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It was beginning to rain and he had to run to catch a hansom before a couple of gentlemen in short temper could beat him to it. He heard their cries of frustration as he slammed the door and gave the driver his address.
Two hours later, after he had dined without enjoying it and then paced the floor for thirty-five minutes, he went out again to look for another cab to Melville’s rooms.
He had only been there once before, Melville had come to him during their preparation for trial. The building was a handsome Georgian town house, but in no way different from its neighbors on either side. However, once he was past the vestibule, across the hall and up the stairs to the second floor, where Melville had his rooms, it was utterly individual. The inside had been gutted and the new walls were curved and washed with colors giving a unique appearance of space and light. They had been used to create optical illusions of both distance and warmth. One room seemed to blend into the next. Ivories and golds and shades of brown sugar blended with the richness of polished wood. One brilliant fuchsia-red cushion caught the eye. Another in hot Turkish pink echoed it.
Killian Melville sat in the middle of the floor on an embroidered camel saddle. He looked wretched. He barely glanced up as Rathbone came in and the maid disappeared.
“I suppose you want to resign the case,” he said gloomily. “I can’t blame you. I appear to be a complete cad.”
“Appear to be?” Rathbone said with sarcasm.
Melville looked up. There were shadows around his eyes and fine lines from nose to mouth and around his lips. He was handsome in a refined, ascetic manner, but the most outstanding impression in his countenance was still one of overriding honesty. There was a directness in him, a sense of courage, even daring.
“Are you asking to resign?” he repeated.
“No, I am not!” Rathbone said sharply, stung more by pride than by sense, and certainly not by any belief that he could win. “I shall fight the case to the end, but the least I can realistically hope to do for you is mitigate the scale of the disaster. On what you have given me, I cannot beat Sacheverall; he has all the weapons.”
“I know,” Melville agreed. “I do not expect miracles.”
“Yes, you do.” Rathbone sat down on the sofa without waiting to be invited. “Or you would not have entered this case at all. It is not too late to make some excuse of nervousness, indisposition, and still ask her to marry you. She may well refuse now—heaven knows, you have given her cause—and then at least her honor will be satisfied and you will have extricated yourself.”
Melville smiled with self-mockery. “But what if she accepts?”
“Then marry her,” Rathbone responded. “She is charming, modest, intelligent, good-tempered and healthy. Her father is rich and she is his only heir. For heaven’s sake, man, what more do you want? You have admitted you like her, and she obviously cares for you.”
Melville looked away. “No,” he said quietly, but there was infinite resolution in his voice. “I cannot marry her.”
Rathbone was exasperated. He felt helpless, sent into battle robbed of both armor and weapons.
Melville sat in the camel saddle staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, miserable and obstinate.
“Then for God’s sake, give me a reason!” Rathbone heard his own voice getting louder, filled with anger. “If you forbid me, then I won’t use it, but at least let me know! What is wrong with Zillah Lambert? Does she drink? Has she some disease? Is there madness in her family? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Melville said stubbornly, still staring downwards. Rathbone could see only his profile. “So far as I know, she is as charming and as innocent as she looks.” He continued, “I know of nothing else.”
“Then it must be you,” Rathbone accused. He could not remember ever having been so angry with a client before. Melville was brilliant, handsome, highly individual, and had a very real charm … and he was destroying himself over something which, compared with the tragedies and violence Rathbone usually dealt with, was utterly trivial. That a young woman’s reputation was being questioned and her feelings were being hurt were not light matters, but they were so very much less than the imprisonment, ruin and often death which he dealt with in cases of murder. And Melville’s problem seemed so much of his own making. Why did he lie? What could there possibly be that was worth concealing at this cost?
Melville sat hunched and silent.
“What is it?” Rathbone demanded. “Is it Zillah Lambert you won’t marry, or anyone at all?”
Melville turned to look at him, his face puzzled, something dark in his eyes which Rathbone thought might have been fear.
“Well?” Rathbone said urgently. “Are you free to marry? Whatever you tell me I am bound by oath to keep in confidence. I cannot lie for you in court, but I can and will keep silent. But I cannot help you if I don’t know what I am fighting.”
Melville turned away again, his face set. “I am free to marry … but not Zillah Lambert. That is an end to it. There is nothing wrong with her. I’ll take the punishment. Just do the best you can.”
Rathbone remained another half hour, but he could get nothing more from Melville. At quarter to ten he left and went home through rising wind and squalls of rain, still surprisingly cold.
He poured himself a draft of single-malt whiskey and drank it neat, then went to bed. He slept very badly, troubled by dreams.
4
THE TRIAL RESUMED the next morning with Sacheverall providing witnesses to Zillah’s blameless character, as Rathbone had known he would. It was hardly necessary—her own appearance had been sufficient—but then he could not be certain that Rathbone had no witness of his own in store, someone who could cast doubt on the innocence and charm they had seen.
The first was a Lady Lucinda Stoke-Harbury, a girl of Zillah’s own age who was newly betrothed to the second son of an earl, and impeccably respectable. She stood with her head high, her eyes straight ahead, and spoke clearly. Sacheverall could not have found anyone better, and the very slight swagger with which he walked to and fro on the open space of the floor showed his confidence. He smiled like an actor playing to the gallery, and seemed just as sure that the rest of the cast would respond as if according to a script.
“Lady Lucinda, please tell us how long you have been acquainted with Miss Lambert, if you would be so kind.”
