A Breach of Promise

chapter 8
Rathbone entered court on Monday exhausted from one of the most deeply miserable nights he could remember. He and Monk had gone immediately to Melville's lodgings, where Isaac Wolff, gray-faced, had met them at the door. There had been nothing anyone could do to help. He had called a doctor, who had assumed death to have been caused by some form of poison and had guessed belladonna, but it would require a full postmortem examination to be certain.

No one mentioned suicide, but it hung unspoken like a darkness over them all. One does not take belladonna by accident, and Wolff was too naked in his grief to make any pretense at lying. Melville had had excellent health, better than most people's. He took no medication of any sort.

Naturally the police had been called. There must be certainty. Even this could not be allowed to pass in private. Suicide was a crime.

Now there was nothing left but loss, not only personal but of one of the greatest, most luminous creative minds of the age. For Rathbone there was also shame for his own failure to have prevented this, a weighing down of guilt, and the last legal formalities of closing the issue. And there was also a colossal rage. He was clenched up inside with it. As he strode up the steps and along the hallway of the courthouse, he scarcely saw the colleagues he passed, the clerks and ushers, the litigants.

His feet were loud and sharp on the stone of the floor, his back rigidly straight, his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands.

He entered the courtroom just as they were beginning to consider him overdue, and there was a buzz of attention and disapproval. Sacheverall swung around, his fair face with its protruding ears serenely triumphant. He did not even consider it a possibility that Rathbone had found a weapon against him. A part of Rathbone's anger turned to hatred, an emotion he was very unused to. He noticed Sacheverall smile at Zillah and her uncertain look back at him. There was no question that Sacheverall was pursuing her himself. There was no mistaking the nature of his interest, the eagerness in his eyes, the energy, almost excitement, when he spoke her name or had even the slightest contact with her.

He was moving too quickly, not perhaps for Delphine, but certainly for Zillah herself. There was something indecent in it. Zillah was a charming girl, but the first thought that came to Rathbone's mind was Barton Lambert's money. Perhaps that was unjust, but he was too raw to care.

Sacheverall faced Rathbone and nodded, his eyes bright. If he read anything in Rathbone's expression, he must have assumed it was defeat. He showed no sign of apprehension.

"I apologize, my lord, if I have kept the court waiting," Rathbone said swiftly to the judge. "I was detained by circumstances beyond my control."

Sacheverall let out a slight sound, no more than an audible sigh, but the disbelief in it was obvious.

McKeever caught some sense of Rathbone's emotion.

"What circumstances were those, Sir Oliver?" he asked.

"I regret it profoundly, my lord, but my client is dead."

There was an instant's utter silence. No one moved, not even a creak of wood or rustle of fabric. Then suddenly there was uproar. A woman shrieked. Several people rose to their feet, although there was nowhere to go. The jurors looked to each other, eyes wide with shock, unable yet to grasp the full significance of what they had heard.

"Silence!" McKeever said distinctly, looking around the room, then frowning at Rathbone. "I will have order! Sir Oliver, will you please explain to us what happened? Did Mr. Melville meet with an accident?"

"It is not yet possible to say, my lord." Rathbone found it difficult to find the right words, although he had tried to formulate them all the way there. Now, standing in the long-familiar room in which he had fought numberless cases, he was lost to express what he felt.

Press reporters had been expecting a quiet collapse of the struggle and were there only to leam the damages, and perhaps to watch the human ruin as a man's personal Me was torn apart. Now they were scrambling for pencils to write something entirely different.

In the gallery a woman gave a little squeal and stifled it with her hand.

"Mr. Melville was found dead last night," Rathbone began again. "At present the cause is not known."

The buzz in the gallery rose.

"Silence!" McKeever ordered sharply, his face darkening with anger. He reached for his gavel and banged it with a loud crack. "I will clear the court if there is not silence and a decent respect!"

He was obeyed reluctantly, but within seconds.

Rathbone looked across at Sacheverall, waiting to see how he would react, if he was as horrified by his own part in this as Rathbone was. Rathbone saw surprise, but not amazement. He thought in a flash that the possibility had occurred to him. If the prosecutor was distressed or ashamed, he hid it well.

Barton Lambert, on the other hand, sitting behind him, looked devastated. His blunt, rather ordinary face was slack with horror, mouth open, eyes staring fixedly. He seemed almost unaware of anyone around him, of Delphine at his side looking embarrassed, caught by surprise, but not grieved beyond her ability to control with dignity. Her head was high, her lips firmly 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 and buried 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 felt worse 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 also, his livelihood, even his liberty, if Sacheverall were vindictive enough to lay a complaint. He was haggard with a grief nothing would mend.

And yet the deep burning rage within Rathbone wanted this court, which had accomplished all this, to see what they had done. Especially he wanted Lambert to see. Sacheverall might never feel any regret or shame, but if others saw, then possibly his reputation would sour, and Rathbone desired that with a hunger he could all but taste.

Isaac Wolff came in like a man in a nightmare. His dark eyes were so far sunken into his head he looked cadaverous. He walked across the floor and up the steps to the witness-box like an old man, although he was barely forty. He looked towards Rathbone without seeing him.

The court waited in complete silence. They felt his grief and it held them in awe. It was like an animal thing, raw in the air.

Rathbone had already told him of his own feelings. There was no need to repeat any formal sympathy now, and he did not wish to break the tension by such civilities.

"Mr. Wolff, will you please tell us of the events late yesterday evening which bring you here today?" he asked.

Wolff spoke briefly, almost abruptly, except that his voice held no expression, no variation in tone.

"I went to see Melville. I knew he would be distressed after the day in court." It was a simple statement without adjectives, even without expression. It had the starkness of real and final tragedy. He was looking at Rathbone now. Perhaps he knew that Rathbone at least understood the magnitude of his emotion. "I rang the bell of his rooms. There was no answer. I have a key. I let myself in. He was in the sitting room, in the chair by the fire, but the ashes had burned right down. It was obviously three or four hours since it had been stoked. He looked as if he might have been asleep. At first I hoped he was. Then I touched him and I knew. He was cold." He said nothing further.

"What time was that, Mr. Wolff?" Rathbone asked.

There was still silence in the room. Everyone was staring at Wolff. There was a sea of faces, a pale blur as every person's attention was on him.

"Between half past ten and eleven," Wolff replied. There was complete calm about him. Whatever they thought of him would not hurt him now. The worst he could conceive had already happened.

"Did you see anything to give you cause to know or guess the manner of his death?" Rathbone pursued, although he knew the answer.

"No." Just the single word.

"Was anything disturbed?"

"No. Everything was as always."

"Was there a glass or cup in the room, near where he was sitting?"

"No."

"Was there a note or a letter of any kind?"

"No."

"Thank you, Mr. Wolff. If you will remain there, His Lordship may have some questions for you."

Wolff turned slowly towards the judge.

"No, thank you," McKeever declined quietly. "It seems perfectly clear. I am sorry we had to trouble you, Mr. Wolff. The court extends you its sympathy."

"Thank you." At another time there might have been a shadow of humor in Wolff's acceptance. Today there was none. Something inside him was dead and there was no response except words, bare of feeling.

He turned and stepped down, holding on to the banister as if his sight and his coordination were impaired. He made his way to one of the seats at the back of the gallery and someone rose to give him space. Rathbone watched with his heart beating violently in case it were to shun him, but there was so deep a look of pity on the man's face his gesture could not have been misunderstood. Rathbone was suddenly uplifted by such compassion from a stranger, such a lack of judgment of frailty, only the awareness of grief.

He looked at Barton Lambert again. Lambert was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as if he wanted to take some physical action but could think of nothing which answered his needs. There was a profound unhappiness in every line of him. He turned to Delphine, but she was looking the other way, her chin high, making the best of having to be there in these circumstances, but still aware of being the victor. Nothing so far had taken that from her. Zillah's reputation was vindicated, and that mattered to her above all else.

Zillah herself sat white-faced and quite still, her eyes on Isaac Wolff and then on the judge, although it was impossible to say if she could actually see either of them, she appeared so sunk in her own sense of loss.

"Sir Oliver!" McKeever recalled his attention.

"My lord?"

"Did you say you had also requested the doctor to attend?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then would you call him."

"Yes, my lord. Dr. Godwin."

There was instant rustling and creaking in the gallery as a score of people craned around to watch as the doors opened.

Godwin proved to be a sturdy man with dark hair and the music of the Welsh valleys in his voice, hi total silence from the crowd and from the jury, he swore to his name and professional status, then awaited Rathbone's questions.

"Dr. Godwin, were you summoned to Great Street at about eleven o'clock yesterday evening?"

"I was."

"By whom, and for what purpose?"

"By Mr. Isaac Wolff, to attend his friend Killian Melville, who had apparently died."

"And when you examined Mr. Melville, was he indeed dead?"

"Yes sir, he was-at least... at that point I made only a cursory examination. Very cursory."

There was absolute silence in the room.

Everyone was unnaturally still, as if waiting for something extraordinary without knowing what.

McKeever leaned forward, listening intently, frowning as if he did not completely understand.

"Your choice of words is curious," Rathbone pointed out. "Are you suggesting that later examination proved that Mr. Melville was not actually dead?" He asked it only to clarify. He entertained no hope of error.

"Oh no. Killian Melville was dead, I am afraid, poor soul," Godwin assured him, nodding and pursing his lips.

"Can you say from what cause, Dr. Godwin?"

"Not yet, not for certain, like. But it was poison of some sort, and very probably of the type of belladonna. See it in the eyes. But I'll know for sure when I've tested the contents of the stomach. Not been time for that yet."

"Thank you. I have nothing else to ask you at this point."

"No-no, I daresay not." Godwin stood quite still. "But I can tell you something I imagine you did not know."

The room seemed to crackle as if there were thunder in the air.

"Yes?"

"Killian Melville was a woman."

No one moved.

A reporter broke a pencil in half and it sounded like gunfire.

A woman screamed.

"I-I beg your pardon," Rathbone said, swallowing and choking.

"Killian Melville was a woman," Godwin repeated clearly.

"You mean he was-" McKeever was startled.

"No, my lord," Godwin corrected. "I mean she was... in every way a perfectly normal woman."

Zillah Lambert slid into a faint.

There were gasps around the gallery. One of the jurors used an expletive he would not have wished to have owned he even knew.

Delphine Lambert gave a scream and jerked her hand up to her mouth. Slowly her face turned scarlet with embarrassment and rage. She stared fixedly ahead of her, refusing to risk meeting anyone else's eyes. She had been completely confounded. It was obvious to anyone who looked at her. Perhaps that, more than anything else, annoyed her now. The shock was total.

No one seemed to have noticed Zillah as she slumped momentarily insensible.

Sacheverall at last reacted. He scrambled to his feet, his arms waving.

"Hardly normal, my lord! Dr. Godwin makes a mockery of the word. Killian Melville was in no way normal. Man or woman."

"I meant medically speaking!" Godwin snapped with surprising ferocity. "Physically she was exactly like any other woman."

"Then why did she dress like a man," Sacheverall shouted, waving his arms, "behave like a man, and in every way affect to be a man? For God's sake, she even proposed marriage to a woman!"

"No, she didn't!" Rathbone was on his feet too, shouting back. "That is precisely my case! She didn't! Mrs. Lambert was so keen to have her daughter make what seemed an excellent match that she assumed Melville's affection and regard for Miss Lambert was romantic, whereas it was, in fact, exactly what Melville claimed it was: a profound friendship!" He spoke without having thought of it first, something he had sworn never to do in court, but even as he heard his voice he was certain it was the truth. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, it all seemed so apparent. Melville's passion and his silence- her silence-were all so easily understood. Of course he- she-had laughed when Rathbone had asked if the relationship with Isaac Wolff was homosexual. He remembered now how oblique Melville's answers had been. He remembered a score of things, tiny things, the burning level eyes, the fairness of Melville's skin, the small, strong hands, a lack of masculinity in movement and gesture. The husky voice could have been man's or woman's.

He thought ruefully that that must have cost an effort, an aching throat to keep the pitch permanently so unnaturally low.

She must have enjoyed Zillah's company, one of her own sex to befriend. No wonder the relationship was peculiarly precious to her.

Sacheverall was furious, but for once he had no ready answer.

"She was still unnatural!" he said loudly and angrily. His face was red, and he jerked around in gestures too large to have dignity or meaning. He had lost control of the case. Nothing was as he had meant it to be. When he had come in that morning he had had victory in the grasp of his fingers. Now it had all exploded into tragedy and then absurdity.

"She was perverted, perhaps insane-"

"She was not-" Rathbone began angrily, but Sacheverall cut across him.

"She took advantage of Mr. Lambert's generosity for the most obvious reasons, to advance her career, if you can call it that!" He jabbed his finger in the air; his voice was almost a shriek. "She deceived him, lied to him at every turn-then deceived Miss Lambert and abused her feelings for the same crass, greedy reasons, and..."

Zillah was recovered now, sitting motionless, the tears streaming down her cheeks, although her face did not twist or crumple. She had the curious gift of being able to weep and remain beautiful.

Barton Lambert rose to his feet.

"Be quiet!" he commanded so loudly that Sacheverall stopped in the middle of his sentence, his face slack with surprise. "He dressed as a man, in that he did deceive me," Lambert went on, lowering his voice only slightly. "I never for an instant suspected he was not one. But I was not deceived in his..." He corrected himself: "Her skill. He was still one of the finest architects in Europe, and I'll swear you'll not see a better one in your lifetime!"

Sacheverall burst into laughter, derisive, jeering, an ugly sound.

McKeever slammed his gavel down like a gunshot.

"Mr. Sacheverall!" All his passionate distaste of the man was in his face. "Control yourself, sir! This is not a humorous matter!"

Sacheverall stopped laughing instantly.

"It is not, my lord! It is disgusting!" His wide mouth curled exaggeratedly. He still waved his arms as he spoke. "Every decent person in this room must be as confused and offended as I am by this unnatural creature, perverse, deceitful and an insult to all decent women who honor their gender by living up to the highest standards of modesty, decency and-and-are proud to be women!" His gesture embraced the gallery. "Who would not for an instant, a fraction of an instant, deny their womanhood with its sacred duties and blessings, or choose to be different!" He flung his arms out again and turned to face them. "What woman among you is not proud to be wife and mother? Do you want to dress in trousers and pretend to be a man? Do you want to deny who you are, what you are, and spit in the face of the God who made you and ordained you to this-this holy calling?"

"For heaven's sake, sit down!" It was Zillah who hissed at him, glaring through eyes still filled with tears.

He leaned forward, staring at her intently. "My dear Zillah." He lowered his voice until it was tender, almost intimate. "I can hardly imagine the suffering you must be enduring. You have been most cruelly abused. You are the victim in all this insanity, this twisted and terrible masquerade." He moved one hand as if to touch her, then changed his mind. "I cannot say how much I admire your courage and your dignity throughout this ordeal," he went on softly but quite clearly, his eyes intent on hers. "Your refusal to indulge in anger is truly the mark of a most beautiful character. You have a nobility which must awaken a sense of wonder in all of us, a reverence..."

"Mr. Sacheverall," she replied coldly, and moving back an inch. "I have lost a dear friend today, in the most terrible circumstances, and I do not care what you think of me, nor do I care for your sympathy. Please do not keep thrusting your opinions upon me. I am sure the court does not care either."

He was startled. It was the last thing he had expected to hear. However, he took it with good grace, determined it was due to her distress and perhaps natural.

"I did not mean to embarrass you," he apologized, turning back to the front of the court. "My emotions made me speak too soon." Before she could answer that, he looked to Rathbone. "I shall consult with my client, of course," he said with a chill. "But I think Mrs. Lambert will feel that her daughter's character has been vindicated in every way with today's revelations. No possible fault can attach to her in anyone's mind. The matter of cost will be dealt with from Mr.-Miss Melville's estate. I imagine that rests with her solicitor."

Barton Lambert jerked forward as if to speak, and Delphine pulled him back again sharply.

McKeever glared around the room and it fell silent.

"I should like to hear more fully what drove Miss Melville to this extraordinary step. And I think we should give Mr. Isaac Wolff the opportunity to clear his name and the question of his own reputation. I call him to testify."

There was a moment's silence, then the usher gathered his wits and called rather loudly for Isaac Wolff.

It took only a few moments for Wolff to come from the back of the court. He stumbled as he climbed the steps up to the witness stand again.

"Mr. Wolff," McKeever said in his soft voice. There was absolute silence in the room. No one in the gallery fidgeted or whispered. The jurors sat with eyes fixed on Wolff, their faces stiff with pity and embarrassment. Neither Rathbone nor Sacheverall stirred. Everyone strained to catch McKeever's words.

"Mr. Wolff, I am sorry to call you again when you must be feeling your bereavement most deeply," he said. "But I feel you are perhaps the only one able to offer us a proper explanation. Why did Killian Melville spend her life dressed as a man and to all outward purposes living the life of a man? Before you answer"-he smiled very slightly; it was an inner necessity which drove him, an emotion he could not stifle, and certainly one devoid of any shred of humor-"I offer you the court's unqualified apology for its accusation of sexual vice, or any kind of crime on your part or, of course, upon Miss Melville's."

A shadow of very bitter humor flashed in Wolff's eyes but did not touch his lips.

"Thank you, my lord." His voice was too flat to carry gratitude. He did not look at anyone in particular as he summoned the words to answer. His gaze seemed to be over the heads of the gallery, but his vision inward, into memory. "Actually, her name was Keelin. Her mother was half Irish. She simply changed the spelling a little to sound more masculine."

The court waited.

He took a few moments to master his composure. "She was brilliant," he began quietly, but his voice was raw. "Even as a child she was fascinated by beautiful buildings of all sorts. Her father was a keen scholar and the family spent much time in the Mediterranean-Italy, Greece, Egypt, Palestine. Keelin would walk for hours among the ruins of the greatest cities on earth. She has sketches of the Roman Forum, the Baths of Caracalla, the Colosseum, of course. And in the rest of Italy of the great triumphs of the Renaissance, the exquisite simplicity of the Tuscan villas, of Alberti, of Michelangelo's domes and basilicas."

Everyone in the room was listening with eyes intent upon Wolff's face. Rathbone looked at them discreetly. Their faces were filled with emotion as their imaginations journeyed with him, dreaming, thinking.

"But she loved the eastern architecture also," Wolff went on. "She admired the mosques of Turkey, the coolness and the light. She was fascinated with the dome of the Blue Mosque and how the ventilation was so superb the smoke from the candles never made a mark on the ceiling." A shadow of memory softened the harshness of his grief for a moment. "She talked about it endlessly. I don't think she was even aware of whether I was listening or not."

No one moved or made the slightest sound of interruption. McKeever's face was intent.

"And when her father went to Egypt"-Wolff was absorbed in memory-"she went as well. It was a whole new dimension of architecture, more ancient than anything else she had even imagined. She stood in the ruins of Karnak as if she had seen a revelation. Even the light was different. I remember her saying that so often. She always built for light-" He stopped abruptly as emotions overwhelmed him. He stood with his head high but his face averted. He was not ashamed, but it should have been a private thing.

McKeever looked around the room slowly, bidding them await Wolff's ability to begin again without further losing his composure.

Rathbone glanced at Barton Lambert. He seemed like a man in a dream, his eyes almost glazed, his expression hovering between pity and incomprehension. Beside him, Delphine seemed touched with something which could even have been fear, or perhaps it was only the light and shadow distorting her anger. Undoubtably she was still furious.

"Would you like the usher to fetch you a glass of water?" McKeever offered Wolff, then, without waiting for his reply, nodded to the usher to do so.

"No... thank you, my lord." Wolff collected himself. He breathed in deeply. "Keelin was always drawing, but she had no interest in being an artist, though naturally it was what her father suggested. She drew only to catch the structures, to see on paper the finished work. She had no interest in drawing for its own sake. She would design her own buildings, not simply record other people's, no matter how marvelous they were. She was a creator, not a copier."

A bitter smile touched his mouth. "But of course no school of architecture was going to accept a female pupil for any serious study. But she wouldn't be thwarted. She found an architectural student who was attracted to her and borrowed his books and papers, asked him about the lectures he attended." A wry expression passed fleetingly across his face, an unreadable mixture of irony, tenderness and pain. "Eventually she took a job as an assistant to a professor, clearing up for him, copying notes for him, all the time absorbing everything he taught the men. She did this for years, and eventually realized that even though she could have passed the examinations she would still never be taken seriously as an architect, never given work as long as she was a woman. She had beautiful hair, soft, shining brown and gold. She cut it off..." In the gallery a woman gasped and closed her eyes, her hands clenched, her imagination of the cost of it clear in her face.

One of the jurors shook his head slowly and bunked away tears. Perhaps his own wife or daughter had hair he loved.

"She passed herself off as a boy," Wolff said, his voice catching for the first time. "Just to attend a particular lecture of a visiting professor and be treated as a student, not a servant, to be able to ask questions and be addressed directly in answer." He blinked several times, and his voice dropped a tone. "It worked. People thought she was very young, but they did not question that she was a man. She came home and cried all night. Then she made her decision, and from then on she called herself Killian, and to everyone except me, she was a man."

There was a murmur around the room. Several people shifted position with a creak of whalebone, a squeak of leather, a rustle of fabric. No one spoke unless it was in a whisper so soft it was inaudible above the movement.

"It has happened to others in the past," Wolff continued. "Women have had to pose as men in order to use the talents God gave them because our prejudice would not permit them to be themselves. There are two routes open to those who will not be stifled. They can do as many Renaissance painters and composers of music did, have their work put forward, but under their brother's or their father's names... or else do as army surgeon Barry did here in England, and dress as a man.

How she contrived that and carried it off in everyday life, I don't know. But she did. Some may have known her secret, but the authorities never learned until after her death. And she was one of the best surgeons, a pioneer in technique. Keelin spoke of her often"-he could not mask the trembling of his voice any longer-"with admiration for her courage and her brilliance, and rage that she should have had to mask her sex all her adult life, deny half of herself in order to realize the other half. If sometimes she hated us for doing this to her, I think we have deserved it."

McKeever stared at him, his mouth tightened very slightly, and he inclined his head in a fraction of a nod.

Rathbone felt brushed with guilt himself. He was part of the establishment. He remembered sharply another case of a woman who wanted to study medicine, and certainly had proved on the Crimean battlefields that she had the skills and the nerve, but had been prevented because of her sex. That too had ended in tragedy.

The jurors were uncomfortable. One elderly man blew through his mustache loudly, a curiously confused sound of anger and disgust, but his face betrayed his sense of confusion. He did not know what he thought, except that it was acutely unpleasant, and he resented it. He was there to pass judgment on others, not to be judged.

Another sat frowning heavily, seemingly troubled by his thoughts, his face filled with deep, unsettling pity.

Two more faced each other for moral support and nodded several times.

A fifth shook his head, biting his lips.

"Thank you, Mr. Wolff," McKeever said quietly. "I think you have explained the matter as far as it is possible for us. I am obliged to you. It cannot have been either easy or pleasant for you, but I believe you have done us a service, and perhaps you have dealt Keelin Melville some measure of justice, albeit too late. I have no further questions. You may step down."

As he was leaving the court, outside in the hallway, Rathbone heard footsteps hurrying behind him, and when he turned he was caught up by Barton Lambert.

"Sir Oliver!" Lambert was out of breath, and he looked profoundly agitated. He caught hold of Rathbone's arm.

"Yes, Mr. Lambert," Rathbone said coldly. He did not dislike the man-in fact, he had considered him basically both honest and tolerant-but he was burning with an inner anger and confusion, and a great degree of guilt. He did not want to have to be civil to anyone, least of all someone who was part of the tragedy and might, all too understandably, be seeking some relief from his own burden. Rathbone had none to offer.

"When did-when did you know?" Lambert said earnestly, his face creased, his eyes intent. "I could never be-I..." He stopped. He was too patently telling the truth to be doubted.

"The same moment you did, Mr. Lambert," Rathbone replied. "Perhaps I should have guessed, rather than assume the relationship with Wolff was an immoral or illegal one. Perhaps you should have. We didn't, and it is too late now to undo our destruction of her life or recall the talent we have cut off forever."

They were both of them oblivious to others in the hallway.

"If she'd told me the truth!" Lambert protested, his hands sawing in the air. "If she'd just trusted us!"

"We would what?" Rathbone asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I... well, for God's sake, I wouldn't have sued her!"

Rathbone laughed with a startlingly bitter sound. "Of course you wouldn't! You would have appeared ridiculous. You would have been ridiculous. But if she had come to you as a woman with those new, extraordinary designs for buildings, all light and curves, would you have put up the money to build them?"

"I... I..." Lambert stopped, staring at Rathbone, his cheeks white. He was too innately honest a man to he, even to himself, now the truth was plain. "No... I doubt it... no, no, I suppose not. I thought hard as it was. He was... she was... so revolutionary. But by God, Rathbone, they were beautiful!" he said with a sudden, fierce passion, his eyes brilliant, his face translucent, alight with will and conviction.

"They still are," Rathbone said quietly. "The art is the same. It remains within the creator if it stands or falls."

"By God, you're right!" Lambert exploded savagely. "Heaven help us all... what a bigoted, shortsighted, narrow, self-seeking lot we are!" He stood in the corridor with his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight, his fists clenched in front of him.

"Sometimes," Rathbone agreed. "But at least if we can see it, there is hope for us."

"There's no bloody hope for Melville! We've finished that!" Lambert spat back at him.

"I know." Rathbone did not argue his own guilt. It was academic. Lambert's greater guilt did not absolve anyone else. "Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Lambert, I have people I desire to inform, and regrettably, other cases." He left Lambert standing staring after him and hurried towards the doors, pushing past people, ignoring them. There was no purpose to be served anymore, but he wanted to tell Monk personally rather than leave him to read it in the newspapers.

Monk was shattered by the news, although he too felt that he should at least have considered the possibility, but it had never occurred to him. He made no trite or critical comments to Rathbone, who was apparently already castigating himself too fiercely. And for once Monk felt a sharp compassion for him. He understood guilt very well; it was a familiar emotion since rediscovering himself after the accident. It is a uniquely distressing experience to see yourself only through the eyes of others, too often those you have injured in some way, to know irrefutably what you have done but not why you did it, not the mitigating circumstances, the beliefs you held at the time which made your actions seem reasonable then.

After Rathbone had gone, he took a hansom to Tavistock Square to tell Hester and-if he was interested-Gabriel Sheldon the outcome.

He was welcomed at the door by the maid, Martha Jackson, and immediately remembered the impossible job he had promised her he would do. It was not the fruitless work that he dreaded, or even the waste of time he could have spent earning very necessary money, but the fact that anything he discovered, even supposing he was able to, would be distressing. Then he would have to make the decision what to tell her and what to tell Hester, who would be less easily deceived.

"Good evening, Miss Jackson," he said with forced cheerfulness. "The case of Mr. Melville"-he did not need to explain the truth here on the doorstep; it was simpler to say "Mr."-"has concluded very tragically, and in a way we could not have guessed. I should like to tell Miss Latterly-and Lieutenant Sheldon, if he cares to know."

She looked surprisingly harassed, and less than interested herself. She stood in the doorway, hesitating as to how she should answer.

"Is something wrong, Miss Jackson?" He felt a sudden wave of apprehension and realized with surprise how much Melville's death had disturbed him. The whole story left him with a sense of loss he did not know how to dispel.

"No!" she said too firmly. She made herself smile, and it was so painful he became more worried. "No..." she went on. "Lieutenant Sheldon is not very well today. He had a poor night, that is all. Please come in, Mr. Monk. I shall inform Miss Latterly that you are here. I hope you won't mind if you have to wait a little while? The withdrawing room is quite warm."

"Of course not," he answered; it was the only possible thing to say. He had called uninvited. He followed her obediently into the pleasant, rather ordinary withdrawing room, and she left him to possess himself in patience.

The wait was indeed long, about half an hour, and when Hester finally arrived she too looked tired and a little flustered, her attention not wholly with him.

"Martha told me the Melville case is over," she said, coming in and closing the door behind her. She met his eyes and then saw the tragedy in them. Her expression changed. Now she was filled with apprehension and pity. "Is he ruined? Could Oliver not do anything for him? What happened? Did he change his plea?"

"I suppose so... in effect, yes." He found the words suddenly difficult to say. "He killed himself. Isaac Wolff found him last night."

Her face crumpled as if she had been physically hit.

"Oh, William... I'm so sorry!" She closed her eyes tightly. "How damnable! Why do we do that to people? If he loved another man, what business is it of ours? We'll all answer to God in one way or another. If we are not hurting each other, isn't that enough?"

"He wasn't homosexual," he said with a jerky laugh. "He committed a greater offense than that, in most people's view."

She opened her eyes. "What?" Then the tears spilled over. "What did he do? Jilt Zillah Lambert? He never accused her of anything. He was scrupulous not to. That was Oliver's problem. What did he do?"

"He deceived the world... man and woman," he replied. "Totally effectively. All except Isaac Wolff... he knew. But the rest of them were completely fooled... all taken in. They can't forgive that. Some of the women might be laughing, a very few, secretly, but none of the men."

"I don't know what you are talking about. You aren't making any sense."

"Killian Melville was a woman."

"What did you say?" she protested.

"You heard what I said. Keelin was her real name, and she was a woman." The anger rang through his voice. "She dressed as a man because no one would allow her even to study architecture, let alone practice it, as a woman. She fooled everyone, except Isaac Wolff, who loved her."

"How terrible!" Her face was filled with amazement and anguish.

For a moment he did not understand. Surely Hester, of all people, could not be so quick to judge automatically and cruelly. His sense of disillusion was so sharp for an instant he could think of nothing else. It was not the Hester he knew, who was so close that her loyalty and her compassion were part of the framework of his world.

Hester was not even looking at him. "It must have been there every day," she said softly. "Pulling at her both ways, until it tore her apart. She was a woman, she loved Isaac Wolff, but she could never marry him. Even by being with him she risked branding him as a criminal." She focused her gaze, meeting Monk's eyes demandingly. "Can you imagine it? Can you imagine the scenes between them? She mast have been terrified for him, not knowing which way to turn. And he would have loved her enough to take love, take time together, the sharing of dreams, great things, aspirations and the wonder of thought and idea and passion." She winced as she said it, her eyes bright. "And little things that hurt, the small disappointments." Her voice cracked. "The sudden ache for no reason, the tiredness, the confusion, just the need not to be alone... and the jokes, the silly things that make you laugh, something beautiful, a splash of sunlight, a particular flower, a kind act, the ironies and the absurdities, the little victories which can mean so much."

Her voice shook. She took a long, slow breath. Her lips trembled. "And she couldn't! Every time she was with him put them both in danger from prying eyes, people with cruel and inquisitive minds. No wonder she sought friendship with Zillah Lambert. It was at least a moment of sharing something, to see pretty things, a woman's things, perfume, silks, gowns, all the things she couldn't afford ever to have herself. Imagine what she risked if she had ever, even once, worn a dress!"

He started to speak and then stopped.

"Why do we do that?" Suddenly she was savage, her voice thick with emotion. She stared at him as if demanding an answer. "Why do we make rules about what a person should be... I mean rules that don't matter? Why shouldn't a woman be an architect, or a doctor, or anything else? What are we so frightened of?" She lashed out with her arm. "And why do we make men pretend they aren't afraid or don't make mistakes, like women and children? Of course they do. We all know they do, we just cover it up or look the other way. It's much easier to admit you were wrong, and go back and do the right thing, than it is to go on adding evasion to evasion, one invention after another to conceal the last, and then you probably aren't fooling anybody, except those who want to be fooled."

He did not interrupt, knowing she needed to say it all. Anyway, he agreed with her.

She scowled at him. "Look at Gabriel and Perdita." She clenched her hands. "He's been taught to be brave, never to explain, never to ask for help. He's been given a hero's image to live up to, and he's riddled with guilt because he thinks he can't. And she's been taught to be helpless and stupid because that's what men want, and all she should do is be a sweet-natured, obedient ornament." Her face was puckered, all her muscles tight. "And she has to sit by and watch him hurt, because he thinks he should be looking after her, and he can't even look after himself."

She drew breath. "And that idiot Athol Sheldon bumbles around telling them it would all be all right if they just behaved normally and forgot the grief and pain and the horror as if it never happened and all those people never died. It's a mockery of the reality of life. It makes me so angry I could..."

She was at a loss for words. He could not remember ever seeing that before. He wanted to say something to show he understood and felt the same anger and loss.

He also thought, against his will and with a curious, sharp hunger, of all the things she had said about joy and not being alone, of having the opportunity to share with someone the bonds of honesty and familiarity which are the deepest of all friendships, the losing of the barriers of fear, which divide.

He reached forward and took her hands and held them in his, quite gently, feeling after a moment her fingers respond. It was not a strong grasp, not a clinging, just a knowledge of the other's being there, a gentleness for which there were no words, perhaps even a memory of many other times when they had felt the same but had remained separate.

It was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs which disturbed them. Hester pulled away slowly, turning to the door as Perdita came in.

"Oh!" she said, seeing Monk. "Oh, I'm sorry. Hester... I don't know what to do. It's just impossible. I can't manage this!" She was obviously on the edge of tears, her face pink, and she was breathing rapidly. She behaved as if she had already forgotten Monk was there or simply was past caring.

Hester was on the very edge of losing her temper. Monk could see it in the rigidity of her body, especially her neck. When she spoke her voice was brittle.

"Well, if you really can't, perhaps you had better give up," she answered. "I don't know quite what that means. I suppose you do or you wouldn't have said it. Have the staff look after Gabriel, and you lead a separate life. I don't know whether you could afford it flnancially. Maybe Athol would help? Or if you ask him, Gabriel would release you from the marriage altogether. He offered to before. You told me that when I first came. Only then, of course, you said you wouldn't dream of it"

Perdita looked as if she had been struck in the face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth slack.

"I'm sure you could marry again," Hester went on ruthlessly, her voice getting harder and heavier. "You are very pretty-in fact, quite beautiful-and you have a very docile and agreeable nature... just what most men want-"

"Stop it!" Perdita shouted at her. "You mean I'm stupid and cowardly, and no use for anything but to do as I'm told! I'm fine when everything is all right. I can simper and smile and flatter people and be obedient. I can keep my place and make anyone feel comfortable... and superior. But when something goes wrong, and you need a woman with courage and intelligence, I just run away. I don't think of anybody but myself. How I feel... and what I want" Her lips were trembling, but she did not stop. She gulped and swallowed, glaring at Hester. "Then you can step in, all brave and unselfish. You know what to do, what to say. You're never afraid, never confused. Nothing ever revolts you or makes you want to run away and pretend it never happened!"

Her voice was rising high and becoming louder. The servants must have been able to hear her as far as the kitchen. "Well, I'll tell you something, Miss Perfect Nurse! Nobody wants a woman who is never wrong. You can't love somebody who doesn't need you, who's never vulnerable or frightened or makes mistakes. I may not be half as clever as you are, or as brave, or know anything about Indian history or soldiers or what it is like to see real war... but I know that."

Hester stood very stiff, her back like a ramrod, her shoulders clenched so tight Monk felt as if he could see the bones of them pulling against her dress. He was not certain, but he thought she was shivering. This was what she had wanted, what she had intended to happen when she had provoked Perdita... at least he thought it was. But that did not stop it from hurting. There was too much truth in it, and yet it was also so terribly wrong.

"You are lashing out in anger, Mrs. Sheldon," he said in a low, controlled voice. "And you don't know what you are talking about. You know nothing of Miss Latterly except what you have seen in this house. There are many kinds of men and many kinds of love. Sometimes we imagine what we must hunger for is a sweet and clinging creature who will feed our vanity and hang upon our words, dependent upon our judgment all the time." He took a breath. "And then we meet the harder realities of life, and a woman who has the courage, the fire and the intelligence to be our equal, and we discover that those joys far outweigh the irritations and discomforts." He stared at her very hard. "You must be true to the best in yourself, Mrs. Sheldon, but you have no grounds and no right to insult where you do not know the facts. Miss Latterly may not be loved widely, but she is loved very deeply indeed, more than most women can aspire to or dare to accept."

The color burned up in Perdita's cheeks. She was furious and overwhelmed with embarrassment. She did not know what to say, and the rage boiling inside her was only too apparent in her eyes.

Hester, on the other hand, stood as if frozen.

Monk could barely believe he had said what he had. His first instinct, almost taking his breath away, was to deny it, somehow qualify it all so it did not apply to him. The desire to escape was so urgent it was like a physical compulsion.

He saw Hester's back and shoulders, the dress still pulled tight, her neck muscles stiff. As clearly as if he could see her eyes, he knew she was waiting for him to deny his words, to withdraw or disclaim.

If he did, would it be because they were untrue or because he was an emotional coward?

She would not know the answer to that, but he did. What he had revealed was not untrue.

"If you offer Miss Latterly an apology, I am sure she will accept it," he said more stiffly than he intended.

Hester took a deep breath.

"Oh..." Perdita sighed. "Oh... yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm behaving very badly." Her eyes filled with tears.

Hester moved forward. "Not nearly as badly as you think. And you are at least partly right. We do love people for their vulnerabilities as well as their strengths. We must have both, even to understand each other, never mind anything more. Just keep trying. Remember how important it is." Her voice dropped. "Killian Melville is dead. It was probably suicide. Last night."

Perdita stared at her in horror, then her eyes flew to Monk's.

"Oh...I'm so sorry! Because of the case? Because of what he was, and because it is illegal?"

"More than that," he answered her. "Actually, Melville wasn't a man at all; her name was Keelin, and she was a woman. She dressed as a man and behaved as one in all respects, except towards Isaac Wolff, because it was the only way she would be allowed to practice her profession and use the talents God gave her." He used the word God without thinking about it until he had said it. Then it was too late to take it back, and perhaps it was what he meant.

Perdita did not move. Her face was filled, and changed with growing realization of what he had said, and something of what it meant. Then she shook her head, at first minutely, then a little more, then more again. Then she turned around and went to the door.

"I'm going back to Gabriel. I'll tell him. He'll be terribly sorry. It really is so-so final. It's too late to get anything back now, to... say anything, mend anything." And she went out quickly, hand fumbling on the knob to turn it.

Hester finally turned to look at Monk. Her eyes searched his.

He tried to think of something to say which would not be evasive, or banal, nor yet commit him to anything he would regret. His mind filled with Keelin Melville, and Zillah Lambert, and the tragic, destructive farce of beauty and the urge to be suitably married, or if that failed, to be married at all costs, anything but remain single.

"Now you are free to look for Martha's brother's children," Hester said quietly. "But don't run up a debt she cannot pay. Just do what you are able to."

"I wasn't going to charge her!" he said a little sharply. Why had she thought he would? Did she not know him better than that?

"And be careful what you tell her," she added anxiously. "It is almost certain to be very bad."

"Are you paying me?" he asked sarcastically.

"No..."

"Then stop giving me orders!" he retorted. He jammed his hands into his pockets. This was going to get worse if he remained. He was not saying what he wanted to, what he meant. He was raw inside with the knowledge of failure, of life and opportunity and brilliance and love wasted forever. Perhaps Hester was too, and it frightened her. "I'll tell you what I find out, if there is anything," he said aloud. "In a day or two."

"Thank you."

He went to the door and turned. He half smiled at her, then went out.