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Rathbone tried to think back. It had been the day Sacheverall had put the witnesses on the stand and exposed what he thought was a homosexual affair. Had Melville known that was going to happen, or feared it? If so, why had she not told Rathbone to plead guilty and settle out of court? She would have saved Wolff’s reputation at least. And if she loved him, surely she would have done that?
Had she carried belladonna all the time, just in case?
“Do you know something?” the surgeon asked. “I would guess she took it after two in the afternoon, and well before five in the evening, probably before four.”
“Yes, it probably makes as much sense as suicide ever does,” Rathbone answered wearily.
“You do not sound entirely convinced.” The surgeon looked at him with a slight shake of his head. “Is there some fact I should know?”
“No. No … I am afraid it was a tragedy which may well have been inevitable from the moment Sacheverall called Isaac Wolff to the stand, let alone that damned prostitute. Thank you for coming to let me know in person.”
The surgeon stood up and offered his hand. Rathbone took it, and then saw him to the door. He returned to his chair, still with a vague sense of unease, as if there was something unexplained or incomplete, but he could not think what. Probably it was as his father had said, his own sense of guilt.
Nevertheless that evening he went to see Monk at his rooms in Fitzroy Street. He found him brooding over a handful of letters. He seemed quite pleased to be interrupted.
“Trivial case,” he said, putting them aside and rising to his feet as Rathbone came in. “You look awful. Still thinking about Keelin Melville?”
“Aren’t you?” Rathbone continued, throwing himself into the large chair reserved for clients. “The police surgeon came to see me today. It was belladonna she took. Some time in the afternoon.”
“But she was in court all afternoon,” Monk said with surprise. “You were with her.”
“Well, he was quite sure,” Rathbone repeated. “Said it had to have been between two and five at the latest, more likely four.”
“What time did she leave court?” Monk pressed. He was sitting upright on his chair. “Is she supposed to have swallowed the stuff?”
“Yes, of course! What else? Pulled out a syringe and put a needle into her arm?” Rathbone said tartly, but his attention was suddenly focused.
“In what form?” Monk asked.
“What?”
“What form was the belladonna?” Monk clarified. “Pills? Drops? Powder? A mixture?”
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask. What does it matter now?”
Monk was frowning. “Well, didn’t you notice if she swallowed pills, took a drink of water, or had a flask? Someone must have seen. It was about as public a place as you can have, dammit! Why on earth would she do it there anyway? Why not wait until she got home with a little privacy?”
“I don’t know.” Rathbone was thinking frantically now. “I can’t imagine what must have been on her mind. She panicked when Sacheverall put that prostitute on the stand. She realized her evidence would be unarguable, interpretable only one way.”
“Then she didn’t know Sacheverall would call her until she saw her there?” Monk said quickly.
Rathbone thought back. “No. I don’t think she did. I can’t be sure, of course, but insofar as I am any judge at all, she had no idea.”
“Then why would she have taken belladonna with her … in a lethal dose?” Monk was leaning farther forward, his eyes still on Rathbone’s face. “And if she did know, why didn’t she take it before, and save Wolff’s reputation, at least? If she loved him at all, she would surely have done that. It doesn’t make sense, Rathbone, not as it is.”
“Then find sense to it!” Rathbone said urgently. “I’m engaging you to do it—for me!” He cast aside his personal feelings, even his awareness that Monk must consider him incompetent at best for having allowed the case to come to this tragic end. He refused to think what Hester’s judgment would be. He hated asking for favors. The hard edge of his feeling was in his voice, and his awareness of vulnerability in front of Monk, of all people. “I want to know what it was that drove her to kill herself instead of fighting on. Couldn’t she have left England, gone to Italy or even the Middle East, or somewhere? With genius like hers she could surely have started again. Anything rather than death. And what about Wolff? She loved him …”
Monk was looking at him for once without mockery. Only the faintest spark lit the backs of his eyes.
“I’ll find out what I can.” Then he did smile. “My rates are very reasonable.”
“Thank you,” Rathbone accepted stiffly. He felt awkward now, more than a little self-conscious. He stood up, straightening his jacket. It was nearly midnight. He had not realized how long it had taken him to travel to Primrose Hill and back. “I’m sorry to have kept you so late.”
Monk stood up also. He hesitated, as if about to offer his hand. It was a peculiarly formal gesture, and at the last moment he changed his mind. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything,” he promised instead, and his face was very grave. Rathbone realized with warmth that he too felt angry and hurt and more than a little guilty.
In the morning Monk abandoned the rather tedious letters in which he had been trying to find evidence of duplicity for a woman who felt her sister-in-law was behaving immorally, and set out for the Old Bailey.
He passed several paperboys. Keelin Melville’s death was not on the front pages anymore. A fresh political event in France had superseded her, and there were whispers of a financial scandal in the city.
