Rathbone was furious. He could feel the heat burn up his face.
"Mr. Sacheverall knows I suggest nothing of the sort!" he snapped. "I ask that we not descend into the realms of prurient unprovable speculation into men's personal lives in an effort to justify acts of misunderstanding, carelessness or at worst irresponsibility. This cannot help anyone! All parties will be hurt, perhaps quite wrongly. They will learn to hate, where before there was merely sadness. They-"
"In other words, my lord," Sacheverall said jeeringly, glancing at the gallery and back at McKeever, "Sir Oliver would like my client to forgive his client and simply abandon the case, with Miss Lambert's reputation still in question and her feelings ravaged as if all that were of no importance whatever. I fear Sir Oliver betrays all too scant a regard for the purity, the sensibilities, and the true and precious value of women! In deference to his dislike for scandalous suppositions which cannot be proved, I will make no suggestions as to why."
Rathbone took a step forward. "I regard Miss Lambert's reputation as of great importance," he said gratingly, almost between his teeth. "The difference between us is that I regard Mr. Melville's reputation also… and Mr. Wolff's. He is no party to this case, and yet he stands to lose a great deal, without proof of guilt, having harmed no one."
"That remains to be seen," Sacheverall retorted. "And as to whether such acts are wrong-or not-that will depend upon another court. But I know what the public thinks!" He all but laughed as he said it, again inclining his head toward the gallery as if he spoke for them and with their approval.
McKeever sighed. He looked at Sacheverall with dislike.
"No doubt you do," he said quietly. "But this is a court of law, Mr. Sacheverall, not a place of public speculation and gossip." He looked at Rathbone. "I regret, Sir Oliver, but passionate as your plea is, it is not an argument in law. If Mr. Sacheverall's client wishes to pursue this line of testimony, I am obliged to allow it."
Rathbone swiveled around to look where Barton Lambert was sitting a little behind Sacheverall, his wife beside him. Her pretty face with its unusual brow was set in extraordinary determination. He had not realized earlier, when she was full of charm and elegance, what power there was in her. He felt certain she was the driving force behind this suit. It was she who understood precisely what damage could be done her daughter if the word was whispered around that a young man who had been in love with her had at the last moment broken his betrothal. Zillah was lovely, wealthy, of perfectly adequate social standing. Whatever fault she had was not a visible one, therefore it could only be invisible, leaving the imagination to rise-or sink-to any level. Barton Lambert might have some pity for Melville. Delphine had none.
Rathbone returned to his seat and awaited the worst.
It came. Sacheverall began to question the major as to his residence, which was the same gracious building as Isaac Wolff, and then took him step by reluctant, unpleasant step through his observations of Killian Melville's visits, the time of day or evening, as far as he could remember them, what he was wearing, his general air and demeanor. He obliged the major to describe Wolff's greeting Melville at the door, their evident pleasure in seeing each other. It was all done with some subtlety. There was nothing whatever to which Rathbone could object. He caught McKeever's eye a number of times, and saw his dislike of the pattern the questioning was following, but an equal resolve to abide by the law.
An hour later, when Sacheverall was finished and turned with a smile of invitation to Rathbone, he had established a regular pattern of visits between the two men and that they frequently lasted for several hours. He could not and would not guess as to what happened within Wolff's rooms once the outer door was closed, but the pinkness of his cheeks and his evident embarrassment and rising anger made his thoughts transparent.
Rathbone rose with his mind in turmoil. He had seldom felt so inadequate to a case or so angry with his adversary. He had often fought hard, and lost more than he wished, but to a better case, and to a man he respected. Indeed, Ebenezer Goode, a man he had often faced, was also a personal friend.
He loathed Wystan Sacheverall, and it was more than just the fact he was winning easily. There was a prurience in the man which repelled him.
"Major Hillman," Rathbone began courteously, walking forward towards the witness stand, "I am sure you would rather not be here on this matter, and I should not press you were there not absolute necessity."
"Thank you, sir," the major said stiffly. He did not know what to make of Rathbone, and it was clear in the expression in his rather plain face.
"Are you acquainted with Mr. Wolff? Do you speak to him if you should meet on the landing or stairs?"
"Yes-yes, I have until now." Hillman was obviously nonplussed.
"But something here has changed your mind?" Rathbone suggested helpfully. "Something that has been said today?"
Hillman looked acutely unhappy. He stood as if to attention, shoulders square, back stiff, eyes straight ahead.
"Perhaps I can assist you," Rathbone offered. "Mr. Sachev-erall has suggested a relationship which would be quite improper, and you might find that repugnant to you?"
"I should, sir! I should…" Hillman was shaking, his voice thick with emotion.
"Extremely repugnant?" Rathbone nodded.
Hillman was tight-lipped. "Extremely."
Sacheverall was leaning across his table, listening with a half smile on his face.
The jurors were watching Rathbone intently.
Melville had his head down, refusing to look at anyone.
"Quite so," Rathbone agreed. "You are not alone, Major Hillman. Most of us do not care to think or imagine the intimate details of other people's lives. We consider it intrusive at best, at worst a form of emotional illness."
Sacheverall started to his feet.
McKeever gestured him to silence, but his glance at Rathbone warned him that he would not indulge him much longer.
"But before coming here today, Major Hillman," Rathbone said with a smile, "you had not entertained such thoughts? You did not speak pleasantly while at the same time believing him to be practicing the acts Mr. Sacheverall has hinted at?"
"Certainly not, sir!" Hillman said sharply. "I believed him to be a normal man-indeed, a gentleman."
"So it is Mr. Sacheverall who has changed your mind?"
"Yes sir."
Rathbone smiled. "And here were we supposing it was your testimony which had changed his. Thank you for correcting our errors, sir. I am obliged to you. That is all I have to trouble you with."
There was a ripple of laughter around the room. But it was a short-lived victory, as Rathbone had known it would be. Hard on the major's heels was a man of much less repute, a grubby-minded idler with nothing better to do than to watch and imagine. His evidence was as well embroidered. The jury's contempt for his testimony was marked plainly in their faces, but they had to listen to his leering account, and however hard they might have wished to expunge it from their minds, it was not possible. One cannot willfully forget in an instant. And they were sworn to weigh the evidence, all of it, regardless of their own personal feelings, as Sacheverall reminded them more than once.
Rathbone could discredit the man, but it was hardly worth the effort. He had discredited himself. There was no point in trying to shake his actual testimony. To draw attention to it at all, whether to rebut, argue, or deny, was only to fix it more firmly in the jurors' minds.
"No thank you, my lord," Rathbone said when offered his chance to examine the witness. "I cannot think of anything useful to say to such a man."