A Breach of Promise

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 unhappi-ness 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.

"Bellado

"Can you be certain of that?"

"Absolutely. I found traces of bellado

"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 bellado

"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 bellado

"No sir, it was swallowed. Death can take anything from a tew 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 bellado

"I ca

"How might one obtain bellado

The doctor shrugged.

"The plant grows wild in all ma

"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.

"Sir Oliver," he began slowly, "you were Keelin Melville's counsel during the case for breach of promise brought by Barton Lambert on behalf of his daughter, Miss Zillah Lambert." It was made as a statement, but he waited as if for a reply.

"Yes sir. I was," Rathbone agreed.

"When did you become aware that Miss Melville was indeed a woman, and not a man, Sir Oliver?"

"After her death, at the same time as we all did," Rathbone answered. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the small public gallery upon him and the heat burned up his cheeks at the realization that they must think him a fool. It was not his reputation that bothered him, but the fear that they were right.