Anne Perry - A Breach of Promise

"Thank you, Mr. Monk," Martha said as levelly as she could. "It is very good of you… indeed."

He stood up. It was not good at all, it was idiotic. Next time he saw Hester, he would tell her just how ridiculous it was in the plainest terms.

"Save your thanks till I bring you something useful," he said rather less generously. He felt guilty now. He had done it for Hester, and he would never be able to help this woman. "Good day, Miss Jackson. It is past time I was leaving. I must report to Sir Oliver. Good night, Hester."

She stood up and moved closer to him, smiling. "I shall accompany you to the door. Thank you, William."

He shot her a glance which should have frozen her and seemed to have no effect whatever.

Rathbone went into court on Monday morning with not a scrap more evidence than he had possessed on the previous Friday afternoon. He had spoken with Monk and listened to all he could tell him, but it offered nothing he could use. Thinking of it now, he had given Monk an impossible task. It was foolish of him to have allowed himself to hope, but sitting at his table in the half-empty courtroom, he realized that he had.

The gallery was filling only slowly. People were not interested. They had no feeling that the case was anything but the rather shabby emotional tragedy Sacheverall had made it seem and, to be frank, Rathbone had been unable to disprove. If Melville were hiding any excuse, no whisper of it showed.

Rathbone looked sideways at him now. He was sitting hunched forward like a man expecting a blow and without defense against it. There seemed no willingness to fight in him, no anger, even no spirit. Rathbone had seldom had a client who frustrated him so profoundly. Even Zorah Rostova, equally determined to pursue a seemingly suicidal case, had had a passionate conviction that she was right and all the courage in the world to battle her cause.

"Melville!" Rathbone said sharply, leaning forward to be closer to him.

Melville turned. His face was very pale, his eyes almost aquamarine colored. He had a poet's features, handsome yet delicate; the fire of genius in him was visible even in these miserable circumstances, a quality of intelligence, a light inside him.

"For God's sake," Rathbone urged, "tell me if you know something about Zillah Lambert! I won't use it in open court, but I can make Sacheverall speak to his client, and they might withdraw. Is it something you know and her father doesn't? Are you protecting her?"

Melville smiled, and there was a spark of laughter far behind the brilliance of his eyes. "No."

"If she's worth ruining yourself over, then she won't let you do this," Rathbone went on, leaning a little closer to him. "As things are, you can't win!" He put his hand on Melville's arm and felt him flinch. "You can't avoid reality much longer. Today, or tomorrow at the latest, Sacheverall will conclude his case, and I have nothing to fight him with. Just give me the truth! Trust me!"

Melville smiled, his shoulders sagging, his voice low. "There is nothing to tell you. I appear to have given you an impossible case. I'm sorry."

He got no further because Sacheverall came across the floor, looking at them with a faint curl to his lips, his head high, a swagger in his walk. He was even more satisfied with himself than he had been when they adjourned. He sat down in his chair, and the moment after the clerk called the court to order. It was still half empty.

McKeever took his place.

"Mr. Sacheverall?" he enquired. His face was almost devoid of expression, his mild blue eyes curious and innocent. If he had come to any conclusions himself he did not betray them in his manner.

Sacheverall rose to his feet. He was smiling. There was satisfaction in every inch of him. Even his floppy hair and protruding ears seemed cavalier, a mark of individuality rather than blemishes.

"I call Isaac Wolff," he said distinctly. He half turned towards Melville, then resisted the temptation. It was a sign of how sure he was of himself. Rathbone recognized it.

"Who is Wolff?" he said under his breath to Melville.

"A friend," Melville replied without turning his head.

"Of whose? Yours or Lambert's?"

"Mine. Lambert has never met him, so far as I know." His voice was so soft Rathbone had to strain to hear it.

"Then why is Sacheverall calling him?" Rathbone demanded. Sacheverall was not bluffing. He showed that in every inch of his stance, his broad shoulders, the angle of his head, the ease in him.

“I don't know," Melville answered, lifting his eyes a little to watch as a tall man with saturnine features walked across the open space of the floor and climbed the steps of the witness-box. He faced the court, staring at Sacheverall. His eyes seemed black under his level brows, and his thick hair, falling sideways over one temple, was as dense as coal. It was a passionate, compelling face, and he stared at Sacheverall with guarded dislike. No one could mistake that he was there against his will.

"Mr. Wolff," Sacheverall began, relishing the moment, "are you acquainted with Mr. Killian Melville, the defendant in this case?"

"Yes."

Rathbone looked across at the jury to see their reaction. There was a stirring of interest, no more. They were inexperienced in courtroom tactics. They did not understand Sachev-erall's confidence and were only half convinced of it.

"Well acquainted, sir?" Sacheverall's voice was gentle and he smiled as he spoke.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Wolff's eyes and mouth but he did not allow it into his words.

"I have known him for some time. I do not know how you wish me to measure acquaintance."

Sacheverall held up his hand in a broad gesture. "Oh! But you will, Mr. Wolff, you will. It is precisely the point I am coming to. Give me leave to do it in my own way. How did you meet Mr. Melville?"

The judge glanced towards Rathbone, half inviting him to object that the question was irrelevant. Rathbone knew there was no point in doing so. To challenge would only show Rathbone's desperation. He shook his head momentarily and McKeever looked away again.

"Mr. Wolff?" Sacheverall prompted. "Surely you recall?"

Wolff smiled, showing his teeth. "It was some years ago, about twelve. I'm not sure that I do."

It was not the answer Sacheverall had wished. Rathbone could tell that from the sharp way he moved his arm back. But he had opened the way for it himself.

"Was it a social occasion, Mr. Wolff, or a professional one?"

"Social."

"You have recalled it, then?"

"No. We have no professional concerns in common."

Rathbone rose to his feet, more as a matter of form than because he thought it would actually affect Sacheverall's case. The tension was becoming palpable. Beside him at the table, Melville was rigid.

"My lord…"

"Yes, yes," McKeever agreed. "Mr. Sacheverall, if you have a point to this, please come to it. Mr. Wolff has conceded that he is acquainted with Mr. Melville. If there is something in that which bears upon his promise to marry Miss Lambert, then proceed to it."

"Oh, a great deal, my lord," Sacheverall said impassively. "I regret to say." He swung around to face the witness-box. "Are you married, Mr. Wolff?"

"No."

"Have you ever been?"

"No."

McKeever frowned. "Mr. Sacheverall, I find it hard to believe that this is indeed your point."

"Oh, it is, my lord," Sacheverall answered him. "I am about to make it." And disregarding McKeever, he swung back to Wolff, on the stand. "You live alone, Mr. Wolff, but you are not a recluse. In fact, you have a close and enduring friendship, have you not… with Mr. Killian Melville?"

Wolff stared back at him unflinchingly, but his face was set, his eyes hard.

"I regard Mr. Melville as a good friend. I have done for some time."