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The first witness of the afternoon was Zillah Lambert herself. She took the oath with a grave, trembling voice and looked up to face Sacheverall. She was very pale, but so far composed. She wore cream trimmed with palest green and it complemented her perfectly. Her glorious hair was piled richly on her head rather than tied severely back, and she looked vulnerable and very young. Yet there was a brightness about her like the glancing sunlight of April, as if she brought a breath of the spring countryside with her.
Without realizing, the jurors smiled at her. She was utterly unaware of them, looking only at Sacheverall. Not once did her eyes stray to Melville, as if she could not bear to look at him. No one could have failed to be aware of it.
“I regret the necessity for this, Miss Lambert,” Sacheverall began, as Rathbone had known he would. “But it is absolutely unavoidable, otherwise I should not subject you to this embarrassment, and an ordeal which must be terribly distressing to you.”
“I understand,” she whispered. “Please do what you must.”
Sacheverall smiled warmly at her. “Miss Lambert, has Mr. Killian Melville been a constant visitor at your home over the last two years?”
“Yes sir.”
“To see only your father, or also your mother and yourself?”
“He spent a great deal of time with us too,” she replied. “He often dined with us and would stay afterwards late into the evening. He and I would talk of all manner of things, our hopes and beliefs, our experiences, whatever we found beautiful or interesting, funny or sad.” She blinked hard, trying to keep away the tears. She glanced momentarily at Melville, and then away again. “He was the best and gentlest companion I ever had. He was wise and honest and yet he could make me laugh more than anyone else I knew. He told me wonderful tales of some of the places he had visited, what he had seen and how he felt about them … and the things he planned to build. He knows a great deal about history, most particularly the history of art in Italy. I—I find it wonderful to listen to him, because he cares so much.”
A certain tightness pulled Sacheverall’s mouth and his eyes were sharp.
“Quite so,” he said tensely. “In short, Miss Lambert, one might say he courted you.” That was a conclusion, not a question. He went straight on. “He spoke of his feelings, he shared his hopes for the future, he showed an extraordinary trust in you that we may assume he did with no one else. Did he make it unmistakable that he cared for you deeply, whatever ways, or words, he chose to use?”
“Yes … I believed so.” She was obliged to reach into her reticule for a handkerchief with which to dab her eyes. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.” Sacheverall was instantly tender. “I imagine every man in this room will understand how you feel—except for Melville, and possibly his counsel.”
Rathbone considered objecting, but it was not worth the trouble. The remark had already been made, and its impact would be less than that of Zillah herself. One could feel the sympathy for her filling the room. Even the gallery was totally silent. If anyone had been disposed to laugh or feel any sense of satisfaction in her misfortune, either they had changed their minds or they had sensed the atmosphere and wisely concealed it.
“Miss Lambert,” Sacheverall continued, “was Mr. Melville fully aware of all the wedding plans and arrangements?”
She sounded surprised. “Of course.”
“He was present when you discussed such matters as the choice of church? He was consulted in that, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, of course he was.” She gazed back at him. “Do you imagine we would arrange such a thing without making certain of his feelings?”
“No, I do not, Miss Lambert, but Sir Oliver seems to have considered it the case.” His very slight sneer derided it. “Did Mr. Melville at any time give you the slightest idea he was going to break your agreement?” He jerked his head in Melville’s direction.
“No,” she said simply.
“And has he since offered you any reason for his behavior?” Sacheverall persisted.
“No.” She was having difficulty restraining her emotions and it was plain for everyone to see. Some of the jurors were staring at her intently, others were embarrassed for her and did not wish to seem to intrude into her distress. If Sacheverall was not careful he would risk losing their sympathy towards himself. Perhaps that did not matter to him, as long as he retained it for her. What Rathbone knew of his reputation suggested he was a man who wished to win, even if it should be at considerable cost.
Sacheverall bit his lip and made some show of reluctance.
“Miss Lambert, has he given you any reason for his actions, any reason at all?”
“No,” she said so quietly it was barely audible.
The judge leaned forward but he did not ask her to repeat it.
“Only one more question, Miss Lambert,” Sacheverall promised. “Have you any idea whatever why he has done this? Have you done anything at all to give him cause? Is there anything he could have discovered about your situation, your family or your personal conduct which could explain it or justify it?”
“That is at least three questions, Mr. Sacheverall,” the judge pointed out.
“It will require only one answer, my lord,” Sacheverall said with a wave of his hands. “After that the witness is Sir Oliver’s.”
“Miss Lambert?” the judge prompted.
“No, my lord, I know of nothing,” she assured him.
