William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

was nothing to be lost. “Miss Zillah Lambert.”
    “Indeed?” Sandeman was silent for a moment. “I still cannot help you. I know a little of Barton Lambert. Not a sophisticated man, but on the other hand he is nobody’s dupe either. He made his own fortune by hard work and good judgment—and a certain amount of courage. In my limited experience he has not been one to be socially ambitious, nor to take a slight easily.”
    “And his wife?” Monk said with the shadow of a smile.
    Sandeman drew in his breath and there was a flicker in his eyes which expressed possibly more than he was willing to say.
    “A very pretty woman. Met her several times. Even dined at their home once.” He put his head a trifle to one side, a look of mild surprise on his face. “I confess I had not expected to find it so extraordinarily beautiful. And it was, believe me, Monk. I have dined with some of the wealthiest families in England, and some of the oldest, but for its scale, nothing outdid Lambert’s home. It was full of invention … architectural invention, I mean, not scientific. It was brilliantly innovative. That was Killian Melville.” He began to smile as he spoke, and his eyes took on a faraway shine as he retreated into memory. “As we went into the hall the floor was red oak, lovely warm color to it, and the walls were in different shades like … like sweet and dry sherry … no, more like brown sugar. But because of the windows it was full of light. It was one of those rare places where instantly one feels both a warmth and a curious sense of peace. There was a width, a space about it. All the lines pleased the eye. Nothing intruded or was cramped.”
    Monk did not interrupt, although he found the impression he was gaining more of Killian Melville than of Lambert. He did not want to like Melville, because he believed the case was hopeless. It would be so much more comfortable to believe him a knave, a fool, or both. It would be emotionally expensive to feel a desperate need to save him, to struggle, and fail, and have to watch him ruined. He pushed away the thought.
    Sandeman was still recalling the house. He obviously enjoyed it.
    “The dining room was marvelous,” he said enthusiastically and leaning forward a little. “I had seen a lot of magnificent rooms before and was a bit blasé. I thought I had seen every possible combination and variation of line and color, but this was different.” He was watching Monk’s reaction, wanting to be sure Monk appreciated what he was saying. “Not so much in obvious construction but in smaller ways, so the overall impression was again one of lightness, simplicity, and it was only on reflection one began to realize what was different. It was largely a matter of perfect proportion, of relation between curve and perpendicular, circle and horizontal, and always of light.”
    “You are saying Melville is a true genius,” Monk observed.
    “Yes … yes, I suppose I am,” Sandeman agreed. “But I am also saying that Lambert understood that and appreciated it. I am also saying that Mrs. Lambert was fully sensitive to it too, and that she complemented it perfectly. Everything in her dining room was superb. There was not a lily in the vases with a blemish on it, not a smear or a chip on the crystal, a scratch on the silver, a mark or a loose thread in the linen.” He nodded his head slightly. “It was all in equally exquisite taste. And she was the perfect hostess. The food, of course, was delicious, and abundant without ever being ostentatious. The slightest vulgarity would have been abhorrent to her.”
    “Interesting,” Monk acknowledged. “But not helpful.”
    “I don’t know anything helpful.” Sandeman shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Barton Lambert’s reputation is impeccable, both professional and personal. I have never heard anyone make the slightest suggestion that he was less than exactly what he seems, a shrewd but blunt north country businessman who has made a fortune and came to London to enjoy his success, patronize the arts—by the way, that is also painting and music, though principally architecture—and give his wife and daughter the pleasure of London society. You can try, by all means, and see if you can find evidence hepatronizes the brothels in the West End or has a mistress tucked away somewhere, or that he gambles at his club, or occasionally drinks a little too much. I doubt you’ll find it, but if you do, it won’t help. So do