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Rathbone found himself watching Barton Lambert. He too was sunk in a weight of grief. Looking at him now it was naked in his face how fond of Melville he had been—as a friend, as an artist, as a colleague in creating lasting, individual and innovative beauty. It was also clear that his sorrow was touched with an acute awareness of how large his own part had been in this tragedy. His shoulders slumped forward. He did not look to either side of him, as if he preferred to remain islanded away from even those closest to him.
Delphine, on the contrary, sat upright, her eyes wide, her attention sharp and clear. It could not be supposed she was comfortable, but she was enduring the temporary embarrassment with stoicism, knowing the important victory was hers. This was merely part of the price. And there were other battles ahead. Her glance, when it strayed towards Sacheverall, was venomous in the extreme. Rathbone would not be surprised if in due course stories and whispers began to circulate not entirely to Sacheverall’s credit. Nothing specific would be said, only looks, intonations of the voice, a question in the eyes. Neither, actually, would he be sorry. In fact, he thought of it with some satisfaction.
After Wolff had finished the coroner called Monk, but only to assure himself that Monk could add nothing. Monk corroborated what he had heard and stepped down again.
The coroner did not retire to consider. There was no need.
“I have listened to all that has been said today.” He frowned as he spoke. “It is a case which disturbs me greatly for the loss of a young and brilliant life which had already been an ornament to our culture and would undoubtedly have been more so in the future, had she lived. I have not been satisfied as to exactly how it happened, nor precisely what particular incident turned the balance from discouragement to despair, but there is no other conclusion possible except that Keelin Melville took her own life by swallowing the poison of belladonna while in the courthouse during the case against her for breach of promise.” He breathed in and out slowly. “One may only presume that the ruin which the suit brought to her life and career, and to the life of the man she loved, was a pain more than she felt able to bear. We must all live with our own responsibility for our individual parts in that.” He picked up his gavel and touched it lightly to its stand. “This court is adjourned.”
Monk left after only the briefest word with Rathbone. There really was nothing to say. They both knew before they went in what the verdict would be, and the pain of it would only be made worse by standing around talking about it. They had done their best, and it had not been good enough. Of course, they never expected to win every case. No one did. But losing did not grow easier.
He came down the steps into the street and hailed the first hansom he saw, directing the driver to Tavistock Square. He should tell Hester what had happened in person rather than allow her to read it or hear about it. Anyway, now that it was no longer a cause célèbre it would only be a small item on a back page. She might not even see it.
And he wanted to share the burden of his feelings about it with someone to whom it needed no explanation and who would understand without his needing to tell anything but the bare facts.
He was welcomed as usual and shown into the withdrawing room. He asked to see Hester, and this time there was no waiting. She came after barely five minutes, and a glance at his face told her why he had come.
“It’s over?” She came in and closed the door behind her. There was a small fire burning and the room looked gentle and very domestic, shabby enough to feel at ease.
“Yes … it’s over. Suicide.”
She looked at him closely, studying his eyes, his face. For several moments she did not say anything more, simply sharing in silence the complex unhappiness of the knowledge. All sorts of questions and ideas went through his mind as to whether they could have done differently, what he had expected, but none of them were worth putting into words. He knew what her answer would be, and that very fact was comfortable.
“How is Oliver?” she said at last.
He laughed very slightly, abruptly. “Extraordinary … quite out of character,” he answered, then wondered immediately if that was so. Perhaps Rathbone had instead found a truer part of himself. “He told the court, and the public, what he thought of their general prejudice and of the value of women for their prettiness and docility, and led the way for the coroner to express his highly unflattering opinion of Sacheverall.” He remembered it with surprising pleasure as he said it.
She smiled, a slow, sad smile, but with a gentleness he realized he had seen in her often.
“Poor Oliver. He is not used to feeling so violently. I think he cared about Melville more than most of his cases. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“You admire that, don’t you?” he observed. He made it a question, but he knew it was true. If she had denied it he would not have believed her. He admired it too. He had no regard for someone incapable of anger at injustice.
He had thought Rathbone cold, a creature of his intellect, of superb and total control of his emotions. To find he was not so increased Monk’s liking for him. He was not sure that he wished to like Rathbone, but even with all its complications, it was a sweeter feeling than contempt or indifference.
“Do you want to tell Gabriel?” she asked, cutting across his thoughts.
“Yes … yes, I will. How is he?” He asked because he liked Gabriel; it was not a matter of courtesy.
“Better,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “I think the pain is about the same. It will be for a while. But he is sleeping with fewer nightmares now.”
“Perdita?” he guessed.
She smiled. “Yes. Slowly …”
He smiled also, remembering Athol Sheldon and the look on his face when Perdita had spoken to him the last time Monk had been there. It was a battle she would not win easily, but at least she was prepared to fight it.
Hester led the way from the withdrawing room across the hall and upstairs to Gabriel’s room. She knocked on the door.
It was opened by Perdita. She was dressed in soft pink trimmed with wine and she looked very serious and demure in spite of the flattering color. She stared past Hester to Monk.
“Is it more about Martha’s nieces?” she asked very quietly, in case Martha should be close and overhear her.
“No, Mrs. Sheldon, it is about the inquest on Keelin Melville.”
“Oh.” She hesitated only a moment. The old habit of trying to protect Gabriel did not die easily. She had to make a conscious effort to realize what she was doing. She opened the door wider and they followed her in.
Gabriel was sitting up on the bed, but he was fully dressed. It was only the second time Monk had seen him other t
