A Sunless Sea wm-18

by Anne Perry

  As he stood at the front door of the house in Lower Park Street, Monk tried to imagine what his own life would be if Hester had turned to someone else, made love with another man, lain in his arms and talked with him, laughed with him, shared her thoughts and her dreams and the intimateness of physical love. Would he want to kill that man? Even to eviscerate him?

  He might.

  The maid answered his knock and showed him to the withdrawing room. He stood, waiting for Dinah to come. He thought of her daughters, Marianne and Adah. Who would look after them now? What future would lie ahead for them, their father a suicide, their mother hanged for the terrible murder of his mistress?

  He never got used to tragedies. The edges were never blunted. They cut to the bone always.

  Dinah came into the room, walking very upright, her head high, and her face ashen white, as if she knew why he had returned.

  “You weren’t with Mrs. Moulton,” Monk said quietly. “She was willing to lie for you. When I told her you had said you were together at the art exhibition in Lewisham, she agreed.” He shook his head slightly. “You were seen in Limehouse, specifically in Copenhagen Place, where Zenia Gadney lived, asking about her, and in a state close to hysteria.” He stopped because of the look of amazement in her face, almost stunned disbelief. For an instant he doubted his own knowledge. Could it be she was insane and had no idea what she had done?

  “I didn’t kill her,” she said hoarsely. “I never even met her! If … if I can’t prove that, will they hang me?”

  Should he lie? He wanted to. But the truth would be hideously clear soon enough. “Probably,” he replied. “Unless there is some extraordinary mitigating circumstance. I’m … sorry. I have no choice but to arrest you.”

  She gulped, choked for breath, then swayed as if she might faint.

  “I know …,” she whispered.

  “Have you resident staff to care for your daughters until someone else can be informed? Perhaps Mrs. Herne?”

  She gave a bitter little laugh, which ended in a sob. It was a moment before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak again.

  “I have resident staff. You won’t need to call Mrs. Herne. I am ready to come with you. I would be obliged if we might go now. I do not like good-byes.”

  “Then please call whoever you wish to pack nightclothes and toiletries for you,” he instructed. “It will be better than having me follow you upstairs.”

  She colored faintly, then almost immediately was as ashen as before.

  The woman who came in answer to the summons was elderly, gray-haired, and plump. She looked at Monk with loathing but accepted Dinah’s instructions to pack a small case for her, and to look after Adah and Marianne for as long as should prove necessary. The boot boy was sent to fetch a hansom cab and bring it to the front door.

  Monk and Dinah rode down to Greenwich Pier for the ferry crossing in the dark. Then at the other side they took another hansom for the long chilly ride, cramped together as they jolted over the cobbles.

  It was only then that she spoke.

  “There is one way in which you can help me, Mr. Monk, and I think perhaps you will not refuse,” she said quietly.

  “If I can.” He wished profoundly that he could, but he feared she was beyond anything he could do.

  “I shall require the best possible lawyer to fight for me,” she said with surprising calm. “I did not kill Zenia Gadney, or anyone else. If there is someone who can help me to prove that, I believe it would be Sir Oliver Rathbone. I have heard that you know him. Is that true?”

  He was startled. “Yes. I’ve known him for years. Do you wish me to ask him to see you?”

  “Yes, please. I will pay anything I have-everything-if he will defend me. Will you please tell him so?”

  “Yes, of course I will.” He had no idea whether Rathbone would take the case or not. It seemed hopeless. One thing he was certain of, money would not be the issue. “I will ask him this evening, if he is at home.”

  She sighed very softly. “Thank you.” She seemed at last to relax a little against the back of the seat, exhausted of all strength, physical and emotional.

  CHAPTER 9

  Oliver Rathbone arrived home after an ambivalent conclusion to the trial he had been fighting. It was a partial victory. His client had been convicted of a lesser charge, thus carrying a considerably lighter sentence. It was what he believed was warranted. The man was guilty of more, even though there were mitigating circumstances. Rathbone might have achieved a better result for him, but it would not have been just.

  He ate dinner alone, and without enjoyment. He had at last faced the fact that he did not want Margaret back, and that was a bitter knowledge. There was no ease between them, and now, not even any kindness. What he wished was that it could all have been different.

  Had he been lacking in tenderness or understanding? He had not seen it that way. He had sincerely defended Arthur Ballinger to the utmost of his ability. The man had been found guilty because he was guilty. At the end Ballinger himself had admitted it.

  That memory took his mind back to the photographs again. His stomach knotted and he felt as if a shadow had passed over him. Perhaps the evening was colder than he had thought. The fire burned in the grate but its warmth did not reach him.

  He was sitting wondering if there was any purpose in asking one of the servants to fill the coal box so he could stoke the fire high, when a much larger thought occurred to him. Should he remain in this house at all? It was a home for two people at least. And he felt another strangely sharp stab inside him. Had he wanted children? Had he assumed that naturally, eventually, there would be?

  Thank God there had not been any. That loss would have been far more difficult to bear. Or perhaps Margaret would have stayed, for the child, and they would have lived in icy civility with each other. What death of all happiness!

  Or would Margaret have been different with a child? Would it at last have separated her from the previous generation and turned her fierce protectiveness toward her family of the present and future?

  Rathbone was still contemplating this when Ardmore came in and told him that Monk was in the hall.

  Rathbone was surprisingly pleased to hear that, in spite of the fact that it was after ten o’clock.

  “Send him in, Ardmore. And fetch the port, will you? I don’t think he’ll want brandy. Maybe a little cheese?”

  “Yes, Sir Oliver.” Ardmore went out with a half-concealed smile.

  Monk came in a moment later and closed the door. He looked tired and unusually grim. His hair was wet from the rain outside and, from the way he looked at the fire, he was cold.

  Rathbone felt his momentary happiness evaporate. He indicated the chair on the other side of the fireplace and sat down himself.

  “Something is wrong?” he asked.

  Monk eased himself into a comfortable position. “I arrested a woman today. She asked me to help her get a good lawyer to represent her. Specifically, she asked me to get you.”

  Rathbone’s interest was piqued. “If you arrested her then I assume you believe her guilty? Of what, exactly?”

  Monk’s face tightened. “Killing then eviscerating the woman whose corpse we found on Limehouse Pier a couple of weeks ago.”

  Rathbone froze. He stared at Monk to see if he could possibly be serious. Nothing in his face suggested levity of any sort. Rathbone sat up a little straighter, his hands laced in front of him. “I think you’d better tell me in rather more detail, and from the beginning, please.”

  Monk related the discovery of the body near the pier, describing it only briefly. Even though he had seen the headlines, Rathbone still found his stomach churning. He was glad when Ardmore brought in the port, and Monk too was happy to take a glass. The rich warmth of it was comforting, even if nothing could wipe the images of that morning out of his mind, the winter sunrise over the river and the hideous discovery of Zenia’s body.

  “You identified her?” he asked, watc
hing Monk’s face.

  “A small-time prostitute in her forties, with one client,” Monk replied. “It seems he kept her with sufficient generosity that she could survive on that money alone. She lived very quietly, very modestly, in Copenhagen Place, which is in Limehouse just beyond the Britannia Bridge.”

  “Sounds more like a mistress than a prostitute,” Rathbone commented. “Is it the wife you’ve arrested?” It seemed like the obvious conclusion.

  “Widow,” Monk corrected him.

  Rathbone was startled. “Did the dead woman kill the husband?”

  “Why on earth would she do that? His death left her destitute,” Monk pointed out.

  “A quarrel?” Rathbone suggested. “Someone giving her a better offer, but he wouldn’t let her go? Who knows? Did he die of natural causes?”

  “No. Suicide-apparently.”

  Rathbone leaned forward a little farther, more interested now. “Apparently? You doubt it? His wife killed him, do you think?”

  “No, she adored him, and now she is without means as well, except what he left. Not quite sure what that is yet, but probably not inconsiderable.” He stopped. “Actually it’s far more complicated than that. I have no idea what lay ahead for him. He had suffered a degree of professional disgrace. His prospects may not have been as good as before. On the other hand, he was determined to fight his way back, according to his wife.”

  Rathbone was intrigued. The story was full of passion, violence, and total inconsistency.

  “Monk, there’s something missing in this, something crucial that you are not telling me. Stop playacting and give me all of it,” he demanded.

  “The man was Dr. Joel Lambourn,” Monk replied.

  Rathbone was stunned. He knew the name. The man had been highly respected. More than once he had even been called as an expert witness in court regarding certain medical facts. Rathbone could picture him in his mind: grave, softly spoken, but with the kind of authority that would not be shaken by even the most stringent cross-examination.

  “The Joel Lambourn?” he said with a sudden and deep sadness.

  “I don’t think there are two,” Monk answered. “It is his wife, Dinah, who appears to have killed Zenia Gadney in revenge for her part in Lambourn’s suicide. Dinah is convinced that the research that was touted as a failure was actually totally correct, and that Lambourn was innocent of professional error. She also-” He stopped abruptly, his face tight with anxiety. “It would be better if you went to see her yourself rather than my telling you secondhand what she said, and its inconsistencies.”

  Rathbone sat back in his chair, turning the matter over in his mind, very aware of Monk watching him, and the urgency of his emotions.

  “Why are you so anxious about this, that you come to me at this time in the evening, rather than waiting to visit my chambers tomorrow?” he asked thoughtfully. “What is it that intrigues you so much? Is it pity for a widow who has been betrayed, bereaved, and now awaits trial and almost certainly the hangman? Is she handsome? Brave? And these are not idle questions, so give me the truth!”

  “Yes, she’s handsome,” Monk said with a wry smile. “But I suppose the truth is that I’m not sure she’s guilty. The evidence is strong against her, and so far we’ve found no one else at all to suspect, not even a suggestion. There’s no other crime on the records like it, solved or unsolved. Limehouse is certainly a rough area, but Zenia Gadney had lived there for years without coming to any harm.”

  “Years?”

  “Fifteen or sixteen at least.”

  “Supported by Joel Lambourn the entire time?” Rathbone said sharply. “That’s a lot of money going from his household to her. Did the wife know about this? I mean, clearly you think she did at the end, but when did she discover it?” Perhaps the case was not as commonplace, or as sordid, as it first appeared?

  “Her story’s inconsistent,” Monk answered. “At first she denied her husband’s affair, then said she knew of it, but not the woman’s name or where she lived.”

  Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “And she didn’t want to find out? A remarkably incurious woman! Most women would want, at the very least, to see the competition.”

  “It is hardly competition in the ordinary sense,” Monk told him. “Dinah Lambourn is, in her own way, beautiful. But what is far more attractive than that, she is unusual, full of character, emotion, and a remarkable dignity. Zenia Gadney was pleasant, but as ordinary as a boiled potato.”

  “Staple diet for most,” Rathbone observed drily. “Does the wife have children?”

  “Two daughters. At present still at home with the housekeeper.”

  Rathbone sighed. More victims of the tragedy. “I suppose I can go and speak to this woman, see what her account is. What does she say?”

  Monk bit his lip. “I think I’ll leave her to tell you that.”

  “So bad?” Rathbone asked.

  “Worse.” Monk drank the last of his port. “Worse as to what she thinks happened to Lambourn, and who killed Zenia Gadney and why. But at least listen to her, Oliver. Make your own judgments. Don’t go on mine.”

  Rathbone stood up also. “I would welcome a challenge, as long as it’s not absurd.”

  “It might be absurd,” Monk answered him. “It certainly might be.”

  The next morning was cold. Winter was closing in.

  Rathbone heard the prison door clang shut, steel on stone, and looked at the woman who stood alone in the cell in front of him. There was a table in the center of the floor with a chair on either side; apart from that, nothing at all.

  “I am Oliver Rathbone,” he said. “Mr. Monk said you would like to see me.” He looked at her with curiosity. Monk had said she was handsome, but that hardly conveyed the degree of individuality in her face or her bearing. She was tall, within an inch or two of Rathbone’s own height, and the way she carried herself, even here in this wretched place, gave her a dignity that was remarkable, as Monk had claimed. She was not truly beautiful in a classical sense-maybe there was too much character in her face, the mouth too generous-but there was charm, a power, even a rare kind of balance that was unusually pleasing.

  “Dinah Lambourn,” she replied. “Thank you for coming so soon. I am afraid I am in very deep trouble and I need someone to speak for me.”

  He gestured for her to be seated, and when she was, he sat in the hard-backed wooden chair opposite her.

  “Monk told me some of what has happened,” he began. “Before I look further into it myself, or hear what the police have to say, I would like you to tell me yourself. I have heard your husband’s name, and know his reputation for professional skill. I even heard him testify once, and could not shake him.” He smiled very slightly to assure her that the memory was a pleasant one. “You do not need to fill in that background for me. Begin with what you know of Zenia Gadney, and how you learned it, and perhaps also with the last few weeks of your husband’s life, as you think it may be relevant.”

  She nodded slowly, as if absorbing the information and deciding how to tell her story. “It is very relevant,” she said in a low voice. “In fact it is the heart of all this. The government is planning to pass an act to regulate the labeling and the sale of opium, which is presently available just about anywhere. You can buy it at dozens of small shops on any high street. It is in scores of patent medicines, in whatever amount the manufacturer cares to use. There is no label on it to tell the user the strength, what it is mixed with, or what would be an appropriate dose, or a dangerous one.” She stopped, searching his face to make certain he was following her.

  “Your husband’s part in this?” he prompted.

  “Gathering research to make sure the bill passes. There is very heavy opposition to it, backed by those who make a fortune from selling opium as it is presently permitted,” she replied.

  “I see. Please go on.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Joel worked very hard indeed to gather facts and figures, to verify them by checking and recheck
ing, visiting individual people and hearing stories. The more he learned, the worse the picture seemed to be. He came home almost in tears sometimes, having heard stories of babies dying. He was not a sentimental man, but so many unnecessary deaths distressed him profoundly.” Her face reflected her grief of the memory. “None of it was malice; it was all complete ignorance of what they were using. Just ordinary people: frightened, hurting, perhaps exhausted and at their wits’ end, desperate for anything to ease the pain-their own, or that of someone they loved.”

  Rathbone began to see the outline of something far larger than he had imagined, and he suddenly felt absurdly privileged by his own physical well-being.

  “Dr. Lambourn presented a report to the government?” he deduced. It was obvious, apart from what Monk had told him, but he must be careful not to leap to conclusions, or to put words in her mouth.

  “Yes. And they rejected it.” Clearly she still found it difficult to acknowledge. Monk had been right in his estimate of her loyalty to her husband.

  “On what grounds?”

  “They said incompetence, extreme bias toward his own opinions.” Her voice caught and she had trouble repeating the words. “They refused to accept his facts. He said it was because his facts disagreed with their financial interests.”

  “The financial interests of those in the government?” he clarified. He could see that she believed absolutely what she was saying, but it did sound as if it could well have been bias.

  She heard the inflection in his voice. Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “The interests of the government commission, of which Sinden Bawtry is the head and my brother-in-law, Barclay Herne, is a member.” Now her bitterness was undisguised. “There is a strong faction in the government who believe that the bill would make opium inaccessible to much of the poorer part of the general public, and as such be highly discriminatory. And of course to measure and label accurately would cost a lot. It would reduce profit on each bottle or packet sold. Fortunes rest on that. All part of the legacy of the Opium Wars.”