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Monk was shattered by the news, although he too felt that he should at least have considered the possibility, but it had never occurred to him. He made no trite or critical comments to Rathbone, who was apparently already castigating himself too fiercely. And for once Monk felt a sharp compassion for him. He understood guilt very well; it was a familiar emotion since rediscovering himself after the accident. It is a uniquely distressing experience to see yourself only through the eyes of others, too often those you have injured in some way, to know irrefutably what you have done but not why you did it, not the mitigating circumstances, the beliefs you held at the time which made your actions seem reasonable then.
After Rathbone had gone, he took a hansom to Tavistock Square to tell Hester and—if he was interested—Gabriel Sheldon the outcome.
He was welcomed at the door by the maid, Martha Jackson, and immediately remembered the impossible job he had promised her he would do. It was not the fruitless work that he dreaded, or even the waste of time he could have spent earning very necessary money, but the fact that anything he discovered, even supposing he was able to, would be distressing. Then he would have to make the decision what to tell her and what to tell Hester, who would be less easily deceived.
“Good evening, Miss Jackson,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “The case of Mr. Melville”—he did not need to explain the truth here on the doorstep; it was simpler to say “Mr.”—“has concluded very tragically, and in a way we could not have guessed. I should like to tell Miss Latterly—and Lieutenant Sheldon, if he cares to know.”
She looked surprisingly harassed, and less than interested herself. She stood in the doorway, hesitating as to how she should answer.
“Is something wrong, Miss Jackson?” He felt a sudden wave of apprehension and realized with surprise how much Melville’s death had disturbed him. The whole story left him with a sense of loss he did not know how to dispel.
“No!” she said too firmly. She made herself smile, and it was so painful he became more worried. “No …” she went on. “Lieutenant Sheldon is not very well today. He had a poor night, that is all. Please come in, Mr. Monk. I shall inform Miss Latterly that you are here. I hope you won’t mind if you have to wait a little while? The withdrawing room is quite warm.”
“Of course not,” he answered; it was the only possible thing to say. He had called uninvited. He followed her obediently into the pleasant, rather ordinary withdrawing room, and she left him to possess himself
in patience.
The wait was indeed long, about half an hour, and when Hester finally arrived she too looked tired and a little flustered, her attention not wholly with him.
“Martha told me the Melville case is over,” she said, coming in and closing the door behind her. She met his eyes and then saw the tragedy in them. Her expression changed. Now she was filled with apprehension and pity. “Is he ruined? Could Oliver not do anything for him? What happened? Did he change his plea?”
“I suppose so … in effect, yes.” He found the words suddenly difficult to say. “He killed himself. Isaac Wolff found him last night.”
Her face crumpled as if she had been physically hit.
“Oh, William … I’m so sorry!” She closed her eyes tightly. “How damnable! Why do we do that to people? If he loved another man, what business is it of ours? We’ll all answer to God in one way or another. If we are not hurting each other, isn’t that enough?”
“He wasn’t homosexual,” he said with a jerky laugh. “He committed a greater offense than that, in most people’s view.”
She opened her eyes. “What?” Then the tears spilled over. “What did he do? Jilt Zillah Lambert? He never accused her of anything. He was scrupulous not to. That was Oliver’s problem. What did he do?”
“He deceived the world … man and woman,” he replied. “Totally effectively. All except Isaac Wolff … he knew. But the rest of them were completely fooled … all taken in. They can’t forgive that. Some of the women might be laughing, a very few, secretly, but none of the men.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. You aren’t making any sense.”
“Killian Melville was a woman.”
“What did you say?” she protested.
“You heard what I said. Keelin was her real name, and she was a woman.” The anger rang through his voice. “She dressed as a man because no one would allow her even to study architecture, let alone practice it, as a woman. She fooled everyone, except Isaac Wolff, who loved her.”
“How terrible!” Her face was filled with amazement and anguish.
For a moment he did not understand. Surely Hester, of all people, could not be so quick to judge automatically and cruelly. His sense of disillusion was so sharp for an instant he could think of nothing else. It was not the Hester he knew, who was so close that her loyalty and her compassion were part of the framework of his world.
Hester was not even looking at him. “It must have been there every day,” she said softly. “Pulling at her both ways, until it tore her apart. She was a woman, she loved Isaac Wolff, but she could never marry him. Even by being with him she risked branding him as a criminal.” She focused her gaze, meeting Monk’s eyes demandingly. “Can you imagine it? Can you imagine the scenes between them? She must have been terrified for him, not knowing which way to turn. And he would have loved her enough to take love, take time together, the sharing of dreams, great things, aspirations and the wonder of thought and idea and passion.” She winced as she said it, her eyes bright. “And little things that hurt, the small disappointments.” Her voice cracked. “The sudden ache for no reason, the tiredness, the confusion, just the need not to be alone … and the jokes, the silly things that make you laugh, something beautiful, a splash of sunlight, a particular flower, a kind act, the ironies and the absurdities, the little victories which can mean so much.”
Her voice shook. She took a long, slow breath. Her lips trembled. “And she couldn’t! Every time she was with him put them both in danger from prying eyes, people with cruel and inquisitive minds. No wonder she sought friendship with Zillah Lambert. It was at least a moment of sharing something, to see pretty things, a woman’s things, perfume, silks, gowns, all the things she couldn’t afford ever to have herself. Imagine what she risked if she had ever, even once, worn a dress!”
He started to speak and then stopped.
“Why do we do that?” Suddenly she was savage, her voice thick with emotion. She stared at him as if demanding an answer. “Why do we make rules about what a person should be … I mean rules that don’t matter? Why shouldn’t a woman be an architect, or a doctor, or anything else? What are we so frightened of?” She lashed out with her arm. “And why do we make men pretend they aren’t afraid or don’t make mistakes, like women and children? Of course they do. We all know they do, we just cover it up or look the other way. It’s much easier to admit you were wrong, and go back and do the right thing, than it is to go on adding evasion to evasion, one invention after another to conceal the last, and then you probably aren’t fooling anybody, except those who want to be fooled.”
He did not interrupt, knowing she needed to say it all. Anyway, he agreed with her.
She scowled at him. “Look at Gabriel and Perdita.” She clenched her hands. “He’s been taught to be brave, never to explain, never to ask for help. He’s been given a hero’s image to live up to, and he’s riddled with guilt because he thinks he can’t. And she’s been taught to be helpless and stupid because that’s what men want, and all she should do is be a sweet-natured, obedient ornament.” Her face was puckered, all her muscles tight. “And she has to sit by and watch him hurt, because he thinks he should be looking after her, and he can’t even look after himself.”
She drew breath. “And that idiot Athol Sheldon bumbles around telling them it would all be all right if they just behaved normally and forgot the grief and pain and the horror as if it never happened and all those people never died. It’s a mockery of the reality of life. It makes me so angry I could …”
