Nevertheless that evening he went to see Monk at his rooms in Fitzroy Street. He found him brooding over a handful of letters. He seemed quite pleased to be interrupted.
'Trivial case,' he said, putting them aside and rising to his feet as Rathbone came in. 'You look awful. Still thinking about Keelin Melville?'
'Aren't you?' Rathbone continued, throwing himself into the large chair reserved for clients. 'The police surgeon came to see me today. It was belladonna she took. Some time in the afternoon.'
'But she was in court all afternoon,' Monk said with surprise. 'You were with her.'
'Well, he was quite sure,' Rathbone repeated. 'Said it had to have been between two and five at the latest, more likely four.'
'What time did she leave court?' Monk pressed. He was sitting upright on his chair. 'Is she supposed to have swallowed the stuff?'
'Yes, of course! What else? Pulled out a syringe and put a needle into her arm?' Rathbone said tartly, but his attention was suddenly focused.
'In what form?' Monk asked.
'What?'
'What form was the belladonna?' Monk clarified. 'Pills? Drops? Powder? A mixture?'
'I've no idea. I didn't ask. What does it matter now?'
Monk was frowning. 'Well, didn't you notice if she swallowed pills, took a drink of water, or had a flask? Someone must have seen. It was about as public a place as you can have, dammit! Why on earth would she do it there anyway? Why not wait until she got home with a little privacy?'
'I don't know.' Rathbone was thinking frantically now. 'I can't imagine what must have been on her mind. She panicked when Sacheverall put that prostitute on the stand. She realized her evidence would be unarguable, interpretable only one way.'
'Then she didn't know Sacheverall would call her until she saw her there?' Monk said quickly.
Rathbone thought back. 'No. I don't think she did. I can't be sure, of course, but insofar as I am any judge at all, she had no idea.'
'Then why would she have taken belladonna with her… in a lethal dose?' Monk was leaning farther forward, his eyes still on Rathbone's face. 'And if she did know, why didn't she take it before, and save Wolff's reputation, at least? If she loved him at all, she would surely have done that. It doesn't make sense, Rathbone, not as it is.'
'Then find sense to it!' Rathbone said urgently. 'I'm engaging you to do it-for me!' He cast aside his personal feelings, even his awareness that Monk must consider him incompetent at best for having allowed the case to come to this tragic end. He refused to think what Hester's judgment would be. He hated asking for favors. The hard edge of his feeling was in his voice, and his awareness of vulnerability in front of Monk, of all people. 'I want to know what it was that drove her to kill herself instead of fighting on. Couldn't she have left England, gone to Italy or even the Middle East, or somewhere? With genius like hers she could surely have started again. Anything rather than death. And what about Wolff? She loved him…'
Monk was looking at him for once without mockery. Only the faintest spark lit the backs of his eyes.
'I'll find out what I can.' Then he did smile. 'My rates are very reasonable.'
'Thank you,' Rathbone accepted stiffly. He felt awkward now, more than a little self-conscious. He stood up, straightening his jacket. It was nearly midnight. He had not realized how long it had taken him to travel to Primrose Hill and back. 'I'm sorry to have kept you so late.'
Monk stood up also. He hesitated, as if about to offer his hand. It was a peculiarly formal gesture, and at the last moment he changed his mind. 'I'll let you know as soon as I find anything,' he promised instead, and his face was very grave. Rathbone realized with warmth that he too felt angry and hurt and more than a little guilty.
In the morning Monk abandoned the rather tedious letters in which he had been trying to find evidence of duplicity for a woman who felt her sister-in-law was behaving immorally, and set out for the Old Bailey.
He passed several paperboys. Keelin Melville's death was not on the front pages anymore. A fresh political event in France had superseded her, and there were whispers of a financial scandal in the city.
At the courthouse he went up the steps two at a time and out of a surprisingly sharp wind. The weather had changed and there was a hint of frost in the air. He had been there often enough to know several of the clerks and ushers, too well to deceive them as to his identity or his purpose for being there.
'Good morning, Mr. Monk,' an elderly usher said to him before he was a dozen yards inside.
'Good morning, Mr. Pearson,' he replied, coming to a stop. 'Just the man I was hoping to see.'
Pearson looked interested. 'Oh, yes sir? Why would that be?' Monk was one of the more colorful people to enter his world, and his arrival heralded a break in routine. Added to which, if Monk was seeking him, then for a little while at least, Pearson would be more important than merely the efficient, almost invisible functionary he usually was.
'I need to know a good deal more about the last day of the Melville trial. You are very observant of people…'
'My job, sir,' Pearson answered with suitable gravity, but he stood a little straighter for the compliment. 'Times there's little else to do but notice people. What is it you need to know, Mr. Monk?'
'Did Melville leave the courtroom at any time before the hearing ended?'
'No sir.'
'Are you sure? Not for any reason?'
'No sir. They'd have had to halt the trial if he'd excused himself. Sir Oliver'll have told you that.'
Monk sighed. 'I thought not, but he could have forgotten. He is very disturbed at the outcome.'
Pearson shook his head. 'Nobody likes to lose a case, but for the poor soul to have taken her life is truly terrible. I was very sorry to hear about that. He always seemed like a nice gentleman to me-or I suppose I should say lady, now. I never guessed. Never came into my mind.' He looked at Monk curiously, searching his face to see if he felt the same.
'Nor mine,' Monk admitted. 'The surgeon says she took the poison while she was here in the court, some time during that afternoon.'
Pearson frowned. 'I don't rightly see how that could be, Mr. Monk. Was she supposed to have swallowed it like?'
'Yes.'
'T don't know where. She wouldn't have eaten nor drunk anything in the courtroom. Judge wouldn't allow it. And if she had, anyone would have seen. There's always people looking at the accused, and that's what it amounted to in this case, poor soul. Mr. Sacheverall went after him something fierce. I mean her. Still can't get it into my head that she was a woman.'
A group of junior counsel passed by, glancing at Monk, and one nodded as if he thought for a moment he knew him, then continued on his way.
'Was there an adjournment for any reason?'
'Yes! Yes… Sir Oliver tried again with Mr. Sacheverall. I remember that. It must have been then!' Memory quickened Pearson's face. 'Must have! No other time. I'm almost sure when Miss Melville left at the end of the day, she went straight out the back way, before the crowds could get at her. Sir Oliver went with her, then came out the front. If she really did take it here, and not after she left, then it must have been during the adjournment.'
'Curious,' Monk said slowly.
'Sir?'
'Why didn't she wait until she knew the result of Rathbone's talk with Sacheverall? There might have been some better resolution.'
'I don't know, sir, I really don't.' Pearson shook his head in agreement. 'Don't make a lot of sense, does it? Poor creature must have been out of her wits… afraid for Mr, Wolff, maybe?'
Monk was not satisfied.
'Do you want to speak with the usher around the corner when everyone left at that adjournment?' Pearson enquired helpfully. 'He might have noticed if Miss Melville was given a drink, and maybe took a pill or a powder with it.'
'Yes, please,' Monk accepted. 'I can't think what difference it makes now, but it seems such a pointless time to have begun the process of ending her own life… with a poison which acts over three or four hours.'
