William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

her own sense of loss.
    “Sir Oliver!” McKeever recalled his attention.
    “My lord?”
    “Did you say you had also requested the doctor to attend?”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “Then would you call him.”
    “Yes, my lord. Dr. Godwin.”
    There was instant rustling and creaking in the gallery as a score of people craned around to watch as the doors opened.
    Godwin proved to be a sturdy man with dark hair and the music of the Welsh valleys in his voice. In total silence from the crowd and from the jury, he swore to his name and professional status, then awaited Rathbone’s questions.
    “Dr. Godwin, were you summoned to Great Street at about eleven o’clock yesterday evening?”
    “I was.”
    “By whom, and for what purpose?”
    “By Mr. Isaac Wolff, to attend his friend Killian Melville, who had apparently died.”
    “And when you examined Mr. Melville, was he indeed dead?”
    “Yes sir, he was—at least … at that point I made only a cursory examination. Very cursory.”
    There was absolute silence in the room.
    Everyone was unnaturally still, as if waiting for something extraordinary without knowing what.
    McKeever leaned forward, listening intently, frowning as if he did not completely understand.
    “Your choice of words is curious,” Rathbone pointed out. “Are you suggesting that later examination proved that Mr. Melville was not actually dead?” He asked it only to clarify. He entertained no hope of error.
    “Oh no. Killian Melville was dead, I am afraid, poor soul,” Godwin assured him, nodding and pursing his lips.
    “Can you say from what cause, Dr. Godwin?”
    “Not yet, not for certain, like. But it was poison of some sort, and very probably of the type of belladonna. See it in the eyes. But I’ll know for sure when I’ve tested the contents of the stomach. Not been time for that yet.”
    “Thank you. I have nothing else to ask you at this point.”
    “No—no, I daresay not.” Godwin stood quite still. “But I can tell you something I imagine you did not know.”
    The room seemed to crackle as if there were thunder in the air.
    “Yes?”
    “Killian Melville was a woman.”
    No one moved.
    A reporter broke a pencil in half and it sounded like gunfire.
    A woman screamed.
    “I—I beg your pardon,” Rathbone said, swallowing and choking.
    “Killian Melville was a woman,” Godwin repeated clearly.
    “You mean he was—” McKeever was startled.
    “No, my lord,” Godwin corrected. “I mean she was … in every way a perfectly normal woman.”
    Zillah Lambert slid into a faint.
    There were gasps around the gallery. One of the jurors usedan expletive he would not have wished to have owned he even knew.
    Delphine Lambert gave a scream and jerked her hand up to her mouth. Slowly her face turned scarlet with embarrassment and rage. She stared fixedly ahead of her, refusing to risk meeting anyone else’s eyes. She had been completely confounded. It was obvious to anyone who looked at her. Perhaps that, more than anything else, annoyed her now. The shock was total.
    No one seemed to have noticed Zillah as she slumped momentarily insensible.
    Sacheverall at last reacted. He scrambled to his feet, his arms waving.
    “Hardly normal, my lord! Dr. Godwin makes a mockery of the word. Killian Melville was in no way normal. Man or woman.”
    “I meant medically speaking!” Godwin snapped with surprising ferocity. “Physically she was exactly like any other woman.”
    “Then why did she dress like a man,” Sacheverall shouted, waving his arms, “behave like a man, and in every way affect to be a man? For God’s sake, she even proposed marriage to a woman!”
    “No, she didn’t!” Rathbone was on his feet too, shouting back. “That is precisely my case! She didn’t! Mrs. Lambert was so keen to have her daughter make what seemed an excellent match that she assumed Melville’s affection and regard for Miss Lambert was romantic, whereas it was, in fact, exactly what Melville claimed it was: a profound friendship!” He spoke without having thought of it first, something he had sworn never to do in court, but even as he heard his voice he was certain it was the truth. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, it all seemed so apparent. Melville’s passion and his silence—her silence—were all so easily understood. Of course he—she—had laughed when Rathbone had asked if the relationship with Isaac Wolff was homosexual. He remembered now how oblique Melville’s answers had