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He put on his coat. It was already half past three, and he expected to be out until late evening—in fact, as long as he had any hope of finding someone awake who could be of assistance.
Outside the weather was bright and mild, but there were clouds banking to the east beyond the rooftops and he was only too aware from experience that conditions could change in the space of ten or fifteen minutes from pleasant weather to a chill close to freezing and a soaking rain.
He had made his decision to begin with a past client of his own, a man for whom he had solved a sensitive domestic problem and avoided a situation which could have become very ugly. Mr. Sandeman was correspondingly grateful, and had promised to give any assistance he was able should Monk ever need it. Monk was not sure if he had spoken impulsively, without any belief that he would ever be taken up on it, but this seemed like an excellent time to put it to the test.
Accordingly, he arrived at Upper Bedford Place just after three o’clock, and asked if he might see Mr. Sandeman on a matter of urgency.
“If it were not, I should not trouble him on a Saturday, and without writing first,” Monk explained to the butler, taking off his gloves and passing the man his hat and stick as if there were no question as to whether he would be received.
“Certainly, sir,” the butler said, masking his surprise with long practice. “I shall see if Mr. Sandeman is at home.” That was the conventional way of saying he would see if the visitor could be welcomed or not. Naturally, he was perfectly
aware who was in the house and who was not. It was his job to be. “If you care to wait in the green room, sir, I am sure you will be comfortable.”
The green room was very attractive, full of afternoon sunlight from white-painted windows which overlooked a garden where silver birch leaves shimmered in the breeze, making the air seem to dance. Inside the walls were papered with an unusually plain dark green, and two were hung with many paintings of landscapes. Monk remembered the room from his previous visit, when Sandeman had been so concerned about an apparent theft from his wife’s bedroom. But that had been satisfactorily dealt with, and it would be tactless to raise the issue now.
Monk had not long to wait. The door opened and Robert Sandeman came in, a look of apprehension on his broad, good-natured face. He was a very wealthy man who continued to look as if he were wearing secondhand clothes, even when they were the best Savile Row could offer. They seemed to have been made for someone of an entirely different shape. He was the despair of his tailors.
“Hello, Monk!” he said with evident surprise. “Nothing new arisen, has it?” He could not keep the anxiety out of his eyes.
“Nothing at all,” Monk assured him. “I am looking into another matter entirely, for a friend, and hoped you might be able to give me a little assistance. I have to learn enough to provide some sort of answer by Monday morning, or else I would not have disturbed you like this.”
Sandeman’s relief was almost palpable. He closed the door behind him and waved at one of the large chairs, sitting in one of the others.
“My dear fellow, by all means. Whatever I can do.”
“Thank you,” Monk accepted immediately. On the journey there he had tried to decide exactly how to approach the subject without appearing intrusive in areas no gentleman would discuss. There was no easy solution. “It is another matter of delicacy,” he began. “Perhaps a domestic issue, or possibly financial. It is all so undefined at the moment. And I do not wish to break anyone’s confidence or jeopardize their privacy.”
“Quite so,” Sandeman said quickly. “Quite so.” He looked relieved. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, wrinkling his trousers hopelessly. “So what can I tell you that may be of service?”
Monk began very carefully. “Are you familiar with the work of an architect named Killian Melville?”
Sandeman was quite openly surprised. “Yes! Yes, I am. Brilliant fellow. Unique. His work is quite new, you know? Nothing like anybody else’s. Not in the least vulgar,” he added quickly, in case Monk should misunderstand him. “He manages to make spaces look larger than they are. Don’t know how he does it. Something to do with shades of color and the way lines are directed. Uses curves and arches in an unusual way.” He drew breath to go on, then closed his mouth again. “Mustn’t ask why you want to know.”
Monk knew he was very conscious of his own need for privacy, and if Monk were to betray Melville or Lambert, then Sandeman would assume he would do the same to him. The situation required the most subtle handling. And yet if he were to be of any use to Rathbone he must discover Melville’s secret, and do it before Monday morning. He was rash to have accepted the case, but he could never resist a challenge from Oliver Rathbone, however it was placed before him, however disguised. He thought wryly that probably Rathbone knew that when he had come.
He smiled at Sandeman. “I daresay it will be in the evening newspapers, if it was not in the morning ones,” he acknowledged. “Unfortunately, those things cannot be kept private, as I believe they should be.”
Sandeman raised his eyebrows. “Oh? I am sorry to hear that. Poor fellow. Surprised, mind you. Never heard the slightest whisper against him, myself.” His eyes narrowed and he regarded Monk deceptively closely. His mild manner hid a more astute mind than many had supposed, to their cost. Still he refused to ask the nature of the charge.
“Not the slightest?” Monk pressed, knowing he must tread extremely carefully.
“Nothing but praise,” Sandeman affirmed. “Not everyone likes his work, of course. But then if they did it would mean he was mediocre, safe, and pedestrian. And he is certainly not that. Everyone’s friend is no one’s, you know?” He regarded Monk quizzically, although he knew he agreed. “Can’t bear a man who trims his sails to meet the prevailing wind all the time and never stands for anything himself. Melville is not one of those.” He frowned, wrinkling his brows together. “But that is hardly a thing one would sue a man for, or have him charged in law. You did not say whether it was a civil suit or a criminal one.”
“Civil.”
“Not a building less than standard.” Sandeman made it a statement. “I don’t believe that. He knows his job superbly. I would be prepared to say he is the best architect of his generation, perhaps of the century.” He stared at Monk as if prepared to defy a challenge.
“Where did he study?” Monk enquired.
Sandeman thought for a moment. “You know, I have no idea,” he said with evident surprise. “I haven’t heard anyone mention it. Is it of importance?”
“Probably not,” Monk answered. “It is unlikely the difficulty stems so far back. I assume that you have never heard suggestion that he is financially untrustworthy or—”
Sandeman did not allow him to finish. “He is an architect, Monk. A man of vision, even genius. He is not a banker or a trader. He sells ideas. I think rather than beating around the circumference of this, you had better tell me, in confidence, the nature of this difficulty. If it is the subject of a court case, then it will soon enough become public.”
Monk was more than ready. “He is being sued for breach of promise.”
Sandeman sat perfectly still. He did not speak, but disbelief was in every line of him.
