A Breach of Promise (43 page)

So Zillah was adopted. Delphine had married later than most women, in spite of her beauty and intelligence, and perhaps had been unable to bear children. She would not be the only woman afflicted by such grief. It had happened throughout the ages, accompanied by pain and too often public condescension, the kind of pity that is touched with judgment.

Had she married late because she too had suffered some unjust rejection? Was her anger at Zillah rooted in her own experience of hurt?

Suddenly Monk’s dislike of her evaporated and was overtaken by compassion. No wonder she had been angry with Melville and been determined, at any cost, to defend Zillah’s good name.

Perhaps he owed it to Rathbone to give him this small piece of information and tell him that so far that was all he knew. It was no help, but it was at least a courtesy.

He arrived at noon the next day at Vere Street.

Rathbone was busy with a client, and Monk was obliged to wait nearly half an hour before he was shown into the office.

“What have you learned?” Rathbone asked immediately, not even waiting to invite Monk to be seated.

Monk looked at his anxious face, the fine lines between his brows and the tension in his lips. His sense of failure was acute.

“Nothing of importance,” he said quietly, sitting down anyway. “Zillah Lambert was adopted when she was a year and a half old. It seems Delphine could not bear children. She was well over thirty when she married Lambert. That might explain why she is so desperate that Zillah should marry well, and so jealous for her reputation. She knows what it means to society.” He added a brief summary of his visit with the Lamberts, and Sacheverall’s sudden departure.

Rathbone used a word about Sacheverall Monk was not
aware he even knew and Sacheverall would have resented profoundly. He sank back in his chair, staring across the desk. “If we can’t find anything better than we have, the inquest on Melville will find suicide.” He watched Monk closely, his eyes shadowed, questioning.

“It probably was suicide,” Monk said softly. “I don’t know why she did it then, or exactly how. We probably never will. But then, I don’t know how anyone could have murdered her either. And what is more pertinent, I don’t know of any reason why they would. The Lamberts had nothing to hide.”

11

T
HE INQUEST
on Keelin Melville was a very quiet affair, held in a small courtroom allowing only the barest attendance by the general public. This time the newspapers showed little interest. As far as they, or anyone else, were concerned, the verdict was already known. This was only a formality, the due process which made it legal, and able to be filed away as one more tragedy and then forgotten.

The coroner was a youthful-looking man with smooth skin and fair hair through which a little gray showed when he turned and his head caught the light. There were only the finest of lines at the sides of his eyes and mouth. Rathbone had seen him a number of times before and knew he had no liking for displays of emotion and loathed sensationalism. The real tragedy of sudden and violent death, and above all suicide, was too stark for him to tolerate exhibitions of false emotion.

He began the proceedings without preamble, calling first the doctor who had certified Melville as dead. Nothing was offered beyond the clinical and factual, and nothing was asked.

Rathbone looked around the room. He saw Barton Lambert sitting between his wife and daughter, and yet looking oddly alone. He was staring straight ahead and seemed to be unaware of anyone near him. Even Zillah’s obvious distress did not seem to reach him. He did not move to touch her or offer her any comfort even by a glance.

Delphine, on the other hand, was quite composed, and even
as Rathbone watched her, she leaned forward, smiled and said something to Zillah. A slight flicker of expression crossed Zillah’s face, but it was impossible to tell what she was feeling. It could have been an effort to be brave and hide her grief; it could have been tension waiting for the pronouncement of the verdict expected by all of them. It could even have been suppressed anger.

Rathbone was feeling almost suffocating rage himself, partly directed towards the court, towards Sacheverall, who was sitting far away from the Lamberts and carefully avoiding looking towards them. But most painfully, Rathbone’s anger was towards himself. He had failed Keelin Melville. Had he not, they would not now be here questioning her death.

He did not even now know how he should have acted to prevent the tragedy from playing itself out. He could think of no place or time when he could have done something differently, but taken altogether the result was a failure, complete and tragic. He had failed to win her trust. That was his shortcoming. He might not have saved her reputation or professional standing in England, but he would certainly have saved her legal condemnation and, without question, her life.

Why had she not trusted him? What had he said, or not said, so that she had taken this terrible step rather than tell him the truth? Had she thought him ruthless, dishonorable, without compassion or understanding? Why? He was not any of those things. No one had ever accused him … except of being a little pompous, possibly; ambitious; even at times cold—which was quite unjustified. He was not cold, simply not overimpulsive. He was not prejudiced—not in the slightest. Even Hester, with all her ideas, had never said he was prejudiced. And heaven knows, she would have said it had it crossed her mind!

The doctor’s evidence was finished. It informed them of nothing new.

The police told of being called over the matter, as was necessary. Melville had apparently been alone all evening. There was no sign whatsoever of anyone else’s having entered her rooms.

“Was there any evidence of Miss Melville’s having eaten or drunk anything since returning home that evening?” the coroner asked.

“We saw nothing, sir,” the policeman replied unhappily. “It seemed the young lady had no resident servant. There was nothing out of place. No food had been prepared and there was no crockery or glasses showing as been used.”

“Did you search for any container for pills or powders, Sergeant?” the coroner pressed.

“Yes sir, an’ we found nothing except a paper for a headache powder screwed up in the wastepaper basket in the bedroom. We looked very careful, sir. Fair turned the place inside out.”

“I see. Thank you. You also looked for bottles, I presume? Even clean ones which might have been used and then washed out?”

“Yes sir. No empty packets, bottles, vials, papers, nothing. And we took away and had tested what was still in use. All harmless domestic stuff as you’d find in most people’s homes.”

“Very diligent. Have you any idea where Miss Melville obtained the poison which killed her, or where she administered it to herself?”

“No, sir, we have not.”

“Thank you. That is all. You may step down.”

Rathbone looked around again as the sergeant left and the police surgeon was called. Monk sat lost in gloom. He looked about as miserable and angry as Rathbone felt. There was a certain companionship in their silence. Neither of them had the slightest desire to try to express his thoughts in words. It was a vague comfort for Rathbone to know that he was not alone in his struggle to find meaning in this, in his profound unhappiness and sense of having been helpless and inadequate all the way along.

The police surgeon gave evidence as to his surprise at discovering the deceased was a woman and not a man as she had at first appeared. But she was in every physical way quite normal—indeed, dressed appropriately she would have been a
handsome woman, even beautiful, in her own way. He said it quietly and with great sadness.

There was a hush in the room as he spoke. Someone coughed. Someone else stifled a nervous giggle and was instantly glared at. People seemed to be both embarrassed and moved by a deep sense of loss and the finality of death.

“And the cause of Miss Melville’s death?” the coroner asked.

“Belladonna poisoning, sir,” the surgeon answered without hesitation.

“Can you be certain of that?”

“Absolutely. I found traces of belladonna in the deceased’s internal organs. And on examination of the body, every sign led me to consider it as a probable cause of death.”

“What were the signs?”

“Widely dilated pupils, exceedingly dry skin, great dryness in the mouth, redness in the face. On examination of the body in autopsy I also found retention of urine and, of course, failure of the heart consistent with the effects of belladonna.” There was an uncomfortable shifting in the court as people imagined the distress and the fear; the immediate physicality of it made it so much more real.

“The symptoms before death include increased heart rate,” the doctor continued. “Very loud, audible even at a distance from the patient. Often the patient becomes aggressive, disoriented and suffers hallucinations. The police informed me they found one or two items knocked over, consistent with blurred vision.”

Rathbone sat rigidly, his shoulders hunched, his fists tight. His mind was drenched with misery as he thought of Keelin Melville frightened, half blinded, knowing she was dying, hearing her own heart pound until it burst.

“Yes … yes. I do not argue with your conclusion, Doctor.” The coroner shook his head, his voice cutting across Rathbone’s thoughts. “If you found belladonna within the body then that is sufficient. How long before death would it have
been consumed? I take it it was consumed? It was not injected, or absorbed through the skin, or breathed in?”

“No sir, it was swallowed. Death can take anything from a few hours to a few days, depending on the dose.”

“And this dose?”

There was complete silence in the courtroom. Rathbone did not look around, but he could imagine everyone waiting. Why? To know what piece of evidence, what revelation or event had finally been more than Melville could take? Did they need the moment of decision?

“A heavy dose,” the doctor replied, pursing his lips. “Sometime during the afternoon.”

“Are you sure? Could it not have been after Miss Melville returned home?”

“No. It doesn’t work that quickly.”

“Or in the morning, before she came to court?”

Rathbone found he could hear his own pulse beating. Could it have been that early? Was it over Wolff’s disgrace? Perhaps there had even been a quarrel with him?

“No sir,” the doctor said with certainty. There was not even a shadow of doubt in his face or his voice. “If she had taken that much before she came to court in the morning, she would have been showing unmistakable symptoms by midday at the latest. No one could have mistaken it. She would have been dead by the afternoon.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” the coroner persisted, his face wrinkled with concern.

“Quite,” the doctor assured him.

“Can you tell us whether the belladonna was taken in liquid or powder form, or a tablet? Or if it was taken with food?”

“I cannot tell you whether it was liquid or powder, but it was not taken with food. There was very little food in the stomach. The poison probably acted as effectively as it did for that reason.”

“How might one obtain belladonna?”

The doctor shrugged.

“The plant grows wild in all manner of places. Anyone
could obtain it. All parts of it are poisonous. Various medical powders can be made from it for the treatment of several conditions.” He shrugged very slightly. “Even for enhancing the beauty of the eyes. It enlarges the pupils. Hence the name—‘beautiful woman’—belladonna.”

“Thank you.” The coroner nodded. “I have no more to ask you, except whether you can tell us if there is any evidence to show whether the deceased took this by her own hand or not.”

“I have no way of knowing. That is a police matter. I can only say I know of no way in which it could be accidental.”

The coroner pursed his lips, nodding again slowly. He dismissed the doctor with thanks and sipped a glass of cold water before calling Rathbone to the stand. Even when he sat back facing the court again, it was obvious he was disturbed more than usual by the details and the reality of death.