William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

skills and the nerve, but had been prevented because of her sex. That too had ended in tragedy.
    The jurors were uncomfortable. One elderly man blew through his mustache loudly, a curiously confused sound of anger and disgust, but his face betrayed his sense of confusion. He did not know what he thought, except that it was acutely unpleasant, and he resented it. He was there to pass judgment on others, not to be judged.
    Another sat frowning heavily, seemingly troubled by his thoughts, his face filled with deep, unsettling pity.
    Two more faced each other for moral support and nodded several times.
    A fifth shook his head, biting his lips.
    “Thank you, Mr. Wolff,” McKeever said quietly. “I think you have explained the matter as far as it is possible for us. I am obliged to you. It cannot have been either easy or pleasant for you, but I believe you have done us a service, and perhaps you have dealt Keelin Melville some measure of justice, albeit too late. I have no further questions. You may step down.”
    *   *   *
    As he was leaving the court, outside in the hallway, Rathbone heard footsteps hurrying behind him, and when he turned he was caught up by Barton Lambert.
    “Sir Oliver!” Lambert was out of breath, and he looked profoundly agitated. He caught hold of Rathbone’s arm.
    “Yes, Mr. Lambert,” Rathbone said coldly. He did not dislike the man—in fact, he had considered him basically both honest and tolerant—but he was burning with an inner anger and confusion, and a great degree of guilt. He did not want to have to be civil to anyone, least of all someone who was part of the tragedy and might, all too understandably, be seeking some relief from his own burden. Rathbone had none to offer.
    “When did—when did you know?” Lambert said earnestly, his face creased, his eyes intent. “I could never be—I …” He stopped. He was too patently telling the truth to be doubted.
    “The same moment you did, Mr. Lambert,” Rathbone replied. “Perhaps I should have guessed, rather than assume the relationship with Wolff was an immoral or illegal one. Perhaps you should have. We didn’t, and it is too late now to undo our destruction of her life or recall the talent we have cut off forever.”
    They were both of them oblivious to others in the hallway.
    “If she’d told me the truth!” Lambert protested, his hands sawing in the air. “If she’d just trusted us!”
    “We would what?” Rathbone asked, raising his eyebrows.
    “I … well, for God’s sake, I wouldn’t have sued her!”
    Rathbone laughed with a startlingly bitter sound. “Of course you wouldn’t! You would have appeared ridiculous. You would have
been
ridiculous. But if she had come to you as a woman with those new, extraordinary designs for buildings, all light and curves, would you have put up the money to build them?”
    “I … I …” Lambert stopped, staring at Rathbone, his cheeks white. He was too innately honest a man to lie, even to himself, now the truth was plain. “No … I doubt it … no, no, I suppose not. I thought hard as it was. He was … she was … so revolutionary. But by God, Rathbone, they werebeautiful!” he said with a sudden, fierce passion, his eyes brilliant, his face translucent, alight with will and conviction.
    “They still are,” Rathbone said quietly. “The art is the same. It remains within the creator if it stands or falls.”
    “By God, you’re right!” Lambert exploded savagely. “Heaven help us all … what a bigoted, shortsighted, narrow, self-seeking lot we are!” He stood in the corridor with his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight, his fists clenched in front of him.
    “Sometimes,” Rathbone agreed. “But at least if we can see it, there is hope for us.”
    “There’s no bloody hope for Melville! We’ve finished that!” Lambert spat back at him.
    “I know.” Rathbone did not argue his own guilt. It was academic. Lambert’s greater guilt did not absolve anyone else. “Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Lambert, I have people I desire to inform, and regrettably, other cases.” He left Lambert standing staring after him and hurried towards the doors, pushing past people, ignoring them. There was no purpose to be served anymore, but he wanted to tell Monk personally rather than leave him to read it in the newspapers.
    Monk was shattered by the news, although he too felt that he should at least have considered the possibility, but it had never