William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

attempting to learn anything more from Wolff. He considered asking neighbors himself, but Monk would be far more skilled at it, and he had other things to do. He rose to his feet and excused himself, thanking Wolff for his time and warning him that their hopes of settling without returning to court were still negligible. He left feeling angry and disappointed, although he could not have named what he had hoped to find.
    “What do you want me to discover?” Monk asked as they sat together over an excellent meal of roast saddle of mutton and spring vegetables. They were in one of Rathbone’s favorite hostelries; he had invited Monk to join him partly because it was a miserable case he was requesting him to follow, but largely because he felt like indulging himself in an undeniable pleasure, like good food, good drink, a roaring fire and someone to wait upon him with courtesy and a cheerful manner. This particular dining room offered all these things. It was bustling with life, and yet not overcrowded. They had been given a table out of the draft from the door and yet not too far into a corner and not near noisy companions.
    “The worst they can find for themselves, or create out ofconfused and prejudiced observations,” he answered Monk’s question as the serving girl left a tankard of ale for them and he acknowledged it with thanks.
    Monk helped himself to another crisp roasted potato. “I presume you have already spoken to this man Wolff and to Melville himself?”
    “Of course. They deny it, but add very little.”
    “Do you believe them?” Monk was curious, there was no decision or assumption in his eyes.
    Rathbone thought for a moment or two, eating slowly. The mutton was excellent.
    “I don’t know,” he said at last. “They are both lying about something. I feel it in Wolff, and I am certain of it in Melville, but I don’t know what. I am not at all sure it is that.”
    “Then what?”
    “I don’t know!” Rathbone said sharply. “If I did, I wouldn’t need you!”
    Monk looked amused, even faintly satisfied.
    “And I need weapons against Lambert if Sacheverall doesn’t settle,” Rathbone continued. “And I don’t suppose he will. He’ll go to Lambert and ask if there is anything I can find. Lambert will swear there isn’t. If Sacheverall has any sense he’ll speak to Zillah alone and ask her. Whatever there is, or is not, I don’t know.”
    “But you need to,” Monk concluded for him, leaning across and taking the last potato.
    “Precisely.”
    “And if there is, would you use it?” Monk asked.
    “That is not your concern. Unless, of course, you are telling me you will not look for it if I would.”
    Monk laughed. “I have often wondered just how hard you would fight if you were tested, which weapon you might decide to use. I was simply interested. I’ll learn what I can.”
    “And tell me what you wish to?” Rathbone said dryly.
    “Of course. I presume you are accepting the bill yourself?”
    At the nearest table a man roared with laughter.
    “Of course. Will you please pass me the horseradish sauce?” Monk obliged, smiling widely.
    Sacheverall sent Rathbone a very clear and tersely worded message that his client would not settle, and Thursday morning saw them back in court, Sacheverall standing in the open space before the high witness-box and facing first the judge, then the jury. He affected to ignore the public benches, now far more crowded again.
    “I call Major Albert Hillman.”
    Major Hillman duly appeared, walking with a decided limp. He stared straight ahead of him, refusing to look at Rathbone or Melville where they sat, or at Sacheverall himself standing feet a little apart, back straight, like a circus ringmaster with his arms a trifle lifted. Major Hillman climbed the steps with difficulty and took the oath.
    “I’m sorry to call you on this distressing matter, sir,” Sacheverall apologized. “I hope your injury does not pain you too much?”
    Rathbone sighed. Obviously it was going to prove to be a war wound, nobly obtained, which was why Sacheverall had drawn attention to it. It was all predictable, but nonetheless effective for that.
    “My duty, sir,” the major replied stiffly. His distaste was plain in his face and in the downward dropping of his voice.
    “Of course.” Sacheverall nodded. “I shall be as brief as possible. I would not do this at all … had Mr. Melville been prepared to concede the case”—he glanced at Rathbone