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McKeever sighed. He looked at Sacheverall with dislike.
“No doubt you do,” he said quietly. “But this is a court of law, Mr. Sacheverall, not a place of public speculation and gossip.” He looked at Rathbone. “I regret, Sir Oliver, but passionate as your plea is, it is not an argument in law. If Mr. Sacheverall’s client wishes to pursue this line of testimony, I am obliged to allow it.”
Rathbone swiveled around to look where Barton Lambert was sitting a little behind Sacheverall, his wife beside him. Her pretty face with its unusual brow was set in extraordinary determination. He had not realized earlier, when she was full of charm and elegance, what power there was in her. He felt certain she was the driving force behind this suit. It was she who understood precisely what damage could be done her daughter if the word was whispered around that a young man who had been in love with her had at the last moment broken his betrothal. Zillah was lovely, wealthy, of perfectly adequate social standing. Whatever fault she had was not a visible one, therefore it could only be invisible, leaving the imagination to rise—or sink—to any level. Barton Lambert might have some pity for Melville. Delphine had none.
Rathbone returned to his seat and awaited the worst.
It came. Sacheverall began to question the major as to his residence, which was the same gracious building as Isaac Wolff, and then took him step by reluctant, unpleasant step through his observations of Killian Melville’s visits, the time of day or evening, as far as he could remember them, what he was wearing, his general air and demeanor. He obliged the major to describe Wolff’s greeting Melville at the door, their evident pleasure in seeing each other. It was all done with some subtlety. There was nothing whatever to which Rathbone could object. He caught McKeever’s eye a number of times, and saw his dislike of the pattern the question
ing was following, but an equal resolve to abide by the law.
An hour later, when Sacheverall was finished and turned with a smile of invitation to Rathbone, he had established a regular pattern of visits between the two men and that they frequently lasted for several hours. He could not and would not guess as to what happened within Wolff’s rooms once the outer door was closed, but the pinkness of his cheeks and his evident embarrassment and rising anger made his thoughts transparent.
Rathbone rose with his mind in turmoil. He had seldom felt so inadequate to a case or so angry with his adversary. He had often fought hard, and lost more than he wished, but to a better case, and to a man he respected. Indeed, Ebenezer Goode, a man he had often faced, was also a personal friend.
He loathed Wystan Sacheverall, and it was more than just the fact he was winning easily. There was a prurience in the man which repelled him.
“Major Hillman,” Rathbone began courteously, walking forward towards the witness stand, “I am sure you would rather not be here on this matter, and I should not press you were there not absolute necessity.”
“Thank you, sir,” the major said stiffly. He did not know what to make of Rathbone, and it was clear in the expression in his rather plain face.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Wolff? Do you speak to him if you should meet on the landing or stairs?”
“Yes—yes, I have until now.” Hillman was obviously nonplussed.
“But something here has changed your mind?” Rathbone suggested helpfully. “Something that has been said today?”
Hillman looked acutely, unhappy. He stood as if to attention, shoulders square, back stiff, eyes straight ahead.
“Perhaps I can assist you,” Rathbone offered. “Mr. Sacheverall has suggested a relationship which would be quite improper, and you might find that repugnant to you?”
“I should, sir! I should …” Hillman was shaking, his voice thick with emotion.
“Extremely repugnant?” Rathbone nodded.
Hillman was tight-lipped. “Extremely.”
Sacheverall was leaning across his table, listening with a half smile on his face.
The jurors were watching Rathbone intently.
Melville had his head down, refusing to look at anyone.
“Quite so,” Rathbone agreed. “You are not alone, Major Hillman. Most of us do not care to think or imagine the intimate details of other people’s lives. We consider it intrusive at best, at worst a form of emotional illness.”
Sacheverall started to his feet.
McKeever gestured him to silence, but his glance at Rathbone warned him that he would not indulge him much longer.
“But before coming here today, Major Hillman,” Rathbone said with a smile, “you had not entertained such thoughts? You did not speak pleasantly while at the same time believing him to be practicing the acts Mr. Sacheverall has hinted at?”
“Certainly not, sir!” Hillman said sharply. “I believed him to be a normal man—indeed, a gentleman.”
“So it is Mr. Sacheverall who has changed your mind?”
“Yes sir.”
Rathbone smiled. “And here were we supposing it was your testimony which had changed his. Thank you for correcting our errors, sir. I am obliged to you. That is all I have to trouble you with.”
