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“No—no, I daresay not.” Godwin stood quite still. “But I can tell you something I imagine you did not know.”
The room seemed to crackle as if there were thunder in the air.
“Yes?”
“Killian Melville was a woman.”
No one moved.
A reporter broke a pencil in half and it sounded like gunfire.
A woman screamed.
“I—I beg your pardon,” Rathbone said, swallowing and choking.
“Killian Melville was a woman,” Godwin repeated clearly.
“You mean he was—” McKeever was startled.
“No, my lord,” Godwin corrected. “I mean she was … in every way a perfectly normal woman.”
Zillah Lambert slid into a faint.
There were gasps around the gallery. One of the jurors used an expletive he would not have wished to have owned he even knew.
Delphine Lambert gave a scream and jerked her hand up to her mouth. Slowly her face turned scarlet with embarrassment and rage. She stared fixedly ahead of her, refusing to risk meeting anyone else’s eyes. She had been completely confounded. It was obvious to anyone who looked at her. Perhaps that, more than anything else, annoyed her now. The shock was total.
No one seemed to have noticed Zillah as she slumped momentarily insensible.
Sacheverall at last reacted. He scrambled to his feet, his arms waving.
“Hardly normal, my lord! Dr. Godwin makes a mockery of the word. Killian Melville was in no way normal. Man or woman.”
“I meant medically speaking!” Godwin snapped with surprising ferocity. “Physically she was exactly like any other woman.”
“Then why did she dress like a man,” Sacheverall shouted, waving his arms, “behave like a man, and in every way affect to be a man? For God’s sake, she even proposed marriage to a woman!”
“No, she didn’t!” Rathbone was on his feet too, shouting back. “That is precisely my case! She didn’t! Mrs. Lambert was so keen to have her daughter make what seemed an excellent match that she assumed Melville’s affection and regard for Miss Lambert was romantic, whereas it was, in fact, exactly what Melville claimed it was: a profound friendship!” He spoke without having thought of it first, something he had sworn never to do in court, but even as he heard his voice he was certain it was the truth. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, it all seemed so apparent. Melville’s passion and his silence—her silence—were all so easily understood. Of course he—she—had laughed when Rathbone had asked if the relationship with Isaac Wolff was homosexual. He remembered now how oblique Melville’s answers had been. He remembered a score of things, tiny things, the burning level eyes, the fairness of Melville’s skin, the small, strong hands, a lack of masculinity in movement and gesture. The husky voice could have been man’s or woman’s.
He thought ruefully that that must have cost an effort, an aching throat to keep the pitch permanently so unnaturally low.
She must have enjoyed Zillah’s company, one of her own sex to befriend. No wonder the relationship was peculiarly precious to her.
Sacheverall was furious, but for once he had no ready answer.
“She was still unnatural!” he said loudly and angrily. His face was red, and he jerked around in gestures too large to have dignity or meaning. He had lost control of the case. Nothing was as he had meant it to be. When he had come in that morning he had had victory in the grasp of his fingers. Now it had all exploded into tragedy and then absurdity.
“She was perverted, perhaps insane—”
“She was not—” Rathbone began angrily, but Sacheverall cut across him.
“She took advantage of Mr. Lambert’s generosity for the most obvious reasons, to advance her career, if you can call it that!” He jabbed his finger in the air; his voice was almost a shriek. “She deceived him, lied to him at every turn—then deceived Miss Lambert and abused her feelings for the same crass, greedy reason
s, and …”
Zillah was recovered now, sitting motionless, the tears streaming down her cheeks, although her face did not twist or crumple. She had the curious gift of being able to weep and remain beautiful.
Barton Lambert rose to his feet.
