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It was an uncomfortable experience. He did not want to feel any involvement with Melville, and already a sense of the young architect’s vision was forcing itself upon him. There was light everywhere around him as he stood in the main floor, where Carrara marble was being laid. It was not cold light, not pale, bleaching of color or fading, but giving an air of expansion and freedom. It was almost as if the interior could be as unrestricting as the outside with its clean, soaring lines and uncluttered facades. It was extremely modern, avant-garde, and yet also timeless.
Walking in the still uncompleted galleries, Monk found himself relaxing. He went through an archway into a farther hall, sun reflecting through a huge rose window along a pale floor, this time of wood. The other windows were very high and round, above the picture line, filling the arched ceiling with more light. He found himself smiling. He enjoyed being there, almost as if he were in the company of someone he liked. There was a kind of communication of joy in beauty, even in life.
What would make a man who could create such things ask a woman to marry him and then break his word? Was it as he had told Rathbone, simply that he had been so naive to the ways of the world that he had allowed himself to form a friendship which was misunderstood? The whole wedding had been arranged around him, and he had at no time the grasp to understand it—or the courage to disclaim and retreat?
These buildings were created by a mind of burning clarity and aspiration, a strength of will to dare anything. Such a man could never be a coward. Nor could he be a deceiver. There was a simplicity of line and conception which was in itself a kind of honesty.
Without realizing it, Monk had clenched his fists; his whole body was stiff with determination and an inner anger in his will to preserve this, to defend whoever was the person whose spirit was embodied there. He had always judged a man not by what he said but by what he did, the choices he made, when it was difficult, dangerous, when he had much to lose. This building soared to the sky with Killian Melville’s choices.
He had entered not wanting to like Melville, not wanting to care one way or the other. He walked out rapidly, his feet loud and brisk on the wood and marble floors, and through the entrance door down steps to the square. He did not even bother to excuse himself to the caretaker. The wind was sharp and growing colder. The sun was already lowering and filling the west over the rooftops with an apricot glow. How could he help Melville? What was he hiding, and above all, why did he not trust Rathbone with it?
Was he protecting himself or someone else? Zillah Lambert herself?
There was no time before Monday morning and the trial’s resumption to discuss anything but the most superficial facts. The most urgent thing to learn was if there had been some incident in Melville’s life he was afraid might come to light and ruin him. It must be something Sacheverall could find out, or Rathbone would have no need to fear it.
It was late Saturday afternoon. No professional organizations would be open for him to ask questions. He would have to call on more acquaintances, people who might help him for the sake of old friendship, or more likely old debt. He had no relationships more than four years long. Everything before that was part of the past he knew so imperfectly, although now that he at least understood why Runcorn hated him, and why their quarrel and his dismissal from the police force had been inevitable, that no longer troubled him. He seldom looked backward anymore. The old ghosts had lost their power.
He stood still on the pavement for several minutes. People passed by him, two ladies chattering, their crinoline skirts swaying, curls blown in the increasing wind, hands held up to keep their bonnets from flying away. A carriage and four went by at a fast clip, horses’ manes streaming, harness jingling loudly. Someone shouted, and a young man darted out into the street.
An elderly man with magnificent whiskers passed an angry remark about the state of society.
Monk remembered the name of someone he could ask about architects and money. He turned and walked briskly across the square and through an archway into a main thoroughfare where he found a hansom and gave the driver an address in Gower Street.
George Burnham was an elderly man with a prodigious memory, and was happy to exercise it to help anyone, even to show off a little. The days were very long now that he was alone, and he delighted in company. He piled more coals on the fire and ordered supper for himself and Monk, and settled comfortably for an evening of companionship and recollections, after shooing away a large and very beautiful black-and-white cat so Monk might have the best chair.
“Known every new architect, painter and sculptor to come to London in the last forty years,” he said confidently. “Do you like pork pie, my dear fellow?” He waved casually at the cat. “Off you go, Florence.”
“Yes, I do,” Monk accepted, sitting down carefully so as not to crush the skirts of his jacket, trying to disregard the cat hairs.
“Excellent!” Mr. Burnham rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. We shall dine on pork pie, hot vegetables and cold pickle. Mrs. Shipton makes the best pickle in this entire city. And what about a little good she
rry first? A nice mellow amontillado? Good, good!” He reached out and pulled the bell cord. “Now, my dear fellow, what is it you wish to know?” He smiled encouragingly.
Monk had met him during a sensitive case concerning missing money. It had been solved very much to Mr. Burnham’s satisfaction. A collection of such clients was invaluable. At first Monk had despised the smaller cases, thinking them beneath his talents and no more than a demeaning necessity in his newly reduced circumstances. Now he began to appreciate the value of the clients far beyond the nature of the problems they had presented to him. Sandeman had been one such; Mr. Burnham was another.
“What do you think of the work of Killian Melville?” he asked candidly.
Mr. Burnham cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes bright with interest.
“Sublime,” he answered. “In a word—sublime! Finest architect this century.” He did not ask why Monk wished to know, but he did not take his gaze from Monk’s face.
“Where did he study?” Monk frowned.
“No idea,” Mr. Burnham said instantly. “No one does. At least, no one I have met. Appeared in London about five years ago from God knows where. Can’t place his accent. Tried to. Don’t think it matters. Man is a genius. He can be a law unto himself. Although don’t mistake me,” he added earnestly. “He’s a very pleasant fellow, no airs or graces, no filthy temper, doesn’t keep a mistress or practice any excesses, so far as I know.” Still he did not ask why Monk was enquiring.
“Could he have studied abroad?” Monk asked.
Florence leaped up into Mr. Burnham’s lap, turned around several times and then settled.
“Of course he could!” Mr. Burnham answered. “Probably did, in fact. He is far too original to have gathered all his inspirations here. But if you doubt his technical ability, you have no need. I know Barton Lambert quite well enough to stake all I possess on his having assured himself, beyond even the slightest question, that all Melville’s drawings are structurally perfect before he would put forward a halfpenny to have them built.” He stroked Florence absentmindedly. “You may rely absolutely upon that as you would upon the Bank of England! Stand as long as the Tower of London, I assure you.” There was absolute conviction in his face, and he smiled as he spoke.
The door opened and a stout and very agreeable woman came in. Mr. Burnham introduced her as Mrs. Shipton, his housekeeper, and requested that supper be served for two. She seemed pleased to have a guest and disappeared briskly about her business.
“A man whose word you would trust?” Monk asked. “And his judgment?”
“Absolutely!” Mr. Burnham answered instantly. “Ask anyone.”
Monk smiled. “I am not sure ‘anyone’ will tell me the truth, or even that they know it.”
