William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

grace, determined it was due to her distress and perhaps natural.
    “I did not mean to embarrass you,” he apologized, turning back to the front of the court. “My emotions made me speak too soon.” Before she could answer that, he looked to Rathbone. “I shall consult with my client, of course,” he said with a chill. “But I think Mrs. Lambert will feel that her daughter’s character has been vindicated in every way with today’s revelations. No possible fault can attach to her in anyone’s mind. The matter of cost will be dealt with from Mr.—Miss Melville’s estate. I imagine that rests with her solicitor.”
    Barton Lambert jerked forward as if to speak, and Delphine pulled him back again sharply.
    McKeever glared around the room and it fell silent.
    “I should like to hear more fully what drove Miss Melville to this extraordinary step. And I think we should give Mr. Isaac Wolff the opportunity to clear his name and the question of his own reputation. I call him to testify.”
    There was a moment’s silence, then the usher gathered his wits and called rather loudly for Isaac Wolff.
    It took only a few moments for Wolff to come from the back of the court. He stumbled as he climbed the steps up to the witness stand again.
    “Mr. Wolff,” McKeever said in his soft voice. There was absolute silence in the room. No one in the gallery fidgeted or whispered. The jurors sat with eyes fixed on Wolff, their faces stiff with pity and embarrassment. Neither Rathbone nor Sacheverall stirred. Everyone strained to catch McKeever’s words.
    “Mr. Wolff, I am sorry to call you again when you must be feeling your bereavement most deeply,” he said. “But I feelyou are perhaps the only one able to offer us a proper explanation. Why did Killian Melville spend her life dressed as a man and to all outward purposes living the life of a man? Before you answer”—he smiled very slightly; it was an inner necessity which drove him, an emotion he could not stifle, and certainly one devoid of any shred of humor—”I offer you the court’s unqualified apology for its accusation of sexual vice, or any kind of crime on your part or, of course, upon Miss Melville’s.”
    A shadow of very bitter humor flashed in Wolff’s eyes but did not touch his lips.
    “Thank you, my lord.” His voice was too flat to carry gratitude. He did not look at anyone in particular as he summoned the words to answer. His gaze seemed to be over the heads of the gallery, but his vision inward, into memory. “Actually, her name was Keelin. Her mother was half Irish. She simply changed the spelling a little to sound more masculine.”
    The court waited.
    He took a few moments to master his composure. “She was brilliant,” he began quietly, but his voice was raw. “Even as a child she was fascinated by beautiful buildings of all sorts. Her father was a keen scholar and the family spent much time in the Mediterranean—Italy, Greece, Egypt, Palestine. Keelin would walk for hours among the ruins of the greatest cities on earth. She has sketches of the Roman Forum, the Baths of Caracalla, the Colosseum, of course. And in the rest of Italy of the great triumphs of the Renaissance, the exquisite simplicity of the Tuscan villas, of Alberti, of Michelangelo’s domes and basilicas.”
    Everyone in the room was listening with eyes intent upon Wolff’s face. Rathbone looked at them discreetly. Their faces were filled with emotion as their imaginations journeyed with him, dreaming, thinking.
    “But she loved the eastern architecture also,” Wolff went on. “She admired the mosques of Turkey, the coolness and the light. She was fascinated with the dome of the Blue Mosque and how the ventilation was so superb the smoke from thecandles never made a mark on the ceiling.” A shadow of memory softened the harshness of his grief for a moment. “She talked about it endlessly. I don’t think she was even aware of whether I was listening or not.”
    No one moved or made the slightest sound of interruption. McKeever’s face was intent.
    “And when her father went to Egypt”—Wolff was absorbed in memory—“she went as well. It was a whole new dimension of architecture, more ancient than anything else she had even imagined. She stood in the ruins of Karnak as if she had seen a revelation. Even the light was different. I remember her saying that so often. She always built for light—” He stopped abruptly as emotions overwhelmed him. He stood with