Page 80 of A Breach of Promise (William Monk 9)

“Not really, at least nothing in the Melville case,” he answered, taking off his coat and handing it to the manservant waiting at his elbow. “I went to a dinner party this evening and lost my temper.”

“Seriously, I presume.” Henry nodded to the manservant, who disappeared, closing the door silently. “You look cold. Would you like a glass of port?”

“No!” Oliver declined. “I mean, no thank you. It was during the port that I told them they were hypocrites and bigots who were responsible for the ruin of a genius like Melville.” He sat down in the other chair, opposite his father, watching his face to see his reaction.

“Unwise,” Henry answered, resuming his own seat. “What are you doing now, thinking how to apologize?”

“No!” The reply was instant and sincere.

“Are they responsible?”

Oliver calmed down a little. “They, and people like them, yes.”

“A lot of people …” Henry gazed at him very levelly.

Oliver’s temper had worn itself out and left not a great deal but sadness and a growing feeling of his own guilt.

“You are not responsible for society’s attitudes,” Henry said, knocking out his pipe, forgetting there was nothing in it.

“No, but I was responsible for Melville,” Oliver answered. “I was very personally and directly responsible. If she had believed she could trust me, then she would have told me the truth. We could have told Zillah Lambert, at least, and she would probably have respected the confidence, for her own sake if not for Melville’s. Then there need never have been a case and Melville would still be alive … possibly even practicing her profession.”

“Perhaps,” Henry agreed. “Is that what is troubling you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Didn’t you ask her, press her for the truth?”

“Yes, of course I did! Obviously she didn’t trust me.”

“What was to prevent her trusting Zillah Lambert, regardless of you?”

“Well … nothing, I suppose.”

“But years of rejection,” Henry concluded. “Years of lying and concealing. You cannot know everything that went before which made her what she was.” He reached for his tobacco and pulled out a few shreds between his fingers and thumb, pushing them into the bowl of his pipe. “Perhaps you were unimaginative not to have guessed, perhaps not. Either way, there is nothing you can do now except cripple yourself with remorse. That will serve no one. It is self-indulgent … and perhaps you need a little indulgence, but do not let it persist for too long. It can become a habit—and an excuse.”

“My God, you’re a harsh judge,” Oliver said, jerking his head up to glare at his father.

Henry struck a match and lit his pipe. It went out again immediately. His mouth softened, but there was no equivocation in his mild blue eyes.

“Do you want to be invalided out?”

“No, of course I don’t. And I’d like a glass of sherry. Actually, I left before I drank more than a sip of the port.”

“It’s behind you.” Henry made another attempt at lighting his pipe.

The following morning a little before noon Rathbone was in his offices in Vere Street when his clerk told him the police surgeon had called with information.

“Ask him in,” Rathbone said immediately.

The surgeon came in, looking grave.

“Well?” Rathbone asked as soon as the barest formalities were over.

“Definitely belladonna,” the surgeon replied, sitting down in the chair opposite the desk. “Not very surprising. Easy to come by.” He stopped.

“But …” Rathbone prompted, sitting a little straighter.

The surgeon bit his lips, his eyes narrowing. “But the thing that I find hard to understand, and which brings me back to you rather than merely sending you a report, is that from the amount she took, and the time she died, she must have taken it while she was still in the courthouse.” He drew his brows together. “Which can only mean she had it with her, presumably against such an eventuality as … what? What happened that afternoon that suddenly became unbearable?”