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Did Barton Lambert know of it? Had it been serious enough for public knowledge of it to ruin Zillah?
But surely if it had, and Lambert knew about it, then he would not have begun the proceedings against Melville?
Had anyone else been concerned? Was there something about Hugh Gibbons? If Monk had pursued him instead of Zillah, would he have found something ugly enough to prompt murder? It seemed highly improbable. He could not imagine what. Another affair, perhaps a child or a rape? What had happened to Hugh Gibbons since then?
Before pursuing that, which might take a long time and be quite fruitless, he decided to speak to Barton Lambert.
It was shortly before one o’clock, and he was admitted readily into the house and, after the briefest hesitation, was shown into the large, very comfortable withdrawing room. French doors opened onto a small lawn surrounded by hydrangea bushes carpeted underneath with tiny white flowers.
The room was warmed by a handsome fire, and heavy brocade curtains framed the big windows and kept the draft from chilling the air. Delphine Lambert was sitting on one of the sofas. She was dressed in vivid blue, her enormous skirts gleaming in the light. She looked calm and happy. Wystan Sacheverall was standing closer to the window only a yard from Zillah; in fact, the frills of her dusky pink skirt covered the toes of his polished shoes. He was looking at her, disregarding Monk’s entry as if he were not even aware of it and in any case it held no interest for him whatever. His face was filled with eagerness and he was talking to her, and smiling.
Zillah appeared to be absorbed by something in the garden beyond the glass, a flower or a bird. She did not take her eyes from it even when Sacheverall seemed to be asking a question. Her shoulder was lifted a little, pulling the fabric of her bodice, and Monk could only see the side of her head and the curve of her cheek. As soon as she heard his voice she turned and started towards him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lambert, Mrs. Lambert,” he said formally. “Miss Lambert…”
“Good afternoon, Mr….” Delphine trailed off as if she had already forgotten his name.
“Monk,” Lambert supplied. “Good afternoon, Monk. What can we do for you?”
Sacheverall deliberately remained by the window. He stared at Monk but made no move to come forward. His coldness could hardly be misinterpreted.
Zillah, on the other hand, seemed almost pleased to see him. Whatever had interested her in the garden was instantly forgotten.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How are you?”
She looked still tired, still hurt, but there was no air of self-pity about her, and no blame towards Monk. Again he was consumed with anger at this whole absurd charade which had already destroyed Keelin Melville and was going to damage Zillah yet further. He even hesitated whether to say what he had come for. What good would it do now?
He looked past her at Sacheverall, who had turned to face the room, watching Zillah. Was it affection in his eyes or enlightened self-interest, plus perhaps a little very natural desire towards an extremely attractive young woman? And she was attractive. She had an unusual mixture of innocence and individuality. A man who loved her might waken all kinds of passions in her, and high among them would be loyalty.
Monk looked beyond her again at Sacheverall and disliked him profoundly.
“What may we do for you, Mr. Monk?” Lambert enquired.
Monk recalled himself. “I am sorry to intrude,” he apologized. “May I speak with you alone, Mr. Lambert? I hope it will be brief.”
Lambert glanced at his wife.
“Oh, there is plenty of time before luncheon,” she assured him. “It is still a trifle cool for me, but I daresay Mr. Sacheverall would like to take a short walk around the garden. Zillah can show him some of our treasures.”
Zillah looked at her father appealingly, but he misunderstood. “Yes, of course, my dear,” he agreed. “I daresay we shall be no more than half an hour at the most.”
Sacheverall offered his arm with a smile and considerable enthusiasm, and Zillah accepted it.
Lambert went to the door and opened it into the hall to usher Monk towards somewhere more private.
Monk excused himself to Delphine and followed.
They went to the study. It was a pleasant room, well furnished with books. A large desk was scattered with papers and there were two cabinets for the storage of yet more papers. Four chairs for visitors faced the desk, and Lambert turned to look at Monk, his brow furrowed, his eyes still filled with his sense of tragedy.
“Well, Monk, what is this about? Is this some further matter to do with Melville?” The absence of title suggested he still thought of Melville as a man. Over the shock of disclosure and all the loss that had followed, he remembered the friend he had known and cared for.
Monk felt a tightening inside himself. A daughter, even as pretty and as charming and as seemingly agreeable as Zillah, was a source for all kinds of fears. Illness and accident were only the worst. There were so many humanly made, unnecessary other traps and snares, even in a young life barely begun.
“What is it?” Lambert repeated, not yet offering Monk a seat.
Monk had been considering where to begin. Lambert was a blunt man. He would not appreciate prevarication.
“I have been looking into Keelin Melville’s death,” he said directly, watching Lambert’s face. “For Rathbone’s sake as much as anything. It seems so …”
