William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

closed, her gaze resolutely forward. She would not satisfy the curious in the gallery by meeting their looks.
    Zillah, on her father’s other side, had slumped forward andburied her face in her hands, her hat askew and her bright hair shining in the sunlight from the windows. Her shoulders were hunched and she shook, not yet with weeping but with the deep shuddering movement of horror and disbelief. She seemed hardly able to catch her breath. Her father was still too deeply stunned and overwhelmed by his own emotions to help her, to offer any kind of comfort.
    Sacheverall, who so often had his attention upon her, now stood up and went from his table around to stand beside her. He spoke to her, leaning close and putting his hand on her shoulder. He repeated whatever it was he had said, and she sat up slowly, her face ashen, her eyes hollow, burning with tears.
    “Go away!” she said quite clearly.
    “My dear!” Sacheverall began urgently.
    “If you touch me again I shall strike you!” she hissed, and indeed if he had looked at her face at all he must have known she truly meant it.
    Delphine leaned across, looking at Sacheverall rather than Zillah.
    “I am sure you mean only kindness, Mr. Sacheverall,” she said with a smile, but without warmth, “but I think perhaps you had better allow us a short while to overcome our dismay. It has been a very dreadful time for all of us, but most especially Zillah. Please make allowances for her….”
    Sacheverall did not withdraw his hand. “Of course,” he said with a nod. “Of course it has. I do understand.”
    “You understand nothing!” Zillah snapped, glaring at him. “You are a—a condottiere!”
    “A what?” He was momentarily at a loss.
    “A soldier of fortune,” she replied witheringly. “A man hired to fight for any cause, literally ‘one under contract.’ And if you do not take your hand off my arm I shall scream. Do you wish that?”
    He removed his hand quickly. “You are hysterical,” he said soothingly. “It has all been a great shock to you.”
    “Yes, I am!” she agreed, to his surprise. “I have never feltworse in my life. I don’t think there is anything terrible still left to happen, except your manner towards me.”
    “Zillah!” Delphine interrupted sharply, then smiled up at Sacheverall. “I think you had better be advised to leave us a little while, a day or two. For all your sympathy, I don’t think you do understand quite how fearful this has been to one of innocence in the more … elemental feelings of men. It is enough to make anyone … a trifle off balance. Please do not take to heart anything that is said just now. Make a little allowance….”
    “Of course,” he said, smiling back at her. “Of course.” He inclined his head towards Zillah and returned to his table.
    Zillah hissed something to her mother. It was inaudible from where Rathbone stood, but gauging from the slow flush of Sacheverall’s cheeks, he heard at least its tone, if not its content.
    McKeever looked at Rathbone expectantly.
    “I assume we may have the tragic news from some witness, Sir Oliver? And no doubt we shall have expert witnesses as well? There has been a doctor in attendance?”
    “Yes, my lord. I have taken the liberty of requesting the presence of both the doctor and Mr. Isaac Wolff, who found Mr. Melville.”
    “Thank you. That was most appropriate. It will save the court’s time in adjourning in order to send for them.” He hesitated, took a deep breath. “Sir Oliver, I would like to express the court’s deep sorrow that events have transpired this way. Killian Melville was a brilliant man, and his art was an adornment to our society and all those generations that lie ahead of us. His loss is a tragedy.” He did not refer to the case or its outcome. The omission was intentional and marked. Several of the jurors nodded agreement.
    “Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone said with a rush of emotion which took him by surprise, making his voice hoarse.
    Somewhere in the gallery a man blew his nose rather loudly and a woman stifled a sob.
    “Call Mr. Wolff,” McKeever directed.
    Part of Rathbone was sorry to have to put Wolff through this ordeal. The man had had hardly any sleep; he had lost probably the person he loved most to a sudden and profoundly tragic death, almost certainly suicide in despair at the shattering loss of his private life and of his career. Wolff himself might easily lose his professional standing