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"What do you think of the work of Killian Melville?" he asked candidly.
Mr. Burnham cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes bright with interest.
"Sublime," he answered. "In a word-sublime! Finest architect this century." He did not ask why Monk wished to know, but he did not take his gaze from Monk's face.
"Where did he study?" Monk frowned.
"No idea," Mr. Burnham said instantly. "No one does. At least, no one I have met. Appeared in London about five years ago from God knows where. Can't place his accent. Tried to. Don't think it matters. Man is a genius. He can be a law unto himself. Although don't mistake me," he added earnestly. "He's a very pleasant fellow, no airs or graces, no filthy temper, doesn't keep a mistress or practice any excesses, so far as I know." Still he did not ask why Monk was enquiring.
"Could he have studied abroad?" Monk asked.
Florence leaped up into Mr. Burnham's lap, turned around several times and then settled.
"Of course he could!" Mr. Burnham answered. "Probably did, in fact. He is far too original to have gathered all his inspirations here. But if you doubt his technical ability, you have no need. I know Barton Lambert quite well enough to stake all I possess on his having assured himself, beyond even the slightest question, that all Melville's drawings are structurally perfect before he would put forward a halfpe
Stand as long as the Tower of London, I assure you." There was absolute conviction in his face, and he smiled as he spoke.
The door opened and a stout and very agreeable woman came in. Mr. Burnham introduced her as Mrs. Shipton, his housekeeper, and requested that supper be served for two. She seemed pleased to have a guest and disappeared briskly about her business.
"A man whose word you would trust?" Monk asked. "And his judgment?"
"Absolutely!" Mr. Burnham answered instantly. "Ask anyone."
Monk smiled. "I am not sure 'anyone' will tell me the truth, or even that they know it."
"Ah!" Mr. Burnham smiled and settled a little farther down in his chair. Florence was purring loudly. "You're a skeptic. Of course you are. It's your job. Silly of me to have forgotten it."
Monk found himself recalling how much he had liked Mr. Burnham in their previous acquaintance. He had been almost sorry when the case was concluded. It was not a feeling he indulged in often. All too frequently he saw pettiness, spite, a mind too willing to leap to prejudiced assumptions, instances where u
Mr. Burnham put more coals in the fire. It was now roaring rather dangerously up the chimney, and he regarded it with a flicker of alarm before deciding it would not set the actual fabric of it alight, and relaxed again, folding his hands across his stomach and resettling the cat to its satisfaction.
"Let me tell you a little story about Barton Lambert," he began with candid pleasure. He loved telling stories and could find too few people to listen to him. He was a man who should have had grandchildren. "And you will see what I mean."
Monk smiled, amused at both of them. "Please do." It was just possible the lale would even be enlightening, and he was extremely comfortable and looking forward to a very fine supper. He had tasted Mrs. Shipton's cooking twice before.
Mr. Burnham settled himself still deeper into his chair and began.
"You must understand one thing about Barton Lambert. He loves beauty in all its forms. For all his rather unrefined exterior, frankly, and his"-he smiled, not unkindly, as he said it- "rather plebeian backgrounds-he was in trade-he has the soul of an artist. He has not the talent, but instead of envying those who do, he supports them. That is his way of being part of what they create."
A coal fell out of the fire and he ignored it, in spite of the smoke it sent up.
Monk recovered it with the tongs and replaced it in the blazing heap.
"He is a man without envy," Mr. Burnham carried on without apparently having noticed. "And that of itself is a very beautiful thing, my dear fellow. And I think he is entirely unconscious of it. Virtue that does not regard itself is of peculiar value."
Monk wanted to urge nun to begin the story, but he knew from past experience it would only interrupt his thought and hurt his feelings.
Mrs. Shipton came in and set the small gate-legged table with a lace-edged cloth, silver, salt and pepper pots and very fine crystal glasses, and a few moments later carried in the supper and served it. Mr. Burnham continued with his story, barely hesitating as he removed Florence from his lap and conducted Monk to his chair, and thanked Mrs. Shipton. They began to eat.
"Lord…" He hesitated. "I think I shall decline, in the interests of discretion, to give him a name. In any case, someone approached Mr. Lambert about building a civic hall for the performance of musical concerts for the public." He passed Monk the dish of steaming vegetables and watched with satisfaction as he took a liberal helping. "Excellent, my dear fellow," he applauded. "The hall would have been most expensive, and milord was prepared to put forward at least half of the cost himself if Lambert would put forward the other half. He had co
Monk was enjoying his meal very much. The rich home baking was a luxury he was offered far too seldom, and the thought that all this was so far of no professional value was overridden by physical pleasure, and possibly also by the knowledge that Mr. Burnham was enjoying himself.
"This hall," Mr. Burnham went on, helping himself to more dark, spicy pickle and pushing the dish across the table towards Monk, "was to be dedicated to Her Majesty. It was some time ago now, and Killian Melville was not the architect, but some other fellow put forward by milord. The plans were given to Lambert and he was cock-a-hoop with excitement. He seemed on the brink of stepping into a circle he had previously barely dreamed of. He was man of the world enough to know his rough origins would never allow him to be accepted in such society ordinarily. Mrs. Lambert, on the other hand, has all the bearing of a lady; whether that is bred in her or learned, no one knows. Women seem to acquire these things more easily. It is in their nature to adapt. I daresay it has to be!"
Monk did not comment. His mouth was full.
"She is a remarkably pretty woman, and has the art to please without ever seeming to seek to or to be overeager," Mr. Burnham continued. "And yet in her own way she is a perfectionist too, an artist in domestic detail, a woman who can create an air of grace and luxury so natural it appears always to have been there." He watched Monk to assure himself he understood, and was apparently satisfied.
The first course was finished and treacle tart was offered with cream. Monk accepted with undisguised pleasure, and Mr. Burnham beamed at him in delight. He gave Florence a teaspoonful of cream.
"You may imagine," he said, resuming his tale, "Mrs. Lambert's happiness when milord's only son took a marked fancy to her only daughter, a charming, high-spirited girl, not yet of marriageable age but fast approaching it. In a couple of years the two families could have made a most acceptable arrangement, and in due course young Miss Lambert would have become a lady in every sense of the word, the chatelaine of one of the finest country seats in England."