A Breach of Promise (28 page)

He stopped the driver, paid him and alighted also. He was inviting disaster, but he had little alternative left, except to report failure, and he was not going to do that. He hesitated, pretending to look for something in his pocket, until he could walk in with half a dozen people, four of them women, and
appear to be part of their group. Indeed, one of the younger ladies seemed to find the idea appealing and he capitalized on it without a second thought.

Inside the main reception hall was already thronged with people, at least a hundred, and more were arriving all the time. It appeared to be a ball, and if he was fortunate the hostess would be only too happy to have another single and presentable man of good height who could and would dance. He traded upon it.

It was nearly midnight, amid a whirl of music, chatter, high-pitched laughter and the clink of glasses when he scraped into conversation with a middle-aged lady in blue who knew Delphine Lambert well and was happy to gossip about her.

“Charming,” she said, looking straight at Monk.

Monk had no shame at all.

“How very generous of you,” he said, smiling back at her. “If even in your company she seemed so, then she must indeed be exceptional.”

The orchestra was playing and the music danced in his head. He restrained himself with an effort.

“You flatter me, Mr. Monk,” she responded, clearly pleased.

“Not at all,” he denied, as he had to. “I see you in front of me, while Mrs. Lambert is merely a name. She has no grace, no humor, no spark of wit or warmth of character for me to comment on.” He looked so directly at her she must take his implication to be that she did.

This was the most gracious attention she had received in a long time. She was not about to let it go. She was quite aware of her friends a few yards away watching her with amazement and envy. She would talk about Delphine for as long as this delightful and rather intriguing man wished her to.

A pretty girl in pale pink swirled by, laughing up at her partner, flirting outrageously for the brief moment she was out of her mother’s reach.

A gentleman with ginger hair bumped into a waiter.

“It is not really wit or humor she has,” she elaborated, prepared to go into any degree of detail. “Not that she is without
it, of course,” she amended. “But her charm lies rather in her extraordinary delicacy and beauty. It is not …” She thought for a moment. “It is not the beauty of amazing coloring or exquisite hair, although she does have a beautiful brow. Her figure is comely enough, but she is not very tall.” She herself was only three or four inches less than Monk’s own height. “It is the beauty of perfection,” she continued. “Of even the tiniest detail being flawless. She never makes a mistake. Oh …” She gave a little laugh. “I daresay it is the sort of thing only another woman would notice. Aman might only know there was something less attractive but not be able to put his finger upon what it might be. But Delphine … Mrs. Lambert … always rises above the little things that trip the rest of us.”

The waltz was ended and replaced by a very slow pavane, or something of the sort. The temptation to dance was removed temporarily.

“How interesting,” he said, watching her intently as if there were no one else in the room. “You are extraordinarily observant, Mrs. Waterson. You have a keen eye.”

“Thank you, Mr. Monk.” She blushed faintly.

“And a gift with words,” he added for good measure.

She needed no further encouragement. She launched into varied stories not only of Delphine but, with a little guidance, of Zillah as well. She described their social round with some flair. Under Monk’s flattery she did indeed exhibit an acute observation of manners and foibles and the intricacies which give clue to character.

A waiter offered them glasses of champagne and Monk seized one for Mrs. Waterson and one for himself. He was more than ready for it. All around them was laughter and color and swirl of movement.

“Only a careful eye could tell,” Mrs. Waterson continued, leaning a little closer and lowering her voice confidentially, “but the whole bodice had been taken apart and restitched with the fabric going crosswise. Much more flattering.” She nodded. “And her use of colors. It is more than just a flair, you
know, in her it is a positive art. Nothing is too much trouble if it will produce beauty.”

She was watching him intently, completely oblivious of a couple so close the woman’s skirts touched her own, and who seemed to be having a fierce but almost silent quarrel. “You know I have heard it said,” she told him earnestly, “that the skill in always appearing beautiful is not so much a matter of the features you are born with, or even of disguising those which are less than the best, but in drawing the onlooker’s eye to those which are exceptional. And the others are barely noticed.” There was triumph in her face. “Never apologize or appear to be ashamed or attempting to conceal.” She raised her chin. “Walk with pride, smile, dare the world to accept you on your own terms. Believe yourself beautiful, and then others will also. That takes a great deal of courage, Mr. Monk, and a formidable strength of will.”

“Indeed it does,” he agreed, wishing she would proceed to something which might conceivably be relevant to Rathbone’s case. “Invaluable advice for a mother to pass on to her daughter.”

“Oh, I am sure she did,” Mrs. Waterson said with a little lift of her shoulder. “Miss Lambert is quite lovely, and was never permitted to be anything less. The minutest details were given the utmost attention. Of course, nature assisted her beautifully!”

They were playing a waltz again. Could they dance and then return to the subject? No, of course not. It would be forgotten, become forced. He might even lose her altogether. Damn Rathbone!

It was time for a little more judicious flattery. One could not expect a woman to spend above an hour praising another woman.

“Fine features are very well,” he said casually, as if it were merely a passing thought. “But without intelligence they very soon become tedious. I could listen all evening to a woman with the gifts of intelligence and expression. I could not look at one woman all evening, no matter how lovely her face.”

“You have remarkable perception and sensitivity, Mr. Monk,” she responded, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I am afraid there are very few men with such finely developed values.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think so, Mrs. Waterson? How kind of you to say so. I don’t think anyone has ever told me such a thing before.” He looked suitably satisfied. He refused to think what Hester would have said of him for such playacting. The only thing that mattered was learning something that would help Rathbone’s case. And so far he had singly failed in that.

He began again. “It must be tempting to use the power of such beauty, nonetheless, in a young girl with no experience, no maturity to fall back upon.” He must not forget that Mrs. Waterson was certainly the wrong side of thirty-five.

“Of course,” she agreed.

He waited expectantly, ignoring the young woman three or four yards away gazing at him with bright eyes full of laughter and invitation, obviously bored with her very correct and rather callow partner.

“Perhaps she did not succumb to the temptation?” he said sententiously.

“Oh, I’m afraid she did,” Mrs. Waterson explained instantly, and with satisfaction. “One could not help but be aware that she was brought up to regard beauty as of the utmost importance, and therefore she would have been less than human not to have tested its power. And quite naturally it was greater than she expected—or was able to deal with gracefully.” She waited to see Monk’s reaction. Would he think unkindly of her if she seemed critical?

“How very understanding of you, Mrs. Waterson,” he said, biting his tongue. “You speak with the sympathy of one who knows it at firsthand.” He said it with a perfectly straight face. Without an ability to act one could not be a successful detective, and he had every intention of being successful.

“Well …” She debated whether to be modest or not, and threw caution to the winds. The orchestra was playing with
rhythm and gaiety. She had drunk several glasses of champagne, and all she usually indulged in was lemonade. There was laughter and color and movement all around her. Light from chandeliers glittered on jewels and hair and bare necks and arms. Mr. Waterson was very agreeable, but he had far too little imagination. He took things for granted. “In my younger days, before I was married, of course, I did have one or two adventures,” she conceded. “Perhaps I was not always wise.”

“No more than to make you interesting, I am sure,” Monk said with a smile. “Was Miss Lambert as … wise?”

She bridled a little. It was not becoming to appear uncharitable.

“Well … possibly not. She set more store by beauty than I ever did. I always considered good character to be of more lasting worth, and a certain intelligence to stand one in greater service.”

“How right you are. And so it has.” He accepted a dish of sweetmeats from a passing waiter and offered it to her.

He remained talking for another half hour but learned no more than Zillah’s exercise of her charms and the greater attention she paid to her physical assets, under her mother’s expert tutelage, than other less well schooled girls of her age. It was hardly a sin. In fact, many might consider it a virtue. It was admired when women took the time and care to make themselves as pleasing as possible. It was in many ways a compliment to a man, if a trifle daunting to the unsure or nervous.

Monk got home at quarter to three in the morning, exhausted. He had a clearer picture of both Zillah and her mother, but it was of no use whatever that he could see. Certainly they possessed no fault that Melville could complain of, and no characteristics that were not observable in the slightest of acquaintance.

He slept late and woke with a headache. He had a large breakfast and felt considerably better.

He saw the morning newspapers but decided he had no time to read them, and if there were anything of use Rathbone
would know it anyway and would have sent an appropriate message.

He needed Hester’s opinion. She bore little resemblance to Zillah Lambert, but she had been Zillah’s age once. That might come to him as a surprise, but surely she would remember it. And as far back as that she would have been living at home with her parents, long before her father was ruined, before anyone even thought of the possibility of a war in the Crimea. Most people would not have had the slightest idea even of where it was. And Florence Nightingale herself would have been dutifully attending the balls and soirées and dinners in search of a suitable husband. So would Hester Latterly. She would know the game and its rules.

It was not far from Fitzroy Street to Tavistock Square and he walked briskly in the sun, passing ladies out taking the air, gentlemen stretching their legs and affecting to be discussing matters of great import but actually simply enjoying themselves, watching passersby, raising their hats to female acquaintances and generally showing off. Several people drove past in smart gigs or other light equipages of one sort or another, harnesses gleaming, horses high stepping.

When he reached the Sheldon house he was admitted by the footman, who remembered him and advised him that Miss Latterly was presently occupied but he was sure that Lieutenant Sheldon would be happy to see him in a short while, if he cared to wait.

Monk accepted because he very much wished to stay, and because he had developed a sincere regard for the young man and would hate to have him feel rejected, even though Monk’s departure would have had nothing whatever to do with Lieutenant Sheldon’s disfigurement.

“Thank you. That would be most agreeable.”

“If you will be good enough to warm yourself in the withdrawing room for a few minutes, sir, I shall inform Lieutenant Sheldon you are here.”

“Of course.”

Actually, he was not cold, and as it transpired, the footman
returned before he had time to relax and conducted him upstairs.

Gabriel was up and dressed, although he looked extremely pale and it obviously had cost him considerable effort. He tired easily, and although he tried to mask it, the amputation still gave him pain. Monk had heard that people frequently felt the limb even after it was gone, exactly as though the shattered bone or flesh were still there. To judge from the pallor of Gabriel’s face and the occasional gasp or gritted teeth, such was the case with him. Also, he had not yet fully accustomed himself to the alteration in balance caused by the lack of an arm.

However, he was obviously pleased to see Monk and rose to his feet, smiling and extending his right hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Monk. How are you? How nice of you to call.”

Monk took his hand and shook it firmly, feeling the answering grip.

“Excellent, thank you. Very good of you to allow me to visit Miss Latterly again. I am afraid this case is rapidly defeating me, and I think a woman’s view on it is my last resort.”

“Oh, dear.” Gabriel sat down awkwardly and gestured to the other chair for Monk. “Can you talk about it?”

“I have nothing to lose,” Monk confessed. It would be insensitive to speak of Gabriel’s health. He must be exhausted with thinking of it, explaining, worrying, having to acknowledge with every breath that he was different.

“The suit for breach of promise …”

Gabriel gave his entire attention, and for nearly an hour Monk told him what he had done so far, tidying up his account of the previous evening’s encounter with Mrs. Waterson to sound a little more favorable to her. Still, he thought from the amusement in Gabriel’s eyes that perhaps he had not deceived him much.

“I am sorry,” Gabriel said when he concluded, “but it seems as if Miss Lambert is probably exactly what she appears to be.
Why do you think she may not be … beyond hope for your client’s sake?”

“I don’t,” Monk confessed. “It is only that I don’t like to be beaten.”

Gabriel sighed with rueful humor. “It isn’t always such a bad thing. The fear of it is the worst part. Once it has happened, and you’ve survived, it can never frighten you quite the same again.”