'You say a young woman cannot do such things,' he continued, his tone even more penetrating. 'Therefore what she does must be worthless, and what she had done must be worthless because she is a young woman. Actually, she was nearly forty.' His voice dripped sarcasm. 'But no doubt where age matures a man it merely dulls a woman. I cannot think even you can seriously believe such an argument. You are a hypocrite, and it is bigots like you who drive genius to destruction, because you don't understand it, and what you don't understand you destroy.'

He had gone too far, and he knew it even as he was speaking, not that he did not mean it, but he should not have said it. He stared at their shocked faces. He should apologize, at least to Laurence. Perhaps he would tomorrow, or next week, but not today. He was too passionately, irretrievably, angry.

'You're drunk!' Lofthouse accused him with amazement, then ruined the effect by hiccuping.

Rathbone looked at him, then at the half-empty glass beside him, with withering contempt.

There was nothing left for him to do but incline his head in the barest acknowledgment to Laurence, then excuse himself and leave.

Outside he found himself shivering. It was over a mile and a half to his rooms, but he set out walking without even giving it thought, going faster and faster, oblivious of people passing him or the clatter and light in the gloom of carriages. It was only as he was crossing Piccadilly that he realized he did not really want to go home. He did not want to spend the rest of the evening alone with his thoughts.

He stopped abruptly on the curb and swung around, ready to hail the nearest cab. He climbed in and directed it to take him to Primrose Hill.

When he arrived Henry Rathbone was sitting by the fire with his slippers off, toasting his feet, sucking absentmindedly on an empty pipe, and deep in a book of philosophy, with which he profoundly disagreed. But its arguments were exercising his mind, which he enjoyed enormously. Even losing his temper in such an abstract way was a form of pleasure.

However, as soon as Oliver came in he realized that something was wrong. It did not require a great deal of deduction, since Oliver had left his hat at Laurence's, his gloves were still stuffed in his pockets and his hands were red with cold. It was now pitch-dark, and chilly enough to suspect frost.

Henry had, of course, followed the case and knew of the latest tragic developments. He stood up and regarded Oliver gravely, holding his pipe in his hand.

'Has something happened?' he asked.

Oliver ran his fingers through his hair, something totally uncharacteristic. He loathed looking untidy; it was almost as bad as being unclean.

'Not really, at least nothing in the Melville case,' he answered, taking off his coat and handing it to the manservant waiting at his elbow. 'I went to a dinner party this evening and lost my temper.'

'Seriously, I presume.' Henry nodded to the manservant, who disappeared, closing the door silently. 'You look cold. Would you like a glass of port?'

'No!' Oliver declined. 'I mean, no thank you. It was during the port that I told them they were hypocrites and bigots who were responsible for the ruin of a genius like Melville.' He sat down in the other chair, opposite his father, watching his face to see his reaction.

'Unwise,' Henry answered, resuming his own seat. 'What are you doing now, thinking how to apologize?'

'No!' The reply was instant and sincere.

'Are they responsible?'

Oliver calmed down a little. 'They, and people like them, yes.'

'A lot of people…' Henry gazed at him very levelly.

Oh'ver's temper had worn itself out and left not a great deal but sadness and a growing feeling of his own guilt.

'You are not responsible for society's attitudes,' Henry said, knocking out his pipe, forgetting there was nothing in it.

'No, but I was responsible for Melville,' Oliver answered. 'I was very personally and directly responsible. If she had believed she could trust me, then she would have told me the truth. We could have told Zillah Lambert, at least, and she would probably have respected the confidence, for her own sake if not for Melville's. Then there need never have been a case and Melville would still be alive… possibly even practicing her profession.'

'Perhaps,' Henry agreed. 'Is that what is troubling you?'

'I suppose so.'

'Didn't you ask her, press her for the truth?'

'Yes, of course I did! Obviously she didn't trust me.'

'What was to prevent her trusting Zillah Lambert, regardless of you?'

'Well… nothing, I suppose.'

'But years of rejection,' Henry concluded. 'Years of lying and concealing. You cannot know everything that went before which made her what she was.' He reached for his tobacco and pulled out a few shreds between his fingers and thumb, pushing them into the bowl of his pipe. 'Perhaps you were unimaginative not to have guessed, perhaps not. Either way, there is nothing you can do now except cripple yourself with remorse. That will serve no one. It is self-indulgent… and perhaps you need a little indulgence, but do not let it persist for too long. It can become a habit-and an excuse.'

'My God, you're a harsh judge,' Oliver said, jerking his head up to glare at his father.

Henry struck a match and lit his pipe. It went out again immediately. His mouth softened, but there was no equivocation in his mild blue eyes.

'Do you want to be invalided out?'

'No, of course I don't. And I'd like a glass of sherry. Actually, I left before I drank more than a sip of the port.'

'It's behind you.' Henry made another attempt at lighting his pipe.

The following morning a little before noon Rathbone was in his offices in Vere Street when his clerk told him the police surgeon had called with information.

'Ask him in,' Rathbone said immediately.

The surgeon came in, looking grave.

'Well?' Rathbone asked as soon as the barest formalities were over.

'Definitely belladonna,' the surgeon replied, sitting down in the chair opposite the desk. 'Not very surprising. Easy to come by.' He stopped.

'But…' Rathbone prompted, sitting a little straighter.

The surgeon bit his lips, his eyes narrowing. 'But the thing that I find hard to understand, and which brings me back to you rather than merely sending you a report, is that from the amount she took, and the time she died, she must have taken it while she was still in the courthouse.' He drew his brows together. 'Which can only mean she had it with her, presumably against such an eventuality as… what? What happened that afternoon that suddenly became unbearable?'

Rathbone tried to think back. It had been the day Sachev-erall had put the witnesses on the stand and exposed what he thought was a homosexual affair. Had Melville known that was going to happen, or feared it? If so, why had she not told Rathbone to plead guilty and settle out of court? She would have saved Wolff's reputation at least. And if she loved him, surely she would have done that?

Had she carried belladonna all the time, just in case?

'Do you know something?' the surgeon asked. 'I would guess she took it after two in the afternoon, and well before five in the evening, probably before four.'

'Yes, it probably makes as much sense as suicide ever does,' Rathbone answered wearily.

'You do not sound entirely convinced.' The surgeon looked at him with a slight shake of his head. 'Is there some fact I should know?'

'No. No… I am afraid it was a tragedy which may well have been inevitable from the moment Sacheverall called Isaac Wolff to the stand, let alone that damned prostitute. Thank you for coming to let me know in person.'

The surgeon stood up and offered his hand. Rathbone took it, and then saw him to the door. He returned to his chair, still with a vague sense of unease, as if there was something unexplained or incomplete, but he could not think what. Probably it was as his father had said, his own sense of guilt.

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