Killian Melville than of Lambert. He did not want to like Melville, because he believed the case was hopeless. It would be so much more comfortable to believe him a knave, a fool, or both. It would be emotionally expensive to feel a desperate need to save him, to struggle, and fail, and have to watch him ruined. He pushed away the thought.
Sandeman was still recalling the house. He obviously enjoyed it.
"The dining room was marvelous," he said enthusiastically and leaning forward a little. "I had seen a lot of magnificent rooms before and was a bit blase. I thought I had seen every possible combination and variation of line and color, but this was different." He was watching Monk's reaction, wanting to be sure Monk appreciated what he was saying. "Not so much in obvious construction but in smaller ways, so the overall impression was again one of lightness, simplicity, and it was only on reflection one began to realize what was different. It was largely a matter of perfect proportion, of relation between curve and perpendicular, circle and horizontal, and always of light."
"You are saying Melville is a true genius," Monk observed.
"Yes... yes, I suppose I am," Sandeman agreed. "But I am also saying that Lambert understood that and appreciated it. I am also saying that Mrs. Lambert was fully sensitive to it too, and that she complemented it perfectly. Everything in her dining room was superb. There was not a lily in the vases with a blemish on it, not a smear or a chip on the crystal, a scratch on the silver, a mark or a loose thread in the linen." He nodded his head slightly. "It was all in equally exquisite taste. And she was the perfect hostess. The food, of course, was delicious, and abundant without ever being ostentatious. The slightest vulgarity would have been abhorrent to her."
"Interesting," Monk acknowledged. "But not helpful."
"I don't know anything helpful." Sandeman shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Barton Lambert's reputation is impeccable, both professional and personal. I have never heard anyone make the slightest suggestion that he was less than exactly what he seems, a shrewd but blunt north country businessman who has made a fortune and came to London to enjoy his success, patronize the arts-by the way, that is also painting and music, though principally architecture-and give his wife and daughter the pleasure of London society. You can try, by all means, and see if you can find evidence he patronizes the brothels in the West End or has a mistress tucked away somewhere, or that he gambles at his club, or occasionally drinks a little too much. I doubt you'll find it, but if you do, it won't help. So do most men in his position. None of it would be grounds for not marrying his daughter."
Monk knew it. "What about Mrs. Lambert?" he asked.
"Just as spotless, so far as I know," Sandeman replied. "Her reputation is excellent. A trifle ambitious for her daughter, but I am not sure that is regarded as a fault. If it is, you can charge nine tenths of the mothers in London with the same offense."
"Where does she come from?"
"No idea." Sandeman's eyes widened. "Do you imagine Melville cares?"
"No. I suppose I am trying any possibility. Could their daughter be illegitimate?"
"No," Sandeman said with a slight laugh. "I happen to know that she is eighteen years old, and the Lamberts recently celebrated the twentieth anniversary of their wedding. It was mentioned the evening I was there. It was several months ago now, seven or eight. And would it change Melville's view of her?" He shrugged again, wrinkling his clothes still further. "Yes, I suppose it could. Might not know who the father was. Could be anybody."
Monk forbore from observing that that could be said of many people. It was a point Sandeman might find offensive. He could think of nothing else to explore, no more to ask that might elicit a useful answer. He rose to his feet and offered his thanks.
"I hope you can help," Sandeman said with a frown, "ft seems like an ugly situation which should never have happened. Lovers' quarrel, do you suppose? Two young people with more feeling than sense, high temperament of an artist crossed with the emotions of a young girl, overexcited, perhaps suffering a little from nervousness?"
"Could be," Monk conceded. "But it's gone too far now. It is already in the courts."
"What a shame," Sandeman said sincerely. "If I hear anything, I