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Monk looked amused, even faintly satisfied.
“And I need weapons against Lambert if Sacheverall doesn’t settle,” Rathbone continued. “And I don’t suppose he will. He’ll go to Lambert and ask if there is anything I can find. Lambert will swear there isn’t. If Sacheverall has any sense he’ll speak to Zillah alone and ask her. Whatever there is, or is not, I don’t know.”
“But you need to,” Monk concluded for him, leaning across and taking the last potato.
“Precisely.”
“And if there is, would you use it?” Monk asked.
“That is not your concern. Unless, of course, you are telling me you will not look for it if I would.”
Monk laughed. “I have often wondered just how hard you would fight if you were tested, which weapon you might decide to use. I was simply interested. I’ll learn what I can.”
“And tell me what you wish to?” Rathbone said dryly.
“Of course. I presume you are accepting the bill yourself?”
At the nearest table a man roared with laughter.
“Of course. Will you please pass me the horseradish sauce?” Monk obliged, smiling widely.
Sacheverall sent Rathbone a very clear and tersely worded message that his client would not settle, and Thursday morning saw them back in court, Sacheverall standing in the open space before the high witness-box and facing first the judge, then the jury. He affected to ignore the public benches, now far more crowded again.
“I call Major Albert Hillman.”
Major Hillman duly appeared, walking with a decided limp. He stared straight ahead of him, refusing to look at Rathbone or Melville where they sat, or at Sacheverall himself standing feet a little apart, back straight, like a circus ringmaster with his arms a trifle lifted. Major Hillman climbed the steps with difficulty and took the oath.
“I’m sorry to call you on this distressing matter, sir,” Sacheverall apologized. “I hope your injury does not pain you too much?”
Rathbone sighed. Obviously it was going to prove to be a war wound, nobly obtained, which was why Sacheverall had drawn attention to it. It was all predictable, but nonetheless effective for that.
“My duty, sir,” the major replied stiffly. His distaste was plain in his face and in the downward dropping of his voice.
“Of course.” Sacheverall nodded. “I shall be as brief as possible. I would not do this at all … had Mr. Melville been prepared to concede the case”—he glanced at Rathbone briefly, and away again—“and admit his fault without necessitating this unpleasant disclosure.”
The judge leaned forward. “You have made sufficient apology, Mr. Sacheverall. Please proceed to your evidence.”
“My lord.” Sacheverall bowed.
McKeever’s wide blue eyes did not seem to change at all, and yet even from where Rathbone was sitting, he could see a coldness in the judge. This should not have been a criminal matter, not even a legal one. A domestic sadness, a misunderstanding of emotions, had escalated into something which was now going to ruin lives and perhaps deprive the world of one of its most brilliant and creative talents. One young woman had had her marriage hopes blighted, and no doubt she had suffered a deep and extremely powerful sense of rejection. But she was young, extremely handsome, wealthy and of a charming disposition. She would recover, as everyone does. She could simply have said that they quarreled and she had broken the betrothal. It would have raised a few eyebrows. In a month it would have become uninteresting. In a year it would have been forgotten.
This was ridiculous. Without thinking, Rathbone was on his feet.
“My lord! Before we proceed to drag two men’s private lives before the public and suggest matters which cannot be proved, and should not be our concern, over the—”
Sacheverall had swung around, staring with exaggerated amazement at Rathbone.
“My lord! Is Sir Oliver saying that acts of sexual perversion and depravity are not of public concern simply because they do not happen in the middle of the street?” He flung out his arm dramatically. “Is a crime not a crime because it occurs behind closed doors? Is that his view of morality? I hope he cannot mean what he says.”
Rathbone was furious. He could feel the heat burn up his face.
“Mr. Sacheverall knows I suggest nothing of the sort!” he snapped. “I ask that we not descend into the realms of prurient unprovable speculation into men’s personal lives in an effort to justify acts of misunderstanding, carelessness or at worst irresponsibility. This cannot help anyone! All parties will be hurt, perhaps quite wrongly. They will learn to hate, where before there was merely sadness. They—”
“In other words, my lord,” Sacheverall said jeeringly, glancing at the gallery and back at McKeever, “Sir Oliver would like my client to forgive his client and simply abandon the case, with Miss Lambert’s reputation still in question and her feelings ravaged as if all that were of no importance whatever. I fear Sir Oliver betrays all too scant a regard for the purity, the sensibilities, and the true and precious value of women! In deference to his dislike for scandalous suppositions which cannot be proved, I will make no suggestions as to why.”
Rathbone took a step forward. “I regard Miss Lambert’s reputation as of great importance,” he said gratingly, almost between his teeth. “The difference between us is that I regard Mr. Melville’s reputation also … and Mr. Wolff’s. He is no party to this case, and yet he stands to lose a great deal, without proof of guilt, having harmed no one.”
“That remains to be seen,” Sacheverall retorted. “And as to whether such acts are wrong—or not—that will depend upon another court. But I know what the public thinks!” He all but laughed as he said it, again inclining his head toward the gallery as if he spoke for them and with their approval.
