A Breach of Promise

by Anne Perry

  At least Monk imagined it had!

  Was that why Keelin Melville had killed herself? Guilt?

  Over what? The injury she had done to Zillah Lambert could very easily be explained. It was error, private social clumsiness possibly. Certainly nothing that warranted suicide.

  Anyway, wasn’t genius rather more self-protective than that? He tried to think back on what he knew of the lives of the great creative people. Many of them had hurt others, been eccentric, selfish, single-minded, impossible to live with happily, sometimes even to live with at all. But it was those around them they injured, not themselves. They were too fired by their passion to make, to build, to create, paint, dance or whatever it was that formed their gift to the world. Sometimes they burned themselves out; sometimes illness or accident consumed them. Many died young.

  But he could think of no example of one who had killed himself over guilt regarding his abuse of women. The very idea was almost a contradiction within itself.

  Was Melville so different simply because she was a woman?

  He doubted it.

  Then what?

  The rain was streaming down the window now, distorting the lamps of carriages passing in the street below, reflecting in the puddles.

  The more he thought about the buildings full of light, the clean lines soaring into the air, the sense of comfort and peace he had felt inside them, the less could he believe Melville would have taken her own life.

  Was it conceivable that somewhere, in some way he had yet even to imagine, somebody else had killed her?

  Why? Why would anybody want to? What else had happened that day, or the day before, to make her dangerous to anyone? If she had known anything about Zillah that was not to her credit, surely she would have said so before this, long before Isaac Wolff was tarnished by the whole affair, even put in jeopardy of imprisonment, for a crime which now was ludicrous, in light of the truth.

  He pushed his hands into his pockets. Below him in the street it was raining harder. The gutters were swirling over their edges. A footman standing at the side of a carriage was soaking wet. His figure in the riding lights was expressive of his utter dejection. A stray dog was splashing about happily.

  A man strode by with an umbrella which was ineffectual.

  Monk turned away, back to the room and the firelight. What had been the result of Melville’s death? The case had been concluded. There was nothing more to say, nothing to pursue. It did not matter anymore whether Zillah Lambert was as innocent as she appeared.

  But Monk had already done all he could to uncover any fault in her, past or present, and found nothing. Besides, he really did not believe she would willingly have harmed Melville, far less killed her, even if there was a way to have accomplished it.

  Nor had anybody, for that matter. Melville had neither eaten nor drunk anything, by another’s hand or by her own.

  Was there some other way in which the poison could have been administered? No. The surgeon would not be wrong about whether it was eaten or injected into the blood.

  Except that he thought it was suicide, and therefore it had hardly mattered.

  But why murder? What threat was Keelin Melville to anyone, except possibly Wolff? If the case had continued as it was, only Keelin herself, and Wolff, would suffer.

  Why hadn’t Wolff simply told the court she was a woman? The most cursory medical examination would have proved him right, and he of all men knew that! Keelin would not have refused.

  The fire was going out. He had neglected it. He bent down and with the tongs picked up half a dozen pieces of coal and put them on one by one. The fire looked like it was being smothered. Damn! It was getting cold and he was not ready to go to bed yet. Also he was angry with his own carelessness. He dropped the tongs and picked up the bellows, blowing gently, sending up a cloud of white ash. He swore again, and tried more gently still.

  The reason had to be in what might happen if the case continued. Someone was frightened.

  What would happen? Monk would continue to search in the past of Zillah Lambert and her family, but particularly her past romances. Perhaps they were not as very slight and natural as they appeared, no more than most pretty girls might experience. If he had continued, with his characteristic ruthlessness, what would he have uncovered? And who knew about it other than Zillah herself? Her father?

  Hester seemed to think it would be her mother, the immaculate Delphine Lambert.

  And, of course, the man involved … and possibly his family.

  But murder! Over a spoiled reputation! Surely Zillah herself could simply have told her father and asked that he settle out of court? He would have been willing enough, if he realized her happiness and the family honor depended on it. He might have been angry for a while, even punished her one way or another, but that hardly warranted murder—in a sane person.

  Monk’s labor with the fire was rewarded by a spurt of flame. It licked up around the coal and began to burn. He smiled in satisfaction. A small victory—very small indeed.

  Tomorrow he would retrace his steps over Zillah Lambert’s past. This time he would press harder, not accept any equivocations. He would treat it as if it were murder. The trivial matter of breach of promise was a thing of the past.

  He sat by the fire until the coal was entirely consumed, going over the notes he had made on his first investigation. He knew where he would begin tomorrow.

  Actually, it took him two days to find the incident he had overlooked the first time—or, more accurately, had considered too trivial and too normal in anyone’s life to matter. He still thought it of no real importance. But then he was not of the same level of society as the Lamberts, and certainly not of that level into which they aspired to marry.

  He had followed Hester’s advice about tracing back the weekly life of the Lamberts to discover a sudden move, probably involving only Zillah and her mother, coming at a time which seemed unplanned, made in haste, and perhaps in other ways inconvenient.

  This time he was far more ruthless, pressing people, sometimes with only part of the truth, sometimes frightening them into revealing a fact that with more time to consider they would have kept discreet. The incident had occurred when Zillah was nearly sixteen, a holiday taken without warning, all personal plans disrupted. A garden party—a ball which Delphine had been very eager to attend; indeed, for which she had gone to great trouble to acquire an invitation—had been abandoned. A marvelous gown had to be set aside, to be worn when it was no longer impressive, certainly no longer the forerunner of fashion but rather the trailer behind, seeming a copy instead of an original. Knowing a little about clothes and vanity himself, he appreciated what a sacrifice Delphine had made. There would have to have been a very compelling reason to leave at that time, and a very urgent one.

  To begin with, the friendship between Zillah and young Hugh Gibbons had seemed innocent enough, but if Delphine had been prepared to make such a sacrifice, then there must have been more to it. If he pressed he could find it.

  It was morning on the third day before he had gathered sufficient evidence to prove it beyond denial. Of course, there was no witness that the two had been lovers in any but a romantic sense. But they had spent much time alone together. Hugh was nineteen, an age when Monk knew the emotions were wild and the blood hot and disinclined to moderation and self-discipline. Zillah had apparently been a willful fifteen-year-old, full of dreams and certain no one else understood them, except Hugh. She had read the great romances in the schoolroom.

  By all accounts her parents had been generous and more inclined to indulgence than harshness. Any responsible mother would have done as Delphine had, possibly even sooner. The only answer to such a liaison was to leave the city for a while. Hugh was unsuitable socially—he had no means to keep a wife and no prospects; and Zillah was too young, and utterly impractical. The unplanned nature of the departure made it unarguable that Delphine had discovered a situation which could not be allowed to continue even another day or two, let a
lone weeks.

  Did Barton Lambert know of it? Had it been serious enough for public knowledge of it to ruin Zillah?

  But surely if it had, and Lambert knew about it, then he would not have begun the proceedings against Melville?

  Had anyone else been concerned? Was there something about Hugh Gibbons? If Monk had pursued him instead of Zillah, would he have found something ugly enough to prompt murder? It seemed highly improbable. He could not imagine what. Another affair, perhaps a child or a rape? What had happened to Hugh Gibbons since then?

  Before pursuing that, which might take a long time and be quite fruitless, he decided to speak to Barton Lambert.

  It was shortly before one o’clock, and he was admitted readily into the house and, after the briefest hesitation, was shown into the large, very comfortable withdrawing room. French doors opened onto a small lawn surrounded by hydrangea bushes carpeted underneath with tiny white flowers.

  The room was warmed by a handsome fire, and heavy brocade curtains framed the big windows and kept the draft from chilling the air. Delphine Lambert was sitting on one of the sofas. She was dressed in vivid blue, her enormous skirts gleaming in the light. She looked calm and happy. Wystan Sacheverall was standing closer to the window only a yard from Zillah; in fact, the frills of her dusky pink skirt covered the toes of his polished shoes. He was looking at her, disregarding Monk’s entry as if he were not even aware of it and in any case it held no interest for him whatever. His face was filled with eagerness and he was talking to her, and smiling.

  Zillah appeared to be absorbed by something in the garden beyond the glass, a flower or a bird. She did not take her eyes from it even when Sacheverall seemed to be asking a question. Her shoulder was lifted a little, pulling the fabric of her bodice, and Monk could only see the side of her head and the curve of her cheek. As soon as she heard his voice she turned and started towards him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lambert, Mrs. Lambert,” he said formally. “Miss Lambert…”

  “Good afternoon, Mr….” Delphine trailed off as if she had already forgotten his name.

  “Monk,” Lambert supplied. “Good afternoon, Monk. What can we do for you?”

  Sacheverall deliberately remained by the window. He stared at Monk but made no move to come forward. His coldness could hardly be misinterpreted.

  Zillah, on the other hand, seemed almost pleased to see him. Whatever had interested her in the garden was instantly forgotten.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How are you?”

  She looked still tired, still hurt, but there was no air of self-pity about her, and no blame towards Monk. Again he was consumed with anger at this whole absurd charade which had already destroyed Keelin Melville and was going to damage Zillah yet further. He even hesitated whether to say what he had come for. What good would it do now?

  He looked past her at Sacheverall, who had turned to face the room, watching Zillah. Was it affection in his eyes or enlightened self-interest, plus perhaps a little very natural desire towards an extremely attractive young woman? And she was attractive. She had an unusual mixture of innocence and individuality. A man who loved her might waken all kinds of passions in her, and high among them would be loyalty.

  Monk looked beyond her again at Sacheverall and disliked him profoundly.

  “What may we do for you, Mr. Monk?” Lambert enquired.

  Monk recalled himself. “I am sorry to intrude,” he apologized. “May I speak with you alone, Mr. Lambert? I hope it will be brief.”

  Lambert glanced at his wife.

  “Oh, there is plenty of time before luncheon,” she assured him. “It is still a trifle cool for me, but I daresay Mr. Sacheverall would like to take a short walk around the garden. Zillah can show him some of our treasures.”

  Zillah looked at her father appealingly, but he misunderstood. “Yes, of course, my dear,” he agreed. “I daresay we shall be no more than half an hour at the most.”

  Sacheverall offered his arm with a smile and considerable enthusiasm, and Zillah accepted it.

  Lambert went to the door and opened it into the hall to usher Monk towards somewhere more private.

  Monk excused himself to Delphine and followed.

  They went to the study. It was a pleasant room, well furnished with books. A large desk was scattered with papers and there were two cabinets for the storage of yet more papers. Four chairs for visitors faced the desk, and Lambert turned to look at Monk, his brow furrowed, his eyes still filled with his sense of tragedy.

  “Well, Monk, what is this about? Is this some further matter to do with Melville?” The absence of title suggested he still thought of Melville as a man. Over the shock of disclosure and all the loss that had followed, he remembered the friend he had known and cared for.

  Monk felt a tightening inside himself. A daughter, even as pretty and as charming and as seemingly agreeable as Zillah, was a source for all kinds of fears. Illness and accident were only the worst. There were so many humanly made, unnecessary other traps and snares, even in a young life barely begun.

  “What is it?” Lambert repeated, not yet offering Monk a seat.

  Monk had been considering where to begin. Lambert was a blunt man. He would not appreciate prevarication.

  “I have been looking into Keelin Melville’s death,” he said directly, watching Lambert’s face. “For Rathbone’s sake as much as anything. It seems so …”

  He saw the look of pain in Lambert’s eyes.

  “So oddly timed,” he went on. “According to the police surgeon, she must have taken the poison while she was actually in the court, and yet she was observed all the time, and she neither ate nor drank anything at all. And why then, rather than later at home? Why would anyone choose to take poison in public in order to die in private, when doing both at home would have been so much easier?”

  Lambert stared at him, puzzled and now also troubled. It seemed that up until now his emotions had crowded out thought. This came to him as an ugly intrusion, but he did not evade it.

  “What are you trying to say, Monk? You are not a man to come here to see me simply to say there are things you do not understand. You have no need to understand, unless you believe there is something wrong, something criminal, or at the very least, something profoundly immoral. What do you expect of me?” He walked back to one of the chairs, not the one behind the desk but one of those arranged in front of it, and sat on it.

  Monk sat in one of the others, crossing his legs and leaning back.

  “One possibility troubles me, and I would like to prove it wrong before I let go of it.”

  “Yes? What is that possibility, and how does it concern me or my family?”

  “I am not sure that it does,” Monk admitted. “The possibility is that she was murdered.”

  Lambert leaned forward. “What?” He seemed genuinely not to have understood.

  Monk repeated what he had said.

  “Why?” Lambert puckered his face, his eyes narrowed. “Why would anybody want to murder Melville? He was the most …” He swallowed. “She was the most likable person. Of course, she had professional rivals, but people don’t kill for that sort of reason.” He waved his hand. “That’s preposterous. And no one except Wolff knew she was a woman. You’re not suggesting Wolff killed her, are you? I don’t believe that for an instant!” Everything in his voice, his expression, emphasized what he said.

  “No I don’t,” Monk agreed. “If it was murder, then I think it was to stop the case from going any further.”

  “The only person who’d want to stop that was poor Killian … Keelin … herself.” A twinge of pain shot over Lambert’s face. “I’m sorry … I still find it hard to believe all this. I liked her, you know. I liked her very much, even after she—she … damn it! Even after the marriage with Zillah fell through, I still liked him—her!”

  Lambert stood up and began pacing restlessly back and forth across the room, seesawing his hands in the air.

  “I went ahead
with the case because I had to!” He looked at Monk with a desperate urgency, willing him to believe. “I had to protect my daughter’s reputation. If I hadn’t, people would have said Melville had discovered something about her that made it impossible to marry her. They would assume she was without morals, a loose woman. No one would have had her.” His lips tightened. “Do you know what happens to a young woman whose reputation is gone, Mr. Monk? She has no place!” He chopped the air again. “No decent man will marry her. She is no longer invited to the decent houses. Young women with hopes no longer associate with her, in case the dirt rubs off. If she marries at all, it is to a man beneath her, and he treats her as what she is, one of society’s castoffs.”

  He looked at Monk intently, willing him to understand. “Or she stays single, dependent upon her father, while all her friends gain husbands, houses, status—in time, children. Would you want that for your daughter? Wouldn’t you fight any battle, any justified battle at all, rather than let that happen? Especially when you know she has done nothing to warrant it.”

  “I should probably do it whether she had warranted it or not,” Monk said frankly. He disliked what he was going to do. Only there was the remembrance that Keelin Melville had been a young woman too, also denied what she wanted most because of the beliefs and conventions of others. There had been no one to feel for her, now not even herself. “What about Hugh Gibbons?”

  Lambert’s face showed nothing. No man could be so complete a master of himself as to have hidden guilt behind such a bland exterior.

  “Who is Hugh Gibbons?”

  “A young man who was in love with Zillah some three years ago,” Monk replied. “He was unsuitable and the romance had gone too far. Mrs. Lambert took Zillah away, very suddenly, on a prolonged trip to the seaside—in North Wales. Crickieth, to be precise.”

  Lambert’s face paled suddenly. He remained motionless where he was by the window, the light behind him.

  “You remember now,” Monk said unnecessarily.

  The blood rushed back to Lambert’s cheeks. He came forward to the desk, leaning over it. “Are you saying my daughter has lost her virtue, sir?”