity throughout this ordeal,” he went on softly but quite clearly, his eyes intent on hers. “Your refusal to indulge in anger is truly the mark of a most beautiful character. You have a nobility which must awaken a sense of wonder in all of us, a reverence …”

  “Mr. Sacheverall,” she replied coldly, and moving back an inch. “I have lost a dear friend today, in the most terrible circumstances, and I do not care what you think of me, nor do I care for your sympathy. Please do not keep thrusting your opinions upon me. I am sure the court does not care either.”

  He was startled. It was the last thing he had expected to hear. However, he took it with good grace, determined it was due to her distress and perhaps natural.

  “I did not mean to embarrass you,” he apologized, turning back to the front of the court. “My emotions made me speak too soon.” Before she could answer that, he looked to Rathbone. “I shall consult with my client, of course,” he said with a chill. “But I think Mrs. Lambert will feel that her daughter’s character has been vindicated in every way with today’s revelations. No possible fault can attach to her in anyone’s mind. The matter of cost will be dealt with from Mr.—Miss Melville’s estate. I imagine that rests with her solicitor.”

  Barton Lambert jerked forward as if to speak, and Delphine pulled him back again sharply.

  McKeever glared around the room and it fell silent.

  “I should like to hear more fully what drove Miss Melville to this extraordinary step. And I think we should give Mr. Isaac Wolff the opportunity to clear his name and the question of his own reputation. I call him to testify.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then the usher gathered his wits and called rather loudly for Isaac Wolff.

  It took only a few moments for Wolff to come from the back of the court. He stumbled as he climbed the steps up to the witness stand again.

  “Mr. Wolff,” McKeever said in his soft voice. There was absolute silence in the room. No one in the gallery fidgeted or whispered. The jurors sat with eyes fixed on Wolff, their faces stiff with pity and embarrassment. Neither Rathbone nor Sacheverall stirred. Everyone strained to catch McKeever’s words.

  “Mr. Wolff, I am sorry to call you again when you must be feeling your bereavement most deeply,” he said. “But I feel you are perhaps the only one able to offer us a proper explanation. Why did Killian Melville spend her life dressed as a man and to all outward purposes living the life of a man? Before you answer”—he smiled very slightly; it was an inner necessity which drove him, an emotion he could not stifle, and certainly one devoid of any shred of humor—”I offer you the court’s unqualified apology for its accusation of sexual vice, or any kind of crime on your part or, of course, upon Miss Melville’s.”

  A shadow of very bitter humor flashed in Wolff’s eyes but did not touch his lips.

  “Thank you, my lord.” His voice was too flat to carry gratitude. He did not look at anyone in particular as he summoned the words to answer. His gaze seemed to be over the heads of the gallery, but his vision inward, into memory. “Actually, her name was Keelin. Her mother was half Irish. She simply changed the spelling a little to sound more masculine.”

  The court waited.

  He took a few moments to master his composure. “She was brilliant,” he began quietly, but his voice was raw. “Even as a child she was fascinated by beautiful buildings of all sorts. Her father was a keen scholar and the family spent much time in the Mediterranean—Italy, Greece, Egypt, Palestine. Keelin would walk for hours among the ruins of the greatest cities on earth. She has sketches of the Roman Forum, the Baths of Caracalla, the Colosseum, of course. And in the rest of Italy of the great triumphs of the Renaissance, the exquisite simplicity of the Tuscan villas, of Alberti, of Michelangelo’s domes and basilicas.”

  Everyone in the room was listening with eyes intent upon Wolff’s face. Rathbone looked at them discreetly. Their faces were filled with emotion as their imaginations journeyed with him, dreaming, thinking.

  “But she loved the eastern architecture also,” Wolff went on. “She admired the mosques of Turkey, the coolness and the light. She was fascinated with the dome of the Blue Mosque and how the ventilation was so superb the smoke from the candles never made a mark on the ceiling.” A shadow of memory softened the harshness of his grief for a moment. “She talked about it endlessly. I don’t think she was even aware of whether I was listening or not.”

  No one moved or made the slightest sound of interruption. McKeever’s face was intent.

  “And when her father went to Egypt”—Wolff was absorbed in memory—“she went as well. It was a whole new dimension of architecture, more ancient than anything else she had even imagined. She stood in the ruins of Karnak as if she had seen a revelation. Even the light was different. I remember her saying that so often. She always built for light—” He stopped abruptly as emotions overwhelmed him. He stood with his head high but his face averted. He was not ashamed, but it should have been a private thing.

  McKeever looked around the room slowly, bidding them await Wolff’s ability to begin again without further losing his composure.

  Rathbone glanced at Barton Lambert. He seemed like a man in a dream, his eyes almost glazed, his expression hovering between pity and incomprehension. Beside him, Delphine seemed touched with something which could even have been fear, or perhaps it was only the light and shadow distorting her anger. Undoubtably she was still furious.

  “Would you like the usher to fetch you a glass of water?” McKeever offered Wolff, then, without waiting for his reply, nodded to the usher to do so.

  “No … thank you, my lord.” Wolff collected himself. He breathed in dee
ply. “Keelin was always drawing, but she had no interest in being an artist, though naturally it was what her father suggested. She drew only to catch the structures, to see on paper the finished work. She had no interest in drawing for its own sake. She would design her own buildings, not simply record other people’s, no matter how marvelous they were. She was a creator, not a copier.”

  A bitter smile touched his mouth. “But of course no school of architecture was going to accept a female pupil for any serious study. But she wouldn’t be thwarted. She found an architectural student who was attracted to her and borrowed his books and papers, asked him about the lectures he attended.” A wry expression passed fleetingly across his face, an unreadable mixture of irony, tenderness and pain. “Eventually she took a job as an assistant to a professor, clearing up for him, copying notes for him, all the time absorbing everything he taught the men. She did this for years, and eventually realized that even though she could have passed the examinations she would still never be taken seriously as an architect, never given work as long as she was a woman. She had beautiful hair, soft, shining brown and gold. She cut it off….” In the gallery a woman gasped and closed her eyes, her hands clenched, her imagination of the cost of it clear in her face.

  One of the jurors shook his head slowly and blinked away tears. Perhaps his own wife or daughter had hair he loved.

  “She passed herself off as a boy,” Wolff said, his voice catching for the first time. “Just to attend a particular lecture of a visiting professor and be treated as a student, not a servant, to be able to ask questions and be addressed directly in answer.” He blinked several times, and his voice dropped a tone. “It worked. People thought she was very young, but they did not question that she was a man. She came home and cried all night. Then she made her decision, and from then on she called herself Killian, and to everyone except me, she was a man.”

  There was a murmur around the room. Several people shifted position with a creak of whalebone, a squeak of leather, a rustle of fabric. No one spoke unless it was in a whisper so soft it was inaudible above the movement.