A Breach of Promise

Now he was reduced to going to Monk, of all people, for help.

Henry was watching him reflectively.

"I suppose it would be quite a good idea," Oliver conceded. "I may even end up employing him myself!" He meant it as a joke. He could not use a detective against his own client, but he was tempted to do it simply to have the weapon of knowledge in his hand.

"What will happen to him if you lose?" Henry asked after another few moments of thoughtful silence by the fire.

"Financial penalty and social ruin," Rathbone answered.

"And considering his profession, probably professional catastrophe as well."

"Does he realize that?" Henry frowned.

"I've told him."

"Then you must find out the truth, Oliver." Henry leaned forward, his face very grave, worry creasing his brow. "What you have told me so far does not make any sense. No man would throw away a brilliant career, about which he obviously cares passionately, for such a reason."

"I know," Oliver agreed. He sat a little lower in his chair. It was soft and extremely comfortable. The whole room had a familiar feeling that was far more than mere warmth; it was a deep sense of safety, of belonging, of values which did not change. "I'll ask Monk. Tomorrow."

Monk was startled to see Rathbone on his step at half past eight the following morning. He opened the door dressed in shirtsleeves, his dark hair smoothed back off his brow and still damp. He surveyed Rathbone's immaculate striped trousers and plain coat, his high hat and furled umbrella.

"I can't guess," he said with a shrug. "I ca

"I don't expect you to guess," Rathbone replied waspishly. "If you allow me in, I shall tell you."

Monk smiled. He had a high-cheekboned face with steady gray eyes, a broad-bridged aquiline nose and a wide, thin mouth. It was the countenance of a man who was clever, as ruthless with himself as with others, possessed of courage and humor, who hid his weaknesses behind a mask of wit-and sometimes of affected coldness.

Rathbone knew all this, and part of him admired Monk, part of him even liked him. He trusted him unquestioningly.

Monk stood back and invited him in. The room where he received his prospective clients was already warm with the fire bright in the hearth, the curtains drawn wide and a clock ticking agreeably on the mantel. That was new since the last time Rathbone had been there. He wondered if it had been Hester's idea, then dismissed the thought forcibly. The rest of the room was filled with her suggestions. Why not this, and what did it matter if it were?

Monk waved to him to sit down. "Is this professional?" he asked, standing by the fire and looking down at Rathbone.

Rathbone leaned back and crossed his legs, to show how at ease he was.

"Of course it is. I don't make social calls at this hour."

"You must have an appalling case." Monk was still amused, but now he was also interested.

Rathbone wanted to make sure Monk understood it was professional, and not that he wanted to find Hester for personal motives. For him to believe that would be intolerable. In his own way he would never allow Rathbone to forget it.

"I have," he said candidly. "I am out of my depth, because of the nature of it, and I know I am being lied to. I need a sound judgment on it, one from a very different point of view." He saw Monk's interest increase.

"If I can be of help," Monk offered. "What is the case? Tell me about it. What is your client accused of? Murder?"

"Breach of promise."

"What?" Monk could hardly believe it. "Breach of promise? To marry?" He laughed in spite of himself. "And you don't understand it?" It was not quite contempt in his voice, but almost.

"That's right," Rathbone agreed. He was a past master at keeping his temper. Better men, more skilled at these tactics than Monk, had tried to provoke him and failed. "My client stands to forfeit not only money but his professional reputation if he loses. And he has a brilliant career. Some might even say he has genius."

The humor vanished from Monk's face. He stared at Rathbone with gravity, and the curiosity returned.

"So why did he court someone and then break the engagement?" he asked. "What did he discover about her?"

"He says there was nothing," Rathbone replied. Now that it had come to it, he might as well hear Monk's opinion as well. Whatever his emotions towards Monk, and they were wildly varied, he respected Monk's intelligence and his judgment. They had fought too many issues side by side, embraced too many causes together passionately, at any cost, not to know each other in a way few people are privileged to share.

"Then either he is lying," Monk responded, watching Rathbone closely, "or there is something about himself he is not telling you."

"Precisely," Rathbone agreed. "But I have no idea which it is or what the something may be."

"Are you employing me to find out… against your own client?" Monk asked. "He'll hardly pay you for that! Or thank you, either."

"No, I'm not," Rathbone said sharply. "I would like a woman's judgment on the situation. Callandra is in Scotland. I want to ask Hester." He searched Monk's face and saw his eyes widen very slightly but no more. Whatever Monk thought, he kept it concealed. "I don't know her present case. I thought you might."

"No, I don't," Monk answered without a flicker. "But I know how to find out. If you wish I shall do so." He glanced at the clock. "I assume it is urgent?"

"Are you expecting someone?" Rathbone misunderstood deliberately.

Monk shrugged very slightly and stepped forward from the mantel. The half smile touched his lips again. "Not for breakfast," he answered, crossing the room. He managed to move with the grace of suppressed energy. Always, even when weary or seeming beaten, he gave the air of one who might be dangerous to antagonize. Rathbone had never tested his physical strength, but he knew that not even the despair or the defeats of the past, the close and terrible personal danger which had plumbed the bottom of his emotional power, had broken him. The last dreadful moments of the affair in Mecklenburg Square must have come close. Hester had seen the worst extreme, but she had not betrayed it, and he knew she never would-just as she would never have told Monk anything about the moments between herself and Rathbone.

"I suppose you have eaten?" Monk asked with assumption of the answer in his voice. "I haven't. If you want to join me for at least a cup of tea, you're welcome. Tell me a little bit more about this life-and-death case of yours… for breach of promise, hurt feelings and questioned reputation. Business must be hard for you to be reduced to this!"

It was nearly noon before Monk arrived at Rathbone's rooms and simply handed him a slip of paper on which was written an address and the name "Gabriel Sheldon." He passed it to Rathbone with a slight smile.

Rathbone glanced at it. "Thank you," he said simply. He did not know what else to add. It was a strangely artificial situation. They knew each other in some ways so well. Rathbone knew far more of Monk than anyone else except Hester-and possibly Callandra Daviot and John Evan, the sergeant who had worked with Monk before Monk left the police force following a violent quarrel with his superior. But Evan had seen him only intermittently since then; Rathbone had worked with him every few months. They had stood together in victory and despair, in mental and physical exhaustion, in the elation of triumph and the strange, acute pain of pity. Even if they had never voiced it, they each understood what the other felt.

Rathbone knew that Monk had lost his past, everything, until four years ago. He had discovered himself as a man in his forties, not a man he always liked, sometimes a man he despised, even feared. Rathbone had watched Monk struggle to regain his memory, and had seen the courage it required of Monk to look at what he had been: the occasional cruelty, the hasty judgments, made too often in ignorance and from fear. Monk had hesitated at times, flinching from what he would find, but in the end he had never refused to look.