William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

door down steps to the square. He did not even bother to excuse himself to the caretaker. The wind was sharp and growing colder. The sun was already lowering and filling the west over the rooftops with an apricot glow. How could he help Melville? What was he hiding, and above all, why did he not trust Rathbone with it?
    Was he protecting himself or someone else? Zillah Lambert herself?
    There was no time before Monday morning and the trial’s resumption to discuss anything but the most superficial facts. The most urgent thing to learn was if there had been some incident in Melville’s life he was afraid might come to light and ruin him. It must be something Sacheverall could find out, or Rathbone would have no need to fear it.
    It was late Saturday afternoon. No professional organizations would be open for him to ask questions. He would have to call on more acquaintances, people who might help him for the sake of old friendship, or more likely old debt. He had no relationships more than four years long. Everything before that was part of the past he knew so imperfectly, although now that he at least understood why Runcorn hated him, and why their quarrel and his dismissal from the police force had been inevitable, that no longer troubled him. He seldom looked backward anymore. The old ghosts had lost their power.
    He stood still on the pavement for several minutes. People passed by him, two ladies chattering, their crinoline skirts swaying, curls blown in the increasing wind, hands held up to keep their bonnets from flying away. A carriage and four went by at a fast clip, horses’ manes streaming, harness jingling loudly. Someone shouted, and a young man darted out into the street.
    An elderly man with magnificent whiskers passed an angry remark about the state of society.
    Monk remembered the name of someone he could ask about architects and money. He turned and walked briskly across the square and through an archway into a main thoroughfare where he found a hansom and gave the driver an address in Gower Street.
    George Burnham was an elderly man with a prodigious memory, and was happy to exercise it to help anyone, even to show off a little. The days were very long now that he was alone, and he delighted in company. He piled more coals on the fire and ordered supper for himself and Monk, and settled comfortably for an evening of companionship and recollections, after shooing away a large and very beautiful black-and-white cat so Monk might have the best chair.
    “Known every new architect, painter and sculptor to come to London in the last forty years,” he said confidently. “Do you like pork pie, my dear fellow?” He waved casually at the cat. “Off you go, Florence.”
    “Yes, I do,” Monk accepted, sitting down carefully so as not to crush the skirts of his jacket, trying to disregard the cat hairs.
    “Excellent!” Mr. Burnham rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. We shall dine on pork pie, hot vegetables and cold pickle. Mrs. Shipton makes the best pickle in this entire city. And what about a little good sherry first? A nice mellow amontillado? Good, good!” He reached out and pulled the bell cord. “Now, my dear fellow, what is it you wish to know?” He smiled encouragingly.
    Monk had met him during a sensitive case concerningmissing money. It had been solved very much to Mr. Burnham’s satisfaction. A collection of such clients was invaluable. At first Monk had despised the smaller cases, thinking them beneath his talents and no more than a demeaning necessity in his newly reduced circumstances. Now he began to appreciate the value of the clients far beyond the nature of the problems they had presented to him. Sandeman had been one such; Mr. Burnham was another.
    “What do you think of the work of Killian Melville?” he asked candidly.
    Mr. Burnham cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes bright with interest.
    “Sublime,” he answered. “In a word—sublime! Finest architect this century.” He did not ask why Monk wished to know, but he did not take his gaze from Monk’s face.
    “Where did he study?” Monk frowned.
    “No idea,” Mr. Burnham said instantly. “No one does. At least, no one I have met. Appeared in London about five years ago from God knows where. Can’t place his accent. Tried to. Don’t think it matters. Man is a genius. He can be a law unto himself. Although don’t mistake me,” he added earnestly. “He’s a very pleasant fellow, no airs or graces, no