A Breach of Promise (19 page)

“Probably not,” Monk answered. “It is unlikely the difficulty
stems so far back. I assume that you have never heard suggestion that he is financially untrustworthy or—”

Sandeman did not allow him to finish. “He is an architect, Monk. A man of vision, even genius. He is not a banker or a trader. He sells ideas. I think rather than beating around the circumference of this, you had better tell me, in confidence, the nature of this difficulty. If it is the subject of a court case, then it will soon enough become public.”

Monk was more than ready. “He is being sued for breach of promise.”

Sandeman sat perfectly still. He did not speak, but disbelief was in every line of him.

“I am in the employ of the barrister seeking to defend him,” Monk answered to the question in Sandeman’s face.

Sandeman let out his breath slowly. “I see.” But there was doubt in his voice. He looked at Monk now with a certain carefulness. Something was unexplained. The debt between them was not sufficient to override his other loyalties, and there was a perceptible coolness in the room. “I doubt I can help you,” he continued. “As far as I know Melville, he is a man of complete probity, both publicly and privately. I have never heard anything whatever to his discredit.” He met Monk’s gaze steadily. “And I can tell you that without any discomfort of mind, knowing that I owe you a great deal for your assistance to me when I depended upon you.”

Monk smiled with a harsh twist of his lips. “The case may become ugly. I expect the family of the girl to suggest serious flaws in his character in order to explain his behavior in terms other than some fault in their daughter. If Melville is vulnerable in any way he has not told us, or even is not aware of, we need to know it in advance in order to defend him.”

Sandeman’s face eased, and his large body relaxed in his chair, crumpling his suit still further. “Oh, I see.” He did not apologize for his suspicion, it was too subtle to have been voiced, but it was there in his eyes, the suddenly warmer smile.

“Who is the lady?”

Monk did not hesitate; there was nothing to be lost. “Miss Zillah Lambert.”

“Indeed?” Sandeman was silent for a moment. “I still cannot help you. I know a little of Barton Lambert. Not a sophisticated man, but on the other hand he is nobody’s dupe either. He made his own fortune by hard work and good judgment—and a certain amount of courage. In my limited experience he has not been one to be socially ambitious, nor to take a slight easily.”

“And his wife?” Monk said with the shadow of a smile.

Sandeman drew in his breath and there was a flicker in his eyes which expressed possibly more than he was willing to say.

“A very pretty woman. Met her several times. Even dined at their home once.” He put his head a trifle to one side, a look of mild surprise on his face. “I confess I had not expected to find it so extraordinarily beautiful. And it was, believe me, Monk. I have dined with some of the wealthiest families in England, and some of the oldest, but for its scale, nothing outdid Lambert’s home. It was full of invention … architectural invention, I mean, not scientific. It was brilliantly innovative. That was Killian Melville.” He began to smile as he spoke, and his eyes took on a faraway shine as he retreated into memory. “As we went into the hall the floor was red oak, lovely warm color to it, and the walls were in different shades like … like sweet and dry sherry … no, more like brown sugar. But because of the windows it was full of light. It was one of those rare places where instantly one feels both a warmth and a curious sense of peace. There was a width, a space about it. All the lines pleased the eye. Nothing intruded or was cramped.”

Monk did not interrupt, although he found the impression he was gaining more of Killian Melville than of Lambert. He did not want to like Melville, because he believed the case was hopeless. It would be so much more comfortable to believe him a knave, a fool, or both. It would be emotionally expensive to feel a desperate need to save him, to struggle, and fail, and have to watch him ruined. He pushed away the thought.

Sandeman was still recalling the house. He obviously enjoyed it.

“The dining room was marvelous,” he said enthusiastically and leaning forward a little. “I had seen a lot of magnificent rooms before and was a bit blasé. I thought I had seen every possible combination and variation of line and color, but this was different.” He was watching Monk’s reaction, wanting to be sure Monk appreciated what he was saying. “Not so much in obvious construction but in smaller ways, so the overall impression was again one of lightness, simplicity, and it was only on reflection one began to realize what was different. It was largely a matter of perfect proportion, of relation between curve and perpendicular, circle and horizontal, and always of light.”

“You are saying Melville is a true genius,” Monk observed.

“Yes … yes, I suppose I am,” Sandeman agreed. “But I am also saying that Lambert understood that and appreciated it. I am also saying that Mrs. Lambert was fully sensitive to it too, and that she complemented it perfectly. Everything in her dining room was superb. There was not a lily in the vases with a blemish on it, not a smear or a chip on the crystal, a scratch on the silver, a mark or a loose thread in the linen.” He nodded his head slightly. “It was all in equally exquisite taste. And she was the perfect hostess. The food, of course, was delicious, and abundant without ever being ostentatious. The slightest vulgarity would have been abhorrent to her.”

“Interesting,” Monk acknowledged. “But not helpful.”

“I don’t know anything helpful.” Sandeman shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Barton Lambert’s reputation is impeccable, both professional and personal. I have never heard anyone make the slightest suggestion that he was less than exactly what he seems, a shrewd but blunt north country businessman who has made a fortune and came to London to enjoy his success, patronize the arts—by the way, that is also painting and music, though principally architecture—and give his wife and daughter the pleasure of London society. You can try, by all means, and see if you can find evidence he
patronizes the brothels in the West End or has a mistress tucked away somewhere, or that he gambles at his club, or occasionally drinks a little too much. I doubt you’ll find it, but if you do, it won’t help. So do most men in his position. None of it would be grounds for not marrying his daughter.”

Monk knew it. “What about Mrs. Lambert?” he asked.

“Just as spotless, so far as I know,” Sandeman replied. “Her reputation is excellent. A trifle ambitious for her daughter, but I am not sure that is regarded as a fault. If it is, you can charge nine tenths of the mothers in London with the same offense.”

“Where does she come from?”

“No idea.” Sandeman’s eyes widened. “Do you imagine Melville cares?”

“No. I suppose I am trying any possibility. Could their daughter be illegitimate?”

“No,” Sandeman said with a slight laugh. “I happen to know that she is eighteen years old, and the Lamberts recently celebrated the twentieth anniversary of their wedding. It was mentioned the evening I was there. It was several months ago now, seven or eight. And would it change Melville’s view of her?” He shrugged again, wrinkling his clothes still further. “Yes, I suppose it could. Might not know who the father was. Could be anybody.”

Monk forbore from observing that that could be said of many people. It was a point Sandeman might find offensive. He could think of nothing else to explore, no more to ask that might elicit a useful answer. He rose to his feet and offered his thanks.

“I hope you can help,” Sandeman said with a frown. “It seems like an ugly situation which should never have happened. Lovers’ quarrel, do you suppose? Two young people with more feeling than sense, high temperament of an artist crossed with the emotions of a young girl, overexcited, perhaps suffering a little from nervousness?”

“Could be,” Monk conceded. “But it’s gone too far now. It is already in the courts.”

“What a shame,” Sandeman said sincerely. “If I hear anything, I shall advise you.”

And Monk had to be content with that.

He spent a chilly and exhausting afternoon viewing the latest building close to completion to the plans of Killian Melville. First he had to seek the permission of a dubious caretaker, then pick his way over planks and racks of plaster and past busy craftsmen.

It was an uncomfortable experience. He did not want to feel any involvement with Melville, and already a sense of the young architect’s vision was forcing itself upon him. There was light everywhere around him as he stood in the main floor, where Carrara marble was being laid. It was not cold light, not pale, bleaching of color or fading, but giving an air of expansion and freedom. It was almost as if the interior could be as unrestricting as the outside with its clean, soaring lines and uncluttered facades. It was extremely modern, avant-garde, and yet also timeless.

Walking in the still uncompleted galleries, Monk found himself relaxing. He went through an archway into a farther hall, sun reflecting through a huge rose window along a pale floor, this time of wood. The other windows were very high and round, above the picture line, filling the arched ceiling with more light. He found himself smiling. He enjoyed being there, almost as if he were in the company of someone he liked. There was a kind of communication of joy in beauty, even in life.

What would make a man who could create such things ask a woman to marry him and then break his word? Was it as he had told Rathbone, simply that he had been so naive to the ways of the world that he had allowed himself to form a friendship which was misunderstood? The whole wedding had been arranged around him, and he had at no time the grasp to understand it—or the courage to disclaim and retreat?

These buildings were created by a mind of burning clarity and aspiration, a strength of will to dare anything. Such a man
could never be a coward. Nor could he be a deceiver. There was a simplicity of line and conception which was in itself a kind of honesty.

Without realizing it, Monk had clenched his fists; his whole body was stiff with determination and an inner anger in his will to preserve this, to defend whoever was the person whose spirit was embodied there. He had always judged a man not by what he said but by what he did, the choices he made, when it was difficult, dangerous, when he had much to lose. This building soared to the sky with Killian Melville’s choices.

He had entered not wanting to like Melville, not wanting to care one way or the other. He walked out rapidly, his feet loud and brisk on the wood and marble floors, and through the entrance door down steps to the square. He did not even bother to excuse himself to the caretaker. The wind was sharp and growing colder. The sun was already lowering and filling the west over the rooftops with an apricot glow. How could he help Melville? What was he hiding, and above all, why did he not trust Rathbone with it?

Was he protecting himself or someone else? Zillah Lambert herself?

There was no time before Monday morning and the trial’s resumption to discuss anything but the most superficial facts. The most urgent thing to learn was if there had been some incident in Melville’s life he was afraid might come to light and ruin him. It must be something Sacheverall could find out, or Rathbone would have no need to fear it.

It was late Saturday afternoon. No professional organizations would be open for him to ask questions. He would have to call on more acquaintances, people who might help him for the sake of old friendship, or more likely old debt. He had no relationships more than four years long. Everything before that was part of the past he knew so imperfectly, although now that he at least understood why Runcorn hated him, and why their quarrel and his dismissal from the police force had been inevitable, that no longer troubled him. He seldom looked backward anymore. The old ghosts had lost their power.

He stood still on the pavement for several minutes. People passed by him, two ladies chattering, their crinoline skirts swaying, curls blown in the increasing wind, hands held up to keep their bonnets from flying away. A carriage and four went by at a fast clip, horses’ manes streaming, harness jingling loudly. Someone shouted, and a young man darted out into the street.

An elderly man with magnificent whiskers passed an angry remark about the state of society.

Monk remembered the name of someone he could ask about architects and money. He turned and walked briskly across the square and through an archway into a main thoroughfare where he found a hansom and gave the driver an address in Gower Street.

George Burnham was an elderly man with a prodigious memory, and was happy to exercise it to help anyone, even to show off a little. The days were very long now that he was alone, and he delighted in company. He piled more coals on the fire and ordered supper for himself and Monk, and settled comfortably for an evening of companionship and recollections, after shooing away a large and very beautiful black-and-white cat so Monk might have the best chair.

“Known every new architect, painter and sculptor to come to London in the last forty years,” he said confidently. “Do you like pork pie, my dear fellow?” He waved casually at the cat. “Off you go, Florence.”

“Yes, I do,” Monk accepted, sitting down carefully so as not to crush the skirts of his jacket, trying to disregard the cat hairs.

“Excellent!” Mr. Burnham rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. We shall dine on pork pie, hot vegetables and cold pickle. Mrs. Shipton makes the best pickle in this entire city. And what about a little good sherry first? A nice mellow amontillado? Good, good!” He reached out and pulled the bell cord. “Now, my dear fellow, what is it you wish to know?” He smiled encouragingly.

Monk had met him during a sensitive case concerning
missing money. It had been solved very much to Mr. Burnham’s satisfaction. A collection of such clients was invaluable. At first Monk had despised the smaller cases, thinking them beneath his talents and no more than a demeaning necessity in his newly reduced circumstances. Now he began to appreciate the value of the clients far beyond the nature of the problems they had presented to him. Sandeman had been one such; Mr. Burnham was another.