William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

afternoon, Mr. Monk. How are you?”
    She looked still tired, still hurt, but there was no air of self-pity about her, and no blame towards Monk. Again he was consumed with anger at this whole absurd charade which had already destroyed Keelin Melville and was going to damage Zillah yet further. He even hesitated whether to say what he had come for. What good would it do now?
    He looked past her at Sacheverall, who had turned to face the room, watching Zillah. Was it affection in his eyes or enlightened self-interest, plus perhaps a little very natural desire towards an extremely attractive young woman? And she was attractive. She had an unusual mixture of innocence and individuality. A man who loved her might waken all kinds of passions in her, and high among them would be loyalty.
    Monk looked beyond her again at Sacheverall and disliked him profoundly.
    “What may we do for you, Mr. Monk?” Lambert enquired.
    Monk recalled himself. “I am sorry to intrude,” he apologized. “May I speak with you alone, Mr. Lambert? I hope it will be brief.”
    Lambert glanced at his wife.
    “Oh, there is plenty of time before luncheon,” she assured him. “It is still a trifle cool for me, but I daresay Mr. Sacheverall would like to take a short walk around the garden. Zillah can show him some of our treasures.”
    Zillah looked at her father appealingly, but he misunderstood. “Yes, of course, my dear,” he agreed. “I daresay we shall be no more than half an hour at the most.”
    Sacheverall offered his arm with a smile and considerable enthusiasm, and Zillah accepted it.
    Lambert went to the door and opened it into the hall to usher Monk towards somewhere more private.
    Monk excused himself to Delphine and followed.
    They went to the study. It was a pleasant room, well furnished with books. A large desk was scattered with papers and there were two cabinets for the storage of yet more papers. Four chairs for visitors faced the desk, and Lambert turned to look at Monk, his brow furrowed, his eyes still filled with his sense of tragedy.
    “Well, Monk, what is this about? Is this some further matter to do with Melville?” The absence of title suggested he still thought of Melville as a man. Over the shock of disclosure and all the loss that had followed, he remembered the friend he had known and cared for.
    Monk felt a tightening inside himself. A daughter, even as pretty and as charming and as seemingly agreeable as Zillah, was a source for all kinds of fears. Illness and accident were only the worst. There were so many humanly made, unnecessary other traps and snares, even in a young life barely begun.
    “What is it?” Lambert repeated, not yet offering Monk a seat.
    Monk had been considering where to begin. Lambert was a blunt man. He would not appreciate prevarication.
    “I have been looking into Keelin Melville’s death,” he said directly, watching Lambert’s face. “For Rathbone’s sake as much as anything. It seems so …”
    He saw the look of pain in Lambert’s eyes.
    “So oddly timed,” he went on. “According to the police surgeon, she must have taken the poison while she was actually in the court, and yet she was observed all the time, and she neither ate nor drank anything at all. And why then, rather than later at home? Why would anyone choose to take poison in public in order to die in private, when doing both at home would have been so much easier?”
    Lambert stared at him, puzzled and now also troubled. It seemed that up until now his emotions had crowded outthought. This came to him as an ugly intrusion, but he did not evade it.
    “What are you trying to say, Monk? You are not a man to come here to see me simply to say there are things you do not understand. You have no need to understand, unless you believe there is something wrong, something criminal, or at the very least, something profoundly immoral. What do you expect of me?” He walked back to one of the chairs, not the one behind the desk but one of those arranged in front of it, and sat on it.
    Monk sat in one of the others, crossing his legs and leaning back.
    “One possibility troubles me, and I would like to prove it wrong before I let go of it.”
    “Yes? What is that possibility, and how does it concern me or my family?”
    “I am not sure that it does,” Monk admitted. “The possibility is that she was murdered.”
    Lambert leaned forward. “What?” He seemed genuinely not to have understood.
    Monk repeated what he