by Anne Perry
McKeever took his place.
“Mr. Sacheverall?” he enquired. His face was almost devoid of expression, his mild blue eyes curious and innocent. If he had come to any conclusions himself he did not betray them in his manner.
Sacheverall rose to his feet. He was smiling. There was satisfaction in every inch of him. Even his floppy hair and protruding ears seemed cavalier, a mark of individuality rather than blemishes.
“I call Isaac Wolff,” he said distinctly. He half turned towards Melville, then resisted the temptation. It was a sign of how sure he was of himself. Rathbone recognized it.
“Who is Wolff?” he said under his breath to Melville.
“A friend,” Melville replied without turning his head.
“Of whose? Yours or Lambert’s?”
“Mine. Lambert has never met him, so far as I know.” His voice was so soft Rathbone had to strain to hear it.
“Then why is Sacheverall calling him?” Rathbone demanded. Sacheverall was not bluffing. He showed that in every inch of his stance, his broad shoulders, the angle of his head, the ease in him.
“I don’t know,” Melville answered, lifting his eyes a little to watch as a tall man with saturnine features walked across the open space of the floor and climbed the steps of the witness-box. He faced the court, staring at Sacheverall. His eyes seemed black under his level brows, and his thick hair, falling sideways over one temple, was as dense as coal. It was a passionate, compelling face, and he stared at Sacheverall with guarded dislike. No one could mistake that he was there against his will.
“Mr. Wolff,” Sacheverall began, relishing the moment, “are you acquainted with Mr. Killian Melville, the defendant in this case?”
“Yes.”
Rathbone looked across at the jury to see their reaction. There was a stirring of interest, no more. They were inexperienced in courtroom tactics. They did not understand Sacheverall’s confidence and were only half convinced of it.
“Well acquainted, sir?” Sacheverall’s voice was gentle and he smiled as he spoke.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Wolff’s eyes and mouth but he did not allow it into his words.
“I have known him for some time. I do not know how you wish me to measure acquaintance.”
Sacheverall held up his hand in a broad gesture. “Oh! But you will, Mr. Wolff, you will. It is precisely the point I am coming to. Give me leave to do it in my own way. How did you meet Mr. Melville?”
The judge glanced towards Rathbone, half inviting him to object that the question was irrelevant. Rathbone knew there was no point in doing so. To challenge would only show Rathbone’s desperation. He shook his head momentarily and McKeever looked away again.
“Mr. Wolff?” Sacheverall prompted. “Surely you recall?”
Wolff smiled, showing his teeth. “It was some years ago, about twelve. I’m not sure that I do.”
It was not the answer Sacheverall had wished. Rathbone could tell that from the sharp way he moved his arm back. But he had opened the way for it himself.
“Was it a social occasion, Mr. Wolff, or a professional one?”
“Social.”
“You have recalled it, then?”
“No. We have no professional concerns in common.”
Rathbone rose to his feet, more as a matter of form than because he thought it would actually affect Sacheverall’s case. The tension was becoming palpable. Beside him at the table, Melville was rigid.
“My lord …”
“Yes, yes,” McKeever agreed. “Mr. Sacheverall, if you have a point to this, please come to it. Mr. Wolff has conceded that he is acquainted with Mr. Melville. If there is something in that which bears upon his promise to marry Miss Lambert, then proceed to it.”
“Oh, a great deal, my lord,” Sacheverall said impassively. “I regret to say.” He swung around to face the witness-box. “Are you married, Mr. Wolff?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been?”
“No.”
McKeever frowned. “Mr. Sacheverall, I find it hard to believe that this is indeed your point.”
“Oh, it is, my lord,” Sacheverall answered him. “I am about to make it.” And disregarding McKeever, he swung back to Wolff, on the stand. “You live alone, Mr. Wolff, but you are not a recluse. In fact, you have a close and enduring friendship, have you not … with Mr. Killian Melville?”
Wolff stared back at him unflinchingly, but his face was set, his eyes hard.
“I regard Mr. Melville as a good friend. I have done for some time.”
Rathbone knew what Sacheverall was going to say next, but there was no way in which he could prevent it. Any protest now would make it worse, as if he had known it himself and therefore it must be true. He felt hollow inside, a strange mixture of hot and cold.
“Is that all, Mr. Wolff?” Sacheverall raised his eyebrows very high. “Would you not say an intimate friend, with all the subtle and varied meanings that word can carry? I use it advisedly.”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath in the gallery. One of the jurors put his hand to his mouth, another shook his head, his lips compressed into a thin line. A third was pale with anger.
McKeever cleared his throat but said nothing.
Rathbone looked at Melville. His eyes were hot with misery and his fair skin was flushed. He was staring straight ahead. He refused absolutely to look back at Rathbone.
“You may use what word you like, sir,” Wolff replied steadily, his voice thick. “If your implication is that my relationship with Killian Melville is of an unnatural kind, then you are mistaken.” There was a rush of sound in the gallery, exclamations, sudden movement, a cry of disgust. A journalist broke a pencil and swore. “The acts lie in your imagination, and nowhere else,” Wolff continued more loudly to be heard. “I am under oath, and I swear to that. I have never had an intimate relationship with another man in my life, nor can I imagine such a thing.” This time the noise was louder, sharper voices. Someone shouted an accusation, another an obscenity.
McKeever banged his gavel angrily, commanding silence.
“I do not expect you to admit it, Mr. Wolff.” Sacheverall did not appear disconcerted. He gave a very slight shrug as he walked a few paces away and then swiveled on his heel and suddenly raised his voice accusingly. “But I shall call witnesses, Mr. Wolff! Is that what you want, sir? Never doubt I will, if you force me to! Admit your relationship with Killian Melville, and advise him, as your friend, your lover, to yield in this case.” He said the word lover with infinite disgust, his lips curled. “Stop defending the indefensible! Do not put it to the test, sir, because I warn you, I shall win!”
Melville sat as if frozen. His face was ashen white and the freckles stood out like dark splashes. He did not take his eyes from Wolff, and the pain in him was so powerful Rathbone could all but feel it himself. He was unaware for seconds that his own hands were clenched till his nails gouged circles in his palms.
The courtroom prickled with silence.
Isaac Wolff stood perfectly motionless. His look towards Sacheverall was scorching with contempt. A man less arrogant would have withered under it, would have faltered in self-doubt, instead of smiling.
“If it is your intention to attempt to blacken my name, or anyone else’s, through calling people up to this stand to say whatever it is they wish, then you will have to do so,” Wolff said very carefully, speaking slowly, as if he had difficulty forming the words and keeping his voice steady. “That is a matter for your own concern, not mine. I am not going to admit to something which 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 beli
eve 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 expression made all too evident what manner of word was running through his mind.
“You can use whatever word is natural to you,” Rathbone answered with a sneer he did not bother to hide. “You have no reputation to guard in here.”
Sacheverall flushed. Perhaps he was more aware than he showed that he was awkward beside Rathbone, clumsy, inelegant, that his ears were too large.
“If you think I won’t drag it up, you are mistaken!” Sacheverall said angrily. “I will! Every sordid detail necessary to prove my client’s case and claim the damages she’s due. Melville will end in prison … which is where he belongs.”
“If that is what Barton Lambert wants,” Rathbone said very quietly, his voice as calm as if he were addressing an elderly lady disposing her will. His mind was racing. “Then he must hate Melville … or fear him … far more than would be explained by anything we know so far. Although I do have an excellent detective working on the case, and if there is anything whatsoever in the history of any one of the Lambert family, from the day they were born, then he will find it.”
He saw Sacheverall’s face darken with anger, and ignored it. “And, of course, once you have opened the door for this kind of slander then anything will be permissible. The gallery will love it. The press will tear them apart like a pack of dogs.” Rathbone adjusted his legs a little more gracefully. “You and I are aware of that, naturally. We have seen it before. But are you sure the Lamberts are? Are you perfectly sure Mrs. Lambert is prepared to have her every act—every flirtation, every gift, every incident, letter, confidence—examined this way and interpreted by strangers? Can anyone at all be so certain of every moment of their lives?”
Two furious spots of color marked Sacheverall’s cheeks and he sat forward, his back straight, shoulders hunched.
“How dare you?” he grated. “You have sunk lower than I thought possible. Your client is guilty of acts that all civilized society regards as depraved. He has pursued and deceived an utterly innocent young woman for the furthering of his own ambition—and you threaten her with slander in order to aid him in escaping the consequences of his actions.” He jabbed his finger in the air and his lips were drawn into an almost invisible line. “You show that behind that facade of a gentleman you are without honor or principle. The best I can think of you is that you are ambitious and greedy. The worst is that you have a sympathy with your client which extends a great deal further than you would wish it supposed.”
Rathbone felt an absurd moment of chill as he realized what Sacheverall meant, then laughter. Then his dislike turned into something much greater.
“You have a prurient mind, Sacheverall, which seems to be fixed in one area. The reason for my refusing to admit to this act on my client’s behalf is extraordinarily simple. He has instructed me not to. I am bound by his wishes, as you are—or should be—bound by those of Miss Lambert and her family.” He put his fingertips together. “I do not know why Mr. Melville is so unwilling to marry her after having grown to know her as well as is undisputed between us. But if you have a jot of intelligence between your ears”—he saw Sacheverall flush; he had referred to them deliberately—“then you will consider the possibility that the reason has nothing to do with Isaac Wolff and everything to do with Miss Lambert herself.”
“She has nothing whatever to hide!” Sacheverall said between his teeth. “Do you imagine she would be foolish enough to go into this if she had? Her father is not an imbecile.”
Rathbone smiled patiently. “If he imagines he knows everything about his daughter’s life, then he is more than an imbecile,” he replied. “He is a babe abroad in the land, and not only deserving your protection, for the fee he pays you, but needing it, in common humanity.”
Sacheverall was shaken. It was in his eyes and his mouth. He was also very very angry indeed. His hand on the table was trembling.
Rathbone uncrossed his legs and stood up. “Give the matter a little more thought before you call these witnesses of yours and open up the area of private conduct in an effort to ruin Melville. I think you will find it is
not what Lambert wishes. Perhaps you should speak to Miss Lambert alone? You may find she has been maneuvered into this suit by circumstances and now is unable to withdraw without explaining far more than she wishes to. Fathers, on occasions, can be very … blind … where their daughters are concerned. It is not too late to settle this matter privately.”
“With damages?” Sacheverall demanded. “And a statement that Miss Lambert is innocent of any fault whatever?”
“Mr. Melville has never implied that she was less than totally charming and desirable, an excellent bride for any man,” Rathbone said truthfully. “He simply does not wish to marry her himself. His reason is no one else’s concern. Perhaps Miss Lambert’s feelings are engaged elsewhere but she cannot afford to admit it—if the gentleman is unsuitable. Perhaps married already.”
“That’s untrue!” Sacheverall responded instantly and with considerable heat.
“Probably,” Rathbone agreed, standing by the door now. “I am merely pointing out that the possibilities are many, and none of them need to concern the law or the general public. Consult with your clients and let me know.” And before Sacheverall could make any further response, Rathbone went out and closed the door, surprised to find his own throat tight and his hands clammy.
As it happened, the court did not resume for another two days, and Rathbone spent the time desperately trying to capitalize on the brief respite he had gained. First he went to see Isaac Wolff, having obtained his address from Melville. He had not known what to expect. Perhaps at the back of his mind was the fear that Sacheverall was right and that visiting Wolff would confirm it beyond anything he could argue to himself—and therefore ultimately to the court.
As he walked along Wakefield Street, just off Regent Square, looking for the correct number, he realized how little defined was the impression he had of Killian Melville. He did not know the man at all. He was usually aware of intense emotion in him; his revulsion, almost terror, at the idea of marrying Zillah Lambert was so real it was almost palpable in the air. His love of his art was real. One had only to look at the work itself to lose all possible doubt of that. The light and beauty that flooded it spoke more of the inner man, of his dreams and his values, than anything he might say.