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“He did all of those things, sir, as you well know,” Lambert answered grimly. Sacheverall’s words must have brought back memories to him, because now his reluctance was gone and he was plainly both hurt and angry. He no longer avoided Melville but looked straight at him, challengingly, all his bewilderment clear in his face.
Rathbone felt a sinking inside him. There was no defense against his kind of honesty. Had he been a juror he could have found only one way. Killian Melville was guilty, and it was almost impossible to believe well of him. No man could court a girl in the manner Lambert described and not expect that she would read it as a declaration of love. Anyone would. Not even a fool could mistake it.
He looked sideways again at Melville now. His fair head was bent forward and there was a flush in his cheeks. His eyes were filled with despair, as if he were trapped with no escape.
Rathbone was not sure whether he felt sorry for him or simply so overwhelmed with anger he wanted to slap him for his irresponsible cruelty.
“So it came as no surprise to you in the least when a betrothal followed, in the natural course of events?” Sacheverall concluded.
“Of course not!” Lambert responded. “No one was surprised! It was as night follows day.”
“Quite so.” Sacheverall smiled sadly. He pursed his lips, frowning as he looked up at Lambert. “Arrangements were made for the wedding?”
“Yes. Announcement in the Times. All society knew.” Lambert pronounced the words sharply, showing his pain and perhaps a certain feeling of alienation, as if he were only too aware of the whispers and the amusement which would be enjoyed at his family’s expense.
“Naturally,” Sacheverall murmured. “And then what happened, Mr. Lambert?”
Lambert squared his shoulders. “Melville broke it off,” he said quietly. “No reason. No warning. Just broke it off.”
“It was
Killian Melville, not your daughter?” Sacheverall stressed, anger plain in his voice.
Rathbone looked at Melville, and he was sitting forward, one hand to his lips, biting his nails.
“It was.” Lambert’s face showed the strain. He was being publicly humiliated. He refused to look at anyone in the gallery. Rathbone was sharply aware of how much better it would have been for everyone if Zillah Lambert had consented to be the one to break the betrothal, regardless of whether she wished to or not. Apparently she had simply not believed Melville meant what he said.
Although, of course, Rathbone had only Melville’s word for it that he had actually tried to approach her. Perhaps he had failed in courage when it came to the moment.
“Have you any idea whatever what caused Mr. Melville’s extraordinary behavior, sir?” Sacheverall asked, his fair eyebrows raised, his whole stance conveying bewilderment.
“No idea at all,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “Can’t begin to understand it. Makes no sense.”
“Not to me,” Sacheverall agreed. “Unless there are things we do not know about Mr. Killian Melville….”
Rathbone rose to his feet.
Sacheverall waved at him airily. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.” He smiled, knowing he was almost invulnerable, and returned to his seat.
Rathbone felt somehow wrong-footed. He had never opposed Sacheverall across a court before. He knew his reputation, but somehow he had underrated him. His plain, rather foolish-looking face was deceiving. The quality of his voice should have warned him.
He walked to the middle of the open space surrounded by the lawyers’ positions, the witness-box, the judge and the high double row of jurors. He looked up at Barton Lambert. Apart from his own respect for the man, he knew better than to antagonize him. The jurors were already by nature and inclination in sympathy with him.
“How do you do, Mr. Lambert,” he began. “I am sorry for the circumstance which brings us together again. I need to ask you a few questions about this affair, in order to clarify it and to do my duty by my client.”
“I understand, sir,” Lambert said graciously. “That’s why we’re here. Ask away.”
Rathbone acknowledged this with a nod of courtesy.
“During this time that Mr. Melville called frequently at your home, sir, was he employed by you to design and oversee the construction of buildings you had commissioned?”
“He was.”
“And he was friendly with all your family?”
“Not the way you’re putting it, sir,” Lambert argued. “You’re trying to say he was equally friendly with all of us, and that’s not so. He was civil and pleasant to Mrs. Lambert. He was always pleasant with me, but he would be, wouldn’t he?” He raised his eyebrows. “I was his patron in his profession—his employer, in a sense. He’d have been a fool to be less than polite to me.” But his eyes avoided Melville as he spoke. “Not that I didn’t think he liked me, mind; and I liked him. Well-spoken, intelligent, decent-thinking young man, I thought him. But it is my daughter he spent time with, laughed and talked with, shared his ideas and his dreams with, and no doubt all of hers too.”
His face was full of the sharpness of the regret and the sense of betrayal he felt. “I can see them clear in my mind’s eye even as I stand here, heads bent together, talking and laughing, looking in each other’s eyes. You can’t tell me he wasn’t courting her, because I was there!” His look defied Rathbone, or anyone, to contradict him.
