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“No.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolff. If you will remain there, His Lordship may have some questions for you.”
Wolff turned slowly towards the judge.
“No, thank you,” McKeever declined quietly. “It seems perfectly clear. I am sorry we had to trouble you, Mr. Wolff. The court extends you its sympathy.”
“Thank you.” At another time there might have been a shadow of humor in Wolff’s acceptance. Today there was none. Something inside him was dead and there was no response except words, bare of feeling.
He turned and stepped down, holding on to the banister as if his sight and his coordination were impaired. He made his way to one of the seats at the back of the gallery and someone rose to give him space. Rathbone watched with his heart beating violently in case it were to shun him, but there was so deep a look of pity on the man’s face his gesture could not have been misunderstood. Rathbone was suddenly uplifted by such compassion from a stranger, such a lack of judgment of frailty, only the awareness of grief.
He looked at Barton Lambert again. Lambert was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as if he wanted to take some physical action but could think of nothing which answered his needs. There was a profound unhappiness in every line of him. He turned to Delphine, but she was looking the other way, her chin high, making the best of having to be there in these circumstances, but still aware of being the victor. Nothing so far had taken that from her. Zillah’s reputation was vindicated, and that mattered to her above all else.
Zillah herself sat white-faced and quite still, her eyes on Isaac Wolff and then on the judge, although it was impossible to say if she could actually see either of them, she appeared so sunk in her own sense of loss.
“Sir Oliver!” McKeever recalled his attention.
“My lord?”
“Did you say you had also requested the doctor to attend?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then would you call him.”
“Yes, my lord. Dr. Godwin.”
There was instant rustling and creaking in the gallery as a score of people craned around to watch as the doors opened.
Godwin proved to be a sturdy man with dark hair and the music of the Welsh valleys in his voice. In total silence from the crowd and from the jury, he swore to his name and professional status, then awaited Rathbone’s questions.
“Dr. Godwin, were you summoned to Great Street at about eleven o’clock yesterday evening?”
“I was.”
“By whom, and for what purpose?”
“By Mr. Isaac Wolff, to attend his friend Killian Melville, who had apparently died.”
“And when you examined Mr. Melville, was he indeed dead?”
“Yes sir, he was—at least … at that point I made only a cursory examination. Very cursory.”
There was absolute silence in the room.
Everyone was unnaturally still, as if waiting for something extraordinary without knowing what.
McKeever leaned forward, listening intently, frowning as if he did not completely understand.
“Your choice of words is curious,” Rathbone pointed out. “Are you suggesting that later examination proved that Mr. Melville was not actually dead?” He asked it only to clarify. He entertained no hope of error.
“Oh no. Killian Melville was dead, I am afraid, poor soul,” Godwin assured him, nodding and pursing his lips.
“Can you say from what cause, Dr. Godwin?”
“Not yet, not for certain, like. But it was poison of some sort, and very probably of the type of belladonna. See it in the eyes. But I’ll know for sure when I’ve tested the contents of the stomach. Not been time for that yet.”
“Thank you. I have nothing else to ask you at this point.”
