William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

battle robbed of both armor and weapons.
    Melville sat in the camel saddle staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, miserable and obstinate.
    “Then for God’s sake, give me a reason!” Rathbone heard his own voice getting louder, filled with anger. “If you forbid me, then I won’t use it, but at least let me know! What is wrong with Zillah Lambert? Does she drink? Has she some disease? Is there madness in her family? What is it?”
    “Nothing,” Melville said stubbornly, still staring downwards. Rathbone could see only his profile. “So far as I know, she is as charming and as innocent as she looks.” He continued, “I know of nothing else.”
    “Then it must be you,” Rathbone accused. He could not remember ever having been so angry with a client before. Melville was brilliant, handsome, highly individual, and had a very real charm … and he was destroying himself over something which, compared with the tragedies and violence Rathbone usually dealt with, was utterly trivial. That a young woman’s reputation was being questioned and her feelings were being hurt were not light matters, but they were so very much less than the imprisonment, ruin and often death whichhe dealt with in cases of murder. And Melville’s problem seemed so much of his own making. Why did he lie? What could there possibly be that was worth concealing at this cost?
    Melville sat hunched and silent.
    “What is it?” Rathbone demanded. “Is it Zillah Lambert you won’t marry, or anyone at all?”
    Melville turned to look at him, his face puzzled, something dark in his eyes which Rathbone thought might have been fear.
    “Well?” Rathbone said urgently. “Are you free to marry? Whatever you tell me I am bound by oath to keep in confidence. I cannot lie for you in court, but I can and will keep silent. But I cannot help you if I don’t know what I am fighting.”
    Melville turned away again, his face set. “I am free to marry … but not Zillah Lambert. That is an end to it. There is nothing wrong with her. I’ll take the punishment. Just do the best you can.”
    Rathbone remained another half hour, but he could get nothing more from Melville. At quarter to ten he left and went home through rising wind and squalls of rain, still surprisingly cold.
    He poured himself a draft of single-malt whiskey and drank it neat, then went to bed. He slept very badly, troubled by dreams.

4
    T
HE TRIAL RESUMED
the next morning with Sacheverall providing witnesses to Zillah’s blameless character, as Rathbone had known he would. It was hardly necessary—her own appearance had been sufficient—but then he could not be certain that Rathbone had no witness of his own in store, someone who could cast doubt on the innocence and charm they had seen.
    The first was a Lady Lucinda Stoke-Harbury, a girl of Zillah’s own age who was newly betrothed to the second son of an earl, and impeccably respectable. She stood with her head high, her eyes straight ahead, and spoke clearly. Sacheverall could not have found anyone better, and the very slight swagger with which he walked to and fro on the open space of the floor showed his confidence. He smiled like an actor playing to the gallery, and seemed just as sure that the rest of the cast would respond as if according to a script.
    “Lady Lucinda, please tell us how long you have been acquainted with Miss Lambert, if you would be so kind.”
    “Oh, at least five years,” she replied cheerfully. “We have been great friends.”
    Sacheverall was delighted; it was exactly the reply he wanted. He hesitated long enough to make sure the jury had fully digested the statement, then continued.
    “Have you many friends in common?”
    “Naturally. We attend all the same parties, dinners, balls andso on. And we have often been to art galleries and lectures together.”
    “So you know her well?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    It was all very predictable, and there was nothing Rathbone could do to affect it. To cast doubt on Lady Lucinda’s judgment, or her honesty in expressing it, would only play directly into Sacheverall’s hands. It could both turn the jury against him, and indirectly Melville, and show them his own desperation. If he had any evidence of his own he should produce it, not insult Lady Lucinda.
    Sacheverall grew more and more enthusiastic, seeking praise and affirmation for Zillah with many new avenues of questioning.
    Rathbone looked around the gallery. He saw the range of expressions on the