AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It took him the rest of the day, many judiciously placed questions and a lot of searching through papers, but he learned that Barton Lambert, aged thirty-eight, and Delphine Willowby, aged thirty-two, had been married exactly when they had said. But in the parish where they lived there was no record of Zillah Lambert’s being born to them, or of any other child.
Some three years later they had moved, and arrived at their new address with a very lovely child of about eighteen months, a little girl with wide eyes and red-gold hair.
So Zillah was adopted. Delphine had married later than most women, in spite of her beauty and intelligence, and perhaps had been unable to bear children. She would not be the only woman afflicted by such grief. It had happened throughout the ages, accompanied by pain and too often public condescension, the kind of pity that is touched with judgment.
Had she married late because she too had suffered some unjust rejection? Was her anger at Zillah rooted in her own experience of hurt?
Suddenly Monk’s dislike of her evaporated and was overtaken by compassion. No wonder she had been angry with Melville and been determined, at any cost, to defend Zillah’s good name.
Perhaps he owed it to Rathbone to give him this small piece of information and tell him that so far that was all he knew. It was no help, but it was at least a courtesy.
He arrived at noon the next day at Vere Street.
Rathbone was busy with a client, and Monk was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before he was shown into the office.
“What have you learned?” Rathbone asked immediately, not even waiting to invite Monk to be seated.
Monk looked at his anxious face, the fine lines between his brows and the tension in his lips. His sense of failure was acute.
“Nothing of importance,” he said quietly, sitting down anyway. “Zillah Lambert was adopted when she was a year and a half old. It seems Delphine could not bear children. She was well over thirty when she married Lambert. That might explain why she is so desperate that Zillah should marry well, and so jealous for her reputation. She knows what it means to society.” He added a brief summary of his visit with the Lamberts, and Sacheverall’s sudden departure.
Rathbone used a word about Sacheverall Monk was not aware he even knew and Sacheverall would have resented profoundly. He sank back in his chair, staring across the desk. “If we can’t find anything better than we have, the inquest on Melville will find suicide.” He watched Monk closely, his eyes shadowed, questioning.
“It probably was suicide,” Monk said softly. “I don’t know why she did it then, or exactly how. We probably never will. But then, I don’t know how anyone could have murdered her either. And what is more pertinent, I don’t know of any reason why they would. The Lamberts had nothing to hide.”
11
THE INQUEST on Keelin Melville was a very quiet affair, held in a small courtroom allowing only the barest attendance by the general public. This time the newspapers showed little interest. As far as they, or anyone else, were concerned, the verdict was already known. This was only a formality, the due process which made it legal, and able to be filed away as one more tragedy and then forgotten.
The coroner was a youthful-looking man with smooth skin and fair hair through which a little gray showed when he turned and his head caught the light. There were only the finest of lines at the sides of his eyes and mouth. Rathbone had seen him a number of times before and knew he had no liking for displays of emotion and loathed sensationalism. The real tragedy of sudden and violent death, and above all suicide, was too stark for him to tolerate exhibitions of false emotion.
He began the proceedings without preamble, calling first the doctor who had certified Melville as dead. Nothing was offered beyond the clinical and factual, and nothing was asked.
Rathbone looked around the room. He saw Barton Lambert sitting between his wife and daughter, and yet looking oddly alone. He was staring straight ahead and seemed to be unaware of anyone near him. Even Zillah’s obvious distress did not seem to reach him. He did not move to touch her or offer her any comfort even by a glance.
Delphine, on the other hand, was quite composed, and even as Rathbone watched her, she leaned forward, smiled and said something to Zillah. A slight flicker of expression crossed Zillah’s face, but it was impossible to tell what she was feeling. It could have been an effort to be brave and hide her grief; it could have been tension waiting for the pronouncement of the verdict expected by all of them. It could even have been suppressed anger.
Rathbone was feeling almost suffocating rage himself, partly directed towards the court, towards Sacheverall, who was sitting far away from the Lamberts and carefully avoiding looking towards them. But most painfully, Rathbone’s anger was towards himself. He had failed Keelin Melville. Had he not, they would not now be here questioning her death.
He did not even now know how he should have acted to prevent the tragedy from playing itself out. He could think of no place or time when he could have done something differently, but taken altogether the result was a failure, complete and tragic. He had failed to win her trust. That was his shortcoming. He might not have saved her reputation or professional standing in England, but he would certainly have saved her legal condemnation and, without question, her life.
Why had she not trusted him? What had he said, or not said, so that she had taken this terrible step rather than tell him the truth? Had she thought him ruthless, di
shonorable, without compassion or understanding? Why? He was not any of those things. No one had ever accused him … except of being a little pompous, possibly; ambitious; even at times cold—which was quite unjustified. He was not cold, simply not overimpulsive. He was not prejudiced—not in the slightest. Even Hester, with all her ideas, had never said he was prejudiced. And heaven knows, she would have said it had it crossed her mind!
The doctor’s evidence was finished. It informed them of nothing new.
The police told of being called over the matter, as was necessary. Melville had apparently been alone all evening. There was no sign whatsoever of anyone else’s having entered her rooms.
“Was there any evidence of Miss Melville’s having eaten or drunk anything since returning home that evening?” the coroner asked.
“We saw nothing, sir,” the policeman replied unhappily. “It seemed the young lady had no resident servant. There was nothing out of place. No food had been prepared and there was no crockery or glasses showing as been used.”
“Did you search for any container for pills or powders, Sergeant?” the coroner pressed.
“Yes sir, an’ we found nothing except a paper for a headache powder screwed up in the wastepaper basket in the bedroom. We looked very careful, sir. Fair turned the place inside out.”
“I see. Thank you. You also looked for bottles, I presume? Even clean ones which might have been used and then washed out?”
