William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

two, but in five years, when they have houses and families and you are still here with us, it will look very different. The invitations will stop coming. You will have more and more time to sit by yourself and consider your idiocy.”
    “Delphine, stop it!” Lambert commanded.
    But she would not be stopped; the heat of passion consumed any restraint. “And when you are thirty, and an old maid, and your beauty is gone, what then? Who’s going to keep you? What are you going to do with yourself?”
    “I’ll keep her, should that arise!” Lambert responded angrily. “And she’ll do with herself whatever she chooses.”
    “There won’t be anything to choose from,” Delphine pointed out. “Can’t you see what she’s done? Are you so blind you still don’t understand?” There were tears of grief and frustration in her eyes. “One suitor leaving her she might get over, but not two!” Her voice dropped to be deeply sarcastic. “Or are you going to suggest there is something wrong with Sacheverall? He’s a woman in disguise, perhaps?”
    Lambert was momentarily lost for a reply.
    “He was an opportunistic coward who did not love her,” Monk supplied with deep disgust. “And any woman is worthy of more than that.” He was so filled with loathing for the whole system of values where beauty and reputation were the yardsticks of worth that he did not trust himself to say more. “It is not a misfortune that he showed his nature before you could no longer extricate yourself from any connection with him gracefully.” He said this last to Zillah. He turned to Barton Lambert. “Thank you for your time, sir. I shall learn what more I can about Melville’s death, and advise you if it is of worth. Good day.” And he bowed to the women and left.
    It was later in the afternoon when he was recalling the conversation that he realized how odd were the particular words Delphine had used regarding Zillah. She had almost sounded as if she had not known her in her first year or so of life. She had seemed to disclaim responsibility for Zillah’s inherited qualities. Had Barton Lambert been married before, and Zillah was his daughter but not hers? Zillah was apparently an only child, which was not a common circumstance.
    Could that be relevant to anything? It hardly affected Melville’s death. If he found out, it would be simply from personal curiosity and because he wished an excuse not to go back to the letters and the grievance of the sister-in-law he had been working on before.
    It should not be so difficult to find out. He had ascertained earlier that Zillah was not illegitimate because the Lamberts had publicly celebrated a wedding anniversary which ruled that out. But, of course, no one had required proof of the marriage. Perhaps he should have been more thorough then? Of course, it was completely irrelevant now.
    Nevertheless, for his own satisfaction he would learn.
    It took him the rest of the day, many judiciously placed questions and a lot of searching through papers, but he learned that Barton Lambert, aged thirty-eight, and Delphine Willowby, aged thirty-two, had been married exactly when theyhad said. But in the parish where they lived there was no record of Zillah Lambert’s being born to them, or of any other child.
    Some three years later they had moved, and arrived at their new address with a very lovely child of about eighteen months, a little girl with wide eyes and red-gold hair.
    So Zillah was adopted. Delphine had married later than most women, in spite of her beauty and intelligence, and perhaps had been unable to bear children. She would not be the only woman afflicted by such grief. It had happened throughout the ages, accompanied by pain and too often public condescension, the kind of pity that is touched with judgment.
    Had she married late because she too had suffered some unjust rejection? Was her anger at Zillah rooted in her own experience of hurt?
    Suddenly Monk’s dislike of her evaporated and was overtaken by compassion. No wonder she had been angry with Melville and been determined, at any cost, to defend Zillah’s good name.
    Perhaps he owed it to Rathbone to give him this small piece of information and tell him that so far that was all he knew. It was no help, but it was at least a courtesy.
    He arrived at noon the next day at Vere Street.
    Rathbone was busy with a client, and Monk was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before he was shown into the office.
    “What have you