William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

is not true. I have already sworn that I have never had an intimate relationship with another man, only with women.” There was a buzz of titillation and embarrassment at the use of such frank words.
    “I cannot and will not alter that statement, whatever threats you may make,” Wolff went on. “And if you persuade someone to forswear or perjure themselves, that is your responsibility, and you are a great deal less than honest, sir, if you try to make anyone believe the answer, for that lies with me.”
    Sacheverall pushed his large hands into his pockets, dragging the shoulders of his coat.
    “You force me, sir! I do not wish to do this to you. For heaven’s sake, spare yourself the shame. Think of Melville, if not of yourself.”
    “By admitting to a crime of which neither of us is guilty?” Wolff said bitterly.
    Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, may I ask for an adjournment so I may speak with my client and with Mr. Sacheverall? Perhaps we can come to some understanding which would be preferable to this present discussion, which is proving nothing.”
    “I think that would be advisable,” McKeever agreed, reaching his hand towards the gavel again as there was a murmur of disappointment in the gallery and several of the jurors muttered, whether it was in agreement or disagreement, it was not possible to say. “Mr. Sacheverall?” He did not wait for the answer but assumed it. “Good. This court is adjourned until two o’clock this afternoon.”
    Rathbone leaned towards Melville, still sitting motionless. He grasped his arm and felt the muscles locked.
    “What can he prove?” he whispered fiercely. “What is Wolff to you?”
    Melville relaxed very slowly, as if he were waking from a trance.
    A smile with a hint of hysteria in it touched his lips and then vanished.
    “Not my homosexual lover!” he said with a gasp of disbelief, as if the idea had a kind of desperate humor to it. “I swear that in the name of God! He is as normal, as masculine, a man as ever drew breath.”
    “Then what? Is he some relative by blood or marriage?” Even as he asked, Rathbone could not believe it was blood. The two men were physically as unalike as possible. Wolff must have been four or five inches the taller and two stones heavier. He was as dark as Melville was fair, as brooding, mystic and Celtic as Melville was open, direct and Saxon. “What?” he repeated firmly.
    But Melville refused to answer.
    The bailiff was beside the table.
    “Mr. Sacheverall is waiting for you, Sir Oliver. I’ll take you to him, if you come with me.”
    “Do you want to withdraw?” Rathbone demanded, still facing Melville. “I can’t make that decision for you. I don’t know what Sacheverall will find or what these witnesses may say.”
    “Neither do I!” Melville said jerkily. “But I am not going to marry Zillah Lambert.” He closed his eyes. “Just do what you can….” His voice cracked and he turned away.
    Rathbone had no choice but to go with the bailiff and meet with Sacheverall, not knowing what he could salvage of the chaos he had been thrown into. Except that if he were honest, he had not been thrown, he had leaped, more or less open-eyed. His own lack of thought had earned him this.
    Sacheverall was half sitting on the bare table in the small room set aside for just this sort of meeting. He did not stand when Rathbone came in and closed the door. His fair eyebrows rose quizzically.
    “Ready to retreat?”
    Rathbone sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, crossing his legs. He realized he disliked Sacheverall, not because he was losing—he had lost cases before, to adversaries he both liked and admired—but for the way in which Sacheverall savored the misfortune this would bring to Melville, and his own part in making it happen. The prosecutor was not serving justice but some emotion of his own. Rathbone resented giving him anything.
    “If you mean ready to capitulate, no, I’m not. If you mean discuss the situation, then of course. I thought I had already made that plain in asking for an adjournment.”
    “For God’s sake, man!” Sacheverall said with a half laugh. “You’re beaten! Give in gracefully and I won’t call my witnesses who can place Wolff and Melville together in the most intimate and compromising circumstances. Of course the man doesn’t want to marry!” His voice was rich with scorn. “He’s a homosexual…. I’ll use the politest word I can for what he does.” His