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No wonder girls like Zillah Lambert strove to fulfil that ideal. It was their prospect to social acceptability and financial security: a wedding ring; their own household; children; a change from dependence upon parents to dependence upon a husband who, with judicious management, might be persuaded to love her, cater to her, even indulge her.
He reached Rathbone’s rooms and the manservant let him in.
Rathbone was standing beside the last of the fire, considering retiring for the night. He looked tired and unhappy. His face lightened momentarily with hope when Monk came in, then he saw his eyes and the light in him vanished.
“I’m sorry,” Monk said sincerely. He hated this. He had wanted very much to be able to bring good news, not only for his own vanity but for Rathbone’s sake, and if he were truthful, for Melville’s also. The man who had created so much original and dynamic beauty of form should not be brought down by something so terribly unnecessary.
“Nothing?” Rathbone asked.
“She may have had what amounted to an affair with Lord Tainbridge’s son, but there’s no proof, only speculation. You could try threatening to suggest it in public, but I doubt you’d do anything but alienate the jury, and Sacheverall ought to know that.”
Rathbone stood by the fire, staring into the flames. “I don’t think there’s any point. Melville is ruined. You haven’t read the newspapers, have you?” This was more a statement than a question.
“No. Why?” Monk’s heart sank. He did not know why it should matter so much, but it left him suddenly quite cold. “Why?” he repeated, moving closer to the fire himself.
Without looking up at him, Rathbone told him about Isaac Wolff and Sacheverall’s evidence regarding him.
Monk heard him out in silence. He should not have been surprised. In fact, he should have found it himself. He should have looked harder at Melville. If he had found it, then he could have warned Rathbone so he would have made Melville withdraw.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I was looking for women. I never thought of that. I should have.”
Rathbone shrugged. “So should I.” He looked around and smiled. “We didn’t do very well, did we?”
They stood together watching the fire die for several moments, until the manservant came to the door again. He opened it and stood in the entrance, his face white, his eyes wide and dark.
“Sir Oliver.” His voice shook a little. “I am afraid, sir, you have just received a message … sir …”
“Yes?”
Monk clenched his fists and felt his body chill.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manservant went on, now in little more than a whisper. “But Mr. Melville has been found dead.”
Rathbone stared at him.
“I’m sorry, Sir Oliver. I am afraid there is no doubt.” Rathbone closed his eyes and looked for a moment as if he were about to faint.
Monk took a step towards him.
Rathbone put his hands up and waved him back. He rubbed his eyes. “Thank you for telling me. That will be all.”
“Yes sir.” The man withdrew discreetly.
Rathbone turned to Monk, his face devoid of any shred of color, his eyes hollow with grief and guilt.
8
RATHBONE ENTERED COURT on Monday exhausted from one of the most deeply miserable nights he could remember. He and Monk had gone immediately to Melville’s lodgings, where Isaac Wolff, gray-faced, had met them at the door. There had been nothing anyone could do to help. He had called a doctor, who had assumed death to have been caused by some form of poison and had guessed belladonna, but it would require a full postmortem examination to be certain.
No one mentioned suicide, but it hung unspoken like a darkness over them all. One does not take belladonna by accident, and Wolff was too naked in his grief to make any pretense at lying. Melville had had excellent health, better than most people’s. He took no medication of any sort.
Naturally the police had been called. There must be certainty. Even this could not be allowed to pass in private. Suicide was a crime.
Now there was nothing left but loss, not only personal but of one of the greatest, most luminous creative minds of the age. For Rathbone there was also shame for his own failure to have prevented this, a weighing down of guilt, and the last legal formalities of closing the issue. And there was also a colossal rage. He was clenched up inside with it. As he strode up the steps and along the hallway of the courthouse, he scarcely saw the colleagues he passed, the clerks and ushers, the litigants. His feet were loud and sharp on the stone of the floor, his back rigidly straight, his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands.
He entered the courtroom just as they were beginning to consider him overdue, and there was a buzz of attention and disapproval. Sacheverall swung around, his fair face with its protruding ears serenely triumphant. He did not even consider it a possibility that Rathbone had found a weapon against him. A part of Rathbone’s anger turned to hatred, an emotion he was very unused to. He noticed Sacheverall smile at Zillah and her uncertain look back at him. There was no question that Sacheverall was pursuing her himself. There was no mistaking the nature o
f his interest, the eagerness in his eyes, the energy, almost excitement, when he spoke her name or had even the slightest contact with her.
