A Breach of Promise - Anne Perry [76]
McKeever took his place.
“Mr. Sacheverall?” he enquired. His face was almost devoid of expression, his mild blue eyes curious and innocent. If he had come to any conclusions himself he did not betray them in his manner.
Sacheverall rose to his feet. He was smiling. There was satisfaction in every inch of him. Even his floppy hair and protruding ears seemed cavalier, a mark of individuality rather than blemishes.
“I call Isaac Wolff,” he said distinctly. He half turned towards Melville, then resisted the temptation. It was a sign of how sure he was of himself. Rathbone recognized it.
“Who is Wolff?” he said under his breath to Melville.
“A friend,” Melville replied without turning his head.
“Of whose? Yours or Lambert’s?”
“Mine. Lambert has never met him, so far as I know.” His voice was so soft Rathbone had to strain to hear it.
“Then why is Sacheverall calling him?” Rathbone demanded. Sacheverall was not bluffing. He showed that in every inch of his stance, his broad shoulders, the angle of his head, the ease in him.
“I don’t know,” Melville answered, lifting his eyes a little to watch as a tall man with saturnine features walked across the open space of the floor and climbed the steps of the witness-box. He faced the court, staring at Sacheverall. His eyes seemed black under his level brows, and his thick hair, falling sideways over one temple, was as dense as coal. It was a passionate, compelling face, and he stared at Sacheverall with guarded dislike. No one could mistake that he was there against his will.
“Mr. Wolff,” Sacheverall began, relishing the moment, “are you acquainted with Mr. Killian Melville, the defendant in this case?”
“Yes.”
Rathbone looked across at the jury to see their reaction. There was a stirring of interest, no more. They were inexperienced in courtroom tactics. They did not understand Sacheverall’s confidence and were only half convinced of it.
“Well acquainted, sir?” Sacheverall’s voice was gentle and he smiled as he spoke.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Wolff’s eyes and mouth but he did not allow it into his words.
“I have known him for some time. I do not know how you wish me to measure acquaintance.”
Sacheverall held up his hand in a broad gesture. “Oh! But you will, Mr. Wolff, you will. It is precisely the point I am coming to. Give me leave to do it in my own way. How did you meet Mr. Melville?”
The judge glanced towards Rathbone, half inviting him to object that the question was irrelevant. Rathbone knew there was no point in doing so. To challenge would only show Rathbone’s desperation. He shook his head momentarily and McKeever looked away again.
“Mr. Wolff?” Sacheverall prompted. “Surely you recall?”
Wolff smiled, showing his teeth. “It was some years ago, about twelve. I’m not sure that I do.”
It was not the answer Sacheverall had wished. Rathbone could tell that from the sharp way he moved his arm back. But he had opened the way for it himself.
“Was it a social occasion, Mr. Wolff, or a professional one?”
“Social.”
“You have recalled it, then?”
“No. We have no professional concerns in common.”
Rathbone rose to his feet, more as a matter of form than because he thought it would actually affect Sacheverall’s case. The tension was becoming palpable. Beside him at the table, Melville was rigid.
“My lord …”
“Yes, yes,” McKeever agreed. “Mr. Sacheverall, if you have a point to this, please come to it. Mr. Wolff has conceded that he is acquainted with Mr. Melville. If there is something in that which bears upon his promise to marry Miss Lambert, then proceed to it.”
“Oh, a great deal, my lord,” Sacheverall said impassively. “I regret to say.” He swung around to face the witness-box. “Are you married, Mr. Wolff?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been?”
“No.”
McKeever frowned. “Mr. Sacheverall, I find it hard to believe that this is indeed your point.”
“Oh, it is, my lord,” Sacheverall answered him. “I am about to make it.” And disregarding McKeever, he swung back to Wolff, on the stand. “You live alone, Mr. Wolff, but you