by Anne Perry
He heard the faint rustle in the courtroom, but no one laughed.
“She told me there was not.” He took a breath. “I did not accept her word. I employed an agent of enquiry to research into both Miss Lambert’s past and hers. He found nothing.” He owed Monk something better than a bare statement. “If there had been longer, I daresay he would have learned the truth, but events overtook us. It appeared Melville’s affair with Mr. Wolff was reason enough. Of course, we now know it was … a love between man and woman, not illegal, not abnormal.” He had nearly said “not scandalous,” but perhaps since they were not married, there would be those who would consider it so. “Such as is usual enough,” he said instead.
“What was her frame of mind, as far as you could judge, when Mr. Sacheverall brought Isaac Wolff to the stand and accused him of a homosexual relationship with Melville?” There was a chill in the coroner’s voice, and he did not look towards where Sacheverall was sitting.
“She was deeply distressed,” Rathbone answered truthfully. “Very deeply. But she denied it to me.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I … I don’t know. I neither believed nor disbelieved. I was concerned with trying to rescue what I could from the situation. I hoped I might persuade Miss Lambert to settle for a small amount of damages, so at least Melville might not be financially ruined, as well as socially and professionally.” He found the words difficult to say. They still hurt. The failure was deep and twisting inside him.
“Did you tell Miss Melville your hopes?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know of anything that occurred that afternoon which would so alter the circumstances as to make her despair and take her own life?”
“Sacheverall had called a prostitute to the stand in the morning who had sworn that the affair she had observed was of a sexual nature,” Rathbone said bitterly, “not the friendship both Wolff and Melville had insisted. But if that was the final incident, then I would have expected her to have taken the poison during the luncheon adjournment, and according to the surgeon she did not.”
“Did Miss Melville at any time speak of taking her life, or say anything which led you, even in hindsight, to suppose she was thinking of it?”
“No.” Rathbone’s voice sank. “Perhaps I should have realized how desperate she was, but I had formed the belief that her art was so precious to her she would have lived to practice it regardless of anything else. I … in hindsight, I even wondered if she had been murdered … but I know of no way in which anyone else could have administered the poison to her, nor any reason why they should.”
“I see. Thank you, Sir Oliver. I have nothing further to ask you.”
Rathbone remained where he was. He wanted to say something else, something about the whole ridiculous situation which had brought about a needless tragedy and destroyed one of the most luminous talents he had ever known, not to mention a vibrant, intelligent human being capable of suffering and laughter and dreams.
“It need not have happened!” he said angrily, leaning forward a little over the slender rails of the witness stand, his hands gripping them. “If any of us had behaved with a little more sense, a little more charity, it would all have been avoided. Keelin Melville could be alive now, still creating beauty for us and for our heirs in this city, this country.”
There was a murmur of shock in the gallery, and then something which could even have been approval.
He leaned over farther. “For God’s sake, why can’t we allow women to use whatever talents they have without hounding and denying them until they are reduced to pretending to be men in order to be taken at their true value?”
There was a shifting of weight on the public benches, and a rustle and creak of fabric. People were uncomfortable.
“Why can’t we allow people to break a betrothal if they realize it was a mistake,” he went on passionately, “without assuming there must be some fearful sin on the part of one or the other of them? Why do we care so much if a woman is pretty or not? If all we want is something lovely to look at, we can buy a picture and hang it on the wall. We do this!” He flung out his arms. “We create a society where people go to law instead of saying to each other the simple truth. And now instead of a broken romance—which, God knows, hurts enough, but we all experience it—we have scandal, disgrace, shame, and worst of all, we have destroyed one of the brightest talents of our generation. And over what? A misunderstanding.”
There was definite movement in the gallery now, a whispering, a buzz. Even the jurors were muttering.
Sacheverall rose to his feet, his face red.
“Sir Oliver is being disingenuous, sir, and I cannot sit here in silence and allow it. He knows as well as I do that a young woman’s reputation is precious to her. A man who robs another person of reputation steals one of his, or her, most priceless possessions … one that can never be got back again.” He glanced at the jurors; he did not care about the public. “That is not a false value. It is a very real one.”
His expression twisted to undisguised contempt, and he was moving forward from his seat. “Sir Oliver would be one of the first to complain if his good name was compromised. In fact, he may discover after the loss of this case just how painful it can be when people no longer think of you as well as they once did.” He was now out in front of the court, not more than a couple of yards from where Rathbone stood. He was a large man and seemed to crowd the area. He moved his hands around, taking up even more space. Everyone was watching him, but the expressions Rathbone could see were very varied, and not all of respect.
“It is natural enough to resent losing a case, especially as dramatically as he lost this one.” Sacheverall smiled fleetingly towards Rathbone. “But that was his error of judgment in accepting it and choosing to fight it in the first place. Now he is blaming all the rest of us”—he swung his arms wide to embrace everyone present—“for Melville’s misfortune. That is manifestly preposterous. We are not at fault in any way. Keelin Melville chose to behave unnaturally, to deny her womanhood and attempt to follow a masculine profession from which she would, of course, have been excluded had she not practiced such a deception.”
There was a rumble from the body of the room, but he ignored it. He also ignored the growing darkness in the coroner’s face, the tight pull of his lips and the drawing down of his brows.
“She also deceived Barton Lambert, her friend and benefactor, who had from the very beginning shown her only kindness and a trust she did not honor and did not return.” He gestured contemptuously towards Rathbone. “For Sir Oliver to complain now, and accuse society at large, is to show his own shallowness of character and to demonstrate that, far from learning by his error of judgment, he is determined to compound it.”
The coroner was so furious he scarcely knew where to begin.
“Mr. Sacheverall,” he said loudly and very clearly, “I believe Sir Oliver included himself in his castigation of society. Perhaps your own involvement in these events did not allow you to listen to what he said with the attention which I think was its due. I have heard what has been said here today up to this point, and unless there is evidence yet to come which contradicts it, I cannot help but agree that the death of Keelin Melville was a tragedy which need not have happened. And for you to suggest that she was depraved, that she deceived Mr. Lambert willfully, I find unjustified and most distasteful.”
Sacheverall’s face reddened, but it was as much in anger as shame. There was no shred of retreat in his attitude, and his chin jerked up, not down.
“Unless you have something to say which is germane to the issue, Mr. Sacheverall,” the coroner continued, “you will return to your seat and keep from any further interruption to our proceedings.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you have any information we should know as to when Keelin Melville took the poison which killed her, where she obtained it, or when?”
“No—I …”
“Did you observe anything which you have not told the
police?”
“No—I …”
“Have you anything useful whatever to add?”
“I …”
“Then please resume your seat—and do not interrupt us again!”
Sacheverall retreated in ill-concealed fury. There might have been sympathy for him among his peers, or his friends in society. There was none in the courtroom. Whatever the people there had thought of Keelin Melville in her lifetime, now they had nothing but a sense of pity and an uncomfortable suspicion that they were in some way, no matter how small a way, to blame for her death.
The coroner called Isaac Wolff to the stand. He was obviously in a state of deep grief. His face was almost bloodlessly pale, his eyes had the hollow look of a man who is suffering a prolonged illness, and he spoke quietly and without any lift or timbre in his voice.
The coroner treated him with the greatest courtesy, asking him only those facts which were necessary to corroborate or enlarge upon what was already known.
Wolff answered as briefly as possible, and his bare hands grasped the rail as if he needed it in order to keep his balance. The room was full, for the most part, of ordinary people, and they were too sensible of the presence of loss not to share in it. There was not a sound among them as he spoke. No one fidgeted or turned away. No one whispered to their neighbors.
Rathbone found himself watching Barton Lambert. He too was sunk in a weight of grief. Looking at him now it was naked in his face how fond of Melville he had been—as a friend, as an artist, as a colleague in creating lasting, individual and innovative beauty. It was also clear that his sorrow was touched with an acute awareness of how large his own part had been in this tragedy. His shoulders slumped forward. He did not look to either side of him, as if he preferred to remain islanded away from even those closest to him.
Delphine, on the contrary, sat upright, her eyes wide, her attention sharp and clear. It could not be supposed she was comfortable, but she was enduring the temporary embarrassment with stoicism, knowing the important victory was hers. This was merely part of the price. And there were other battles ahead. Her glance, when it strayed towards Sacheverall, was venomous in the extreme. Rathbone would not be surprised if in due course stories and whispers began to circulate not entirely to Sacheverall’s credit. Nothing specific would be said, only looks, intonations of the voice, a question in the eyes. Neither, actually, would he be sorry. In fact, he thought of it with some satisfaction.
After Wolff had finished the coroner called Monk, but only to assure himself that Monk could add nothing. Monk corroborated what he had heard and stepped down again.
The coroner did not retire to consider. There was no need.
“I have listened to all that has been said today.” He frowned as he spoke. “It is a case which disturbs me greatly for the loss of a young and brilliant life which had already been an ornament to our culture and would undoubtedly have been more so in the future, had she lived. I have not been satisfied as to exactly how it happened, nor precisely what particular incident turned the balance from discouragement to despair, but there is no other conclusion possible except that Keelin Melville took her own life by swallowing the poison of belladonna while in the courthouse during the case against her for breach of promise.” He breathed in and out slowly. “One may only presume that the ruin which the suit brought to her life and career, and to the life of the man she loved, was a pain more than she felt able to bear. We must all live with our own responsibility for our individual parts in that.” He picked up his gavel and touched it lightly to its stand. “This court is adjourned.”
Monk left after only the briefest word with Rathbone. There really was nothing to say. They both knew before they went in what the verdict would be, and the pain of it would only be made worse by standing around talking about it. They had done their best, and it had not been good enough. Of course, they never expected to win every case. No one did. But losing did not grow easier.
He came down the steps into the street and hailed the first hansom he saw, directing the driver to Tavistock Square. He should tell Hester what had happened in person rather than allow her to read it or hear about it. Anyway, now that it was no longer a cause célèbre it would only be a small item on a back page. She might not even see it.
And he wanted to share the burden of his feelings about it with someone to whom it needed no explanation and who would understand without his needing to tell anything but the bare facts.
He was welcomed as usual and shown into the withdrawing room. He asked to see Hester, and this time there was no waiting. She came after barely five minutes, and a glance at his face told her why he had come.
“It’s over?” She came in and closed the door behind her. There was a small fire burning and the room looked gentle and very domestic, shabby enough to feel at ease.
“Yes … it’s over. Suicide.”
She looked at him closely, studying his eyes, his face. For several moments she did not say anything more, simply sharing in silence the complex unhappiness of the knowledge. All sorts of questions and ideas went through his mind as to whether they could have done differently, what he had expected, but none of them were worth putting into words. He knew what her answer would be, and that very fact was comfortable.
“How is Oliver?” she said at last.
He laughed very slightly, abruptly. “Extraordinary … quite out of character,” he answered, then wondered immediately if that was so. Perhaps Rathbone had instead found a truer part of himself. “He told the court, and the public, what he thought of their general prejudice and of the value of women for their prettiness and docility, and led the way for the coroner to express his highly unflattering opinion of Sacheverall.” He remembered it with surprising pleasure as he said it.
She smiled, a slow, sad smile, but with a gentleness he realized he had seen in her often.
“Poor Oliver. He is not used to feeling so violently. I think he cared about Melville more than most of his cases. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“You admire that, don’t you?” he observed. He made it a question, but he knew it was true. If she had denied it he would not have believed her. He admired it too. He had no regard for someone incapable of anger at injustice.
He had thought Rathbone cold, a creature of his intellect, of superb and total control of his emotions. To find he was not so increased Monk’s liking for him. He was not sure that he wished to like Rathbone, but even with all its complications, it was a sweeter feeling than contempt or indifference.
“Do you want to tell Gabriel?” she asked, cutting across his thoughts.
“Yes … yes, I will. How is he?” He asked because he liked Gabriel; it was not a matter of courtesy.
“Better,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “I think the pain is about the same. It will be for a while. But he is sleeping with fewer nightmares now.”
“Perdita?” he guessed.
She smiled. “Yes. Slowly …”
He smiled also, remembering Athol Sheldon and the look on his face when Perdita had spoken to him the last time Monk had been there. It was a battle she would not win easily, but at least she was prepared to fight it.
Hester led the way from the withdrawing room across the hall and upstairs to Gabriel’s room. She knocked on the door.
It was opened by Perdita. She was dressed in soft pink trimmed with wine and she looked very serious and demure in spite of the flattering color. She stared past Hester to Monk.
“Is it more about Martha’s nieces?” she asked very quietly, in case Martha should be close and overhear her.
“No, Mrs. Sheldon, it is about the inquest on Keelin Melville.”
“Oh.” She hesitated only a moment. The old habit of trying to protect Gabriel did not die easily. She had to make a conscious effort to realize what she was doing. She opened the door wider and they followed her in.
Gabriel was sitting up on the bed, but he was fully dressed. It was only the second time Monk had seen him other t
han under the covers. He realized with a sense of shock how thin Gabriel was. Quite apart from the empty sleeve of his shirt, neatly tucked up and fastened, in the warm room with the sunlight streaming in, the thin cotton fabric showed how his body had wasted even on the other side. Heat, hunger and pain had taken a fearful toll on him. It would be half a year at least before he regained the health he had had before Cawnpore. Monk became acutely curious of his own body with its lean muscles and ease of movement, his energy, the power he did not even have to think of. So much was a matter of fortune. He could have been in the army instead of the police. He might have been in India. He could have been in Gabriel Sheldon’s place, and Gabriel in his. Except he would not have had Perdita to care for him and to be responsible for. But he could have! She was just the sort of gentle, charming woman he had fallen in love with so many times.
Gabriel was looking at him, waiting for him to speak.
“Keelin Melville?” he said at last, when Monk was still silent.
“Yes,” Monk replied, coming in. “They held the inquest this morning.”
Gabriel’s face was unreadable. It flew to Monk’s mind that Gabriel must have thought of suicide himself in the early days of his maiming and disfigurement. How often had he lain on his back in agonizing pain and helplessness and wished he were dead? Melville could at least have escaped most of her difficulties. She could have left England and started again in a dozen different places. She was young, healthy; she had sufficient means to travel and no unbreakable ties. Wolff could have gone with her, had he wished to. She was whole of body and had her health and very considerable good looks. In Italy or France she could even have lived openly as a woman and married Wolff. Perhaps she would have had to practice her profession through him, give him credit for her creation or her technical skill … but was that not still infinitely better than dying?
Why had she given up?
