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He saw the look of pain in Lambert’s eyes.
“So oddly timed,” he went on. “According to the police surgeon, she must have taken the poison while she was actually in the court, and yet she was observed all the time, and she neither ate nor drank anything at all. And why then, rather than later at home? Why would anyone choose to take poison in public in order to die in private, when doing both at home would have been so much easier?”
Lambert stared at him, puzzled and now also troubled. It seemed that up until now his emotions had crowded out thought. This came to him as an ugly intrusion, but he did not evade it.
“What are you trying to say, Monk? You are not a man to come here to see me simply to say there are things you do not understand. You have no need to understand, unless you believe there is something wrong, something criminal, or at the very least, something profoundly immoral. What do you expect of me?” He walked back to one of the chairs, not the one behind the desk but one of those arranged in front of it, and sat on it.
Monk sat in one of the others, crossing his legs and leaning back.
“One possibility troubles me, and I would like to prove it wrong before I let go of it.”
“Yes? What is that possibility, and how does it concern me or my family?”
“I am not sure that it does,” Monk admitted. “The possibility is that she was murdered.”
Lambert leaned forward. “What?” He seemed genuinely not to have understood.
Monk repeated what he had said.
“Why?” Lambert puckered his face, his eyes narrowed. “Why would anybody want to murder Melville? He was the most …” He swallowed. “She was the most likable person. Of course, she had professional rivals, but people don’t kill for that sort of reason.” He waved his hand. “That’s preposterous. And no one except Wolff knew she was a woman. You’re not suggesting Wolff killed her, are you? I don’t believe that for an instant!” Everything in his voice, his expression, emphasized what he said.
“No I don’t,” Monk agreed. “If it was murder, then I think it was to stop the case from going any further.”
“The only person who’d want to stop that was poor Killian … Keelin … herself.” A twinge of pain shot over Lambert’s face. “I’m sorry … I still find it hard to believe all this. I liked her, you know. I liked her very much, even after she—she … damn it! Even after the marriage with Zillah fell through, I still liked him—her!”
Lambert stood up and began pacing restlessly back and forth across the room, seesawing his hands in the air.
“I went ahead
with the case because I had to!” He looked at Monk with a desperate urgency, willing him to believe. “I had to protect my daughter’s reputation. If I hadn’t, people would have said Melville had discovered something about her that made it impossible to marry her. They would assume she was without morals, a loose woman. No one would have had her.” His lips tightened. “Do you know what happens to a young woman whose reputation is gone, Mr. Monk? She has no place!” He chopped the air again. “No decent man will marry her. She is no longer invited to the decent houses. Young women with hopes no longer associate with her, in case the dirt rubs off. If she marries at all, it is to a man beneath her, and he treats her as what she is, one of society’s castoffs.”
He looked at Monk intently, willing him to understand. “Or she stays single, dependent upon her father, while all her friends gain husbands, houses, status—in time, children. Would you want that for your daughter? Wouldn’t you fight any battle, any justified battle at all, rather than let that happen? Especially when you know she has done nothing to warrant it.”
“I should probably do it whether she had warranted it or not,” Monk said frankly. He disliked what he was going to do. Only there was the remembrance that Keelin Melville had been a young woman too, also denied what she wanted most because of the beliefs and conventions of others. There had been no one to feel for her, now not even herself. “What about Hugh Gibbons?”
Lambert’s face showed nothing. No man could be so complete a master of himself as to have hidden guilt behind such a bland exterior.
“Who is Hugh Gibbons?”
“A young man who was in love with Zillah some three years ago,” Monk replied. “He was unsuitable and the romance had gone too far. Mrs. Lambert took Zillah away, very suddenly, on a prolonged trip to the seaside—in North Wales. Crickieth, to be precise.”
Lambert’s face paled suddenly. He remained motionless where he was by the window, the light behind him.
“You remember now,” Monk said unnecessarily.
The blood rushed back to Lambert’s cheeks. He came forward to the desk, leaning over it. “Are you saying my daughter has lost her virtue, sir?”
“I have no idea,” Monk replied. “I am agreeing with you that malicious supposition, whether true or not, can ruin a young person, and it would be natural for those who care for them to go to great lengths to prevent that.”
Lambert drew in a long, slow breath. “You are accusing me of murdering Melville to hide some damned indiscretion which was caught before it was anything! God Almighty, what kind of a man do you think I am?”
Monk glanced down and saw that Lambert’s hands on the desk were shaking and his knuckles were white. He would have sworn that the idea genuinely horrified him.
“I am not accusing you, Mr. Lambert,” Monk answered quietly. “I am trying to find out why Keelin Melville chose such an extraordinary time to kill herself, and how. She did not eat or drink anything during the time when the police surgeon says the poison entered her body … yet he says it was swallowed. It does not make sense, does it?”
Lambert frowned. He sat down again, this time behind the desk. “No … not that I can see,” he agreed. “But if she did not eat or drink anything, then how did anyone else poison her?”
“I don’t know that either,” Monk confessed. “I’m looking for a lot of things. I’ve seen Keelin Melville’s buildings, her dreams, something of what was in her soul. I can’t let this go without doing everything I can to understand what happened to her.”
