light of others' eyes. I think you are stating a fear of commitment which is not uncommon, but nevertheless neither is it admirable. Society cannot exist if we do not keep the promises we have made, that one above most others.' He regarded him gently, but not without a very clear perception. 'Are you certain it is not your rather fastidious nature, and unwillingness to forgo your own independence, which you are projecting onto this young man?'
'I'm not unwilling to commit myself!' Oliver defended, thinking with sharp regret of the evening not long before when he had very nearly asked Hester Latterly to marry him. He would have, had he not been aware that she would refuse him and it would leave them hesitant with each other. A friendship they both valued would be changed and perhaps not recap-turable with the trust and the ease it had had before. At times he was relieved she had forestalled him. He did value his privacy, his complete personal freedom, the fact that he could do as he pleased without reference to anyone, without hurt or offense. At other times he felt a loneliness without her. He thought of her more often than he intended to, and found her not there, not where he could assume she could listen to him, believe in him. There were times when he deeply missed her presence to share an idea, a thing of beauty, something that made him laugh.
Henry merely nodded. Did he know? Or guess? Hester was extraordinarily fond of him. Oliver had even wondered sometimes if part of his own attraction for her was the regard she had for Henry, the wider sense of belonging she would have as part of his family. That was something William Monk could not give her! He had lost his memory in a carriage accident just after the end of the Crimean War, and everything in his life before that was fragments pieced together from observation and deduction, albeit far more complete now than even a year ago. Still, there was no one in Monk's background like Henry Rathbone.
Could that be it? Was it not Zillah who was unacceptable but someone else in her family? Barton Lambert? Delphine? No, that was unlikely in the extreme. Barton Lambert had been Melville's friend far more than most men could expect of a father-in-law. And Delphi ne was proud of her daughter, ambitious, possibly overprotective, but then was that not usual, and what one expected, even admired, in a mother? If she disliked Melville now, she certainly had ample cause.
'There seems to be no defense,' he said aloud.
'What does he say?' Henry asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth and knocking the bowl sharply against the fireplace. He looked enquiringly at Oliver as he cleaned out the pipe and refilled it with tobacco. He seldom actually smoked it, but fiddling with it seemed to give him satisfaction.
'That's it,' Oliver replied with exasperation. 'Nothing! Simply that he did not ask her in the first place and he cannot bear the thought of marrying anyone at all. He states emphatically that he knows nothing to her discredit, and has no impediment to marriage himself, and trusts in me to defend him as well as may be done.'
'Then surely there is something he is not telling you,' Henry observed, putting the pipe between his teeth again but still not bothering to light it.
'I know that,' Oliver agreed. 'But I have no idea what it is. Every moment in court I dread Sacheverall facing him with it. I imagine he is going to produce it, like a conjurer, and any hope I have will evaporate.'
'Is that Wystan Sacheverall?' Henry asked, raising his eyebrows.
'Yes. Why?'
Henry shrugged. 'Knew his father. Always thought him very ambitious socially, something of an opportunist. Big man with fair hair and large ears.'
Oliver smiled. 'Definitely his son,' he agreed. 'But he is a very competent man. I shall not make the error of underrating him simply because he has a clownish face. I think he is extremely serious beneath it.'
'Then you had better find out for yourself what your client will not tell you,' Henry stated. 'Have you told Hester about this situation? A feminine point of view might help.'
'I hadn't thought of it,' Oliver admitted. She had been in his mind on many occasions, but not as a possible source of help. 'Actually, I have not been in touch with her for a few weeks. She will almost certainly be with a new patient.'
'Then you can ask Lady Callandra Daviot,' Henry pointed out. 'She will know where Hester is.'
'Callandra is in Scotland,' Oliver replied stubbornly. 'Traveling around from place to place. I had a letter from her posted from Ballachulish. I believe that is somewhere on the west coast, a little short of Fort William in Inverness-shire.'
'I know where Fort William is,' Henry said patiently. 'Then you will have to enquire from Monk. It should not be beyond his ability to find her. He is an excellent detective… assuming he does not already know.'
Oliver loathed the idea of going to Monk to ask him where Hester was. He would feel so vulnerable. It would entirely expose his disadvantage that he did not know himself, and yet he assumed Monk would. His only satisfaction would be if Monk did not know either. But then he would be no further forward. Now that Henry had suggested it, he realized how much he wanted to consult Hester. In fact, this case could provide the perfect reason to go to her again without their personal emotions intruding so much that the whole meeting would be impossibly awkward. On reflection, it had been a mistake not to see her more often in the intervening time. It would then have been so much easier.
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 cannot think of anything whatever which would bring you, dressed like that, to my door at this hour on a Saturday morning.'
'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
