by Anne Perry
Rathbone remembered Dinah’s face, and her words denying the possibility of Zenia having misjudged Joel Lambourn’s nature. He frowned, setting down his spoon for a moment. “Dinah said that Joel and Zenia had known each other for fifteen years.”
Monk looked up sharply. “How the devil did she know that?”
“I’m wondering myself.” Rathbone was feeling more and more uncomfortable. He had never been confident in his judgment of women, and even less so since Margaret. Had he made a complete fool of himself in taking this case?
Hester touched him very lightly on the shoulder. “She’s likely to lie, or at least evade, regarding her husband’s affair with this woman,” she observed. “She must feel like a complete fool. She’ll try to find a way to explain it to herself, and not admit she was duped. I think anyone would, in her place.”
“Do you believe her?” Rathbone asked, turning a little to look at her as she walked around behind him.
“I believe her regarding Lambourn’s research,” she replied, sitting down in the third chair at the table. “I spoke to an excellent doctor I know, and he agreed with it entirely. He said the number of deaths among children is appalling, and could very easily be mitigated with a degree of control and more information made available to the public.”
“So Lambourn was essentially right in fact, even if his evidence was anecdotal?” Rathbone said.
“Yes. But I expect the anecdotes would only be added to give emotional power. He would have to have provided figures as well,” she answered.
Rathbone turned to Monk again. “Exactly what concrete evidence is there on his suicide? Mrs. Lambourn is claiming that it was murder. Is that possible?”
Monk frowned. “I don’t know. They say he was found on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park with his wrists cut, and there was a considerable amount of opium in his body. I asked if there was a container of any sort found on his person, or near him, for liquid to swallow powder, or to dissolve it, or whatever form the opium was in. I got no answer, but I didn’t speak to the person who found him. Frankly, I thought Mrs. Lambourn was simply refusing to believe it was suicide because it was too painful for her.”
“That may be the case,” Rathbone agreed. “But we need to know for certain.”
Monk smiled. “We?”
Rathbone felt suddenly uncomfortably alone again. “You think she’s guilty?”
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “I suppose I think she seems to be, and I wish very much that I were wrong. I accept ’we.’ ”
“Have you the authority to look into it?” That was Rathbone’s real concern. He could attempt to do that legwork himself, in his standing as Dinah’s lawyer, but he knew Monk’s skills were far superior to his, both in seeking evidence and in knowing exactly what to look for and how to interpret it.
Monk debated within himself before replying. “I doubt it, but I can try. It’s not my territory and, as far as I can see, it has no connection with the river. It’s already been ruled a suicide, so it is not an unsolved crime. In fact it’s hardly a crime at all, except in the eyes of the Church, and even that leaves some latitude, depending on the sanity of the person concerned.”
“Opium?” Hester suggested.
They both looked at her.
“Well, a lot of opium comes in through the Port of London, a great deal of which ends up in Limehouse,” she pointed out. “You could say that his report is of concern to you, particularly its reliability.” She grimaced very slightly. “You could stretch the facts a little, and say that you heard he had information that would be of great use to you regarding smuggling?” She made it a question. “Couldn’t you? It’s probably true.”
Monk smiled at Hester, amusement bright in his eyes. “I could,” he agreed. “In fact I will. All in the interest of catching smugglers on the river, of course.” He looked back at Rathbone again. “The evidence of suicide was noticeably missing when I asked before. And nobody seems to be able to account for his report. It’s been condemned, but never shown.”
“What about Lambourn and Zenia Gadney?” Rathbone continued, feeling that at last there was something he could work with. “Why did he go to her in the first place? It’s all rather sordid, but her death itself is extremely violent. It suggests a hatred of an acutely personal nature, a sexual hatred. How hard have you looked for a lunatic who hates women in general, or prostitutes in particular?”
“Very hard,” Monk replied. “And Orme is an extremely good man. There’s been no crime at all that’s comparable. The last prostitute murder we had was strangulation, and before that a beating that went too far. It was over money, and we got him. There was one knifing, but it was a single stab wound that was closer to the heart than the killer intended. It was her pimp and we got him, too.”
Rathbone pursed his lips. “In your experience, have you ever seen a crime of this specific brutality toward a woman committed by another woman?”
“A few slashings by rival prostitutes,” Monk answered. “They can be pretty vicious, but no, not one that cut open the stomach and hauled out the intestines and the womb. It’s hard to imagine one woman doing that to another. That’s partly why the outrage against Dinah is going to be so intense. Honestly, I have no idea how you’re going to defend her. The public wants to see someone hanged. Have you looked at the newspapers?”
Rathbone winced. “Of course I have. You can hardly miss the headlines, even if you wish to. Doesn’t that make it all the more important that we should be absolutely certain we have the right person?”
“Come on!” Monk said wearily. “You know as well as I do that most people don’t think like that. They’d say of course they want the right person, but they already believe they have her, and to question that only makes them more defensive. For them to admit that she might not be the perpetrator means they have prosecuted an innocent victim, the police are incompetent, and worst of all, the guilty party is still out there and they are all still in danger. Nobody wants to hear all that.”
Rathbone could not argue. He changed the subject. “I also need to know everything I can about Dinah Lambourn, so the prosecution doesn’t spring any ugly surprises on me in court. If she is guilty, then it means she has a temper that’s close to insanity. This can’t be the first time she’s shown at least signs of it. I’ll find out what I can, but I need help.”
Hester looked at him, puzzled and concerned. “And if she is guilty, Oliver, do you want to save her? That would mean she didn’t just kill Zenia Gadney; she mutilated her in an obscene way. That’s not excusable. There could be no provocation that would justify her actions.”
“Hester-”
She overrode him. “And if she gets away with it, what will happen to the next person who crosses her? Added to that, if she is judged to be innocent, then the police will continue to look for someone else, someone who doesn’t exist. The people of Limehouse will walk in fear, suspecting each other, because they think the murderer was never caught.”
“You think she did it?” he asked bluntly.
“I have no idea,” she answered. “But you need to decide now what you are going to do if you find she did.”
He had not considered it. He had come to Paradise Place in the heat of emotion, ready for an almost impossible crusade. In part because it would absorb his mind and energy so he would, for a while, be oblivious to his own pain.
He turned to Monk. “Hester is right. I have to be sure. Will you help me?”
“You want me to help prove the innocence of the woman I’ve just arrested for one of the most brutal murders I’ve ever investigated?” Monk said softly.
“Are you certain she’s guilty?” Rathbone asked.
“No. You know I’m not certain. But there’s no other reasonable suspect.”
“Then I just want you to help me find the truth, so we can be certain, one way or the other,” Rathbone told him. He looked at Hester.
“William?” Hester in turn looked at Monk.
Monk shr
ugged, and conceded. “Yes, of course I will. I have to.”
CHAPTER 11
When Rathbone had left, Hester and Monk sat opposite each other across the table in the familiar, comfortable kitchen.
“What are you going to do to help him? What is there you can find?” Hester said it as an affirmation rather than a question.
“I don’t know,” Monk said. “I’ve already exhausted just about every inquiry I can. There’s no other crime like it, no enmities that were more than a mere squabble in the grocery shop, or a difference of opinion on the weather. The poor woman didn’t seem to have any relationships except with Lambourn. I can’t even find what she did with her time, except the odd kindnesses for other people, small sewing jobs and the like. She read books, newspapers …”
“Could she have known something about someone, by accident?” Hester suggested. “Overheard something?”
“She could.” He wanted to be able to agree, to offer some hope that was honest. “But there’s nothing whatever to suggest it. She was almost an invisible woman. And even if she did know something, it could hardly account for the mutilation.”
“No family?” she persisted, desperation creeping into her voice. There was a stray wisp of hair falling across her forehead, but she did not seem to be aware of it.
“No one knows of any,” he replied. “We have looked.”
“But you will keep on trying?” she urged.
“For Dinah Lambourn, or for Rathbone?” he asked with a slight smile.
She shrugged almost imperceptibly, her eyes suddenly soft. “Partly just for the truth, but mostly for Oliver,” she admitted.
“Hester …” He reached over and smoothed the wisp of hair back. “I can’t do very much. Lambourn’s suicide really isn’t part of my responsibility. I can ask a few questions, but I can’t justify spending much time on it. They’ll tell me Lambourn’s report was destroyed, and I can’t prove it wasn’t. They might even say Lambourn destroyed it himself, because he knew it was flawed. They don’t have to prove it’s true.”
“It’s a long time since you had a holiday.” She looked very directly at him. “You could take one now. I’ll help. I’ve already asked Dr. Winfarthing to see what sort of information he can find, just to compare it with what Joel Lambourn said.”
A chill of fear ran through him like a cold hand on his skin. “Hester, if anyone really did kill Lambourn for that report, then you could have put Winfarthing at risk, too!”
“I warned him,” she said quickly, a very slight flush in her cheeks. “So you think there really is a danger, then?”
She had maneuvered him into admitting it not only to her, but possibly more important, to himself. Perhaps that was what she had intended.
“There might be,” he conceded. “If what Dinah says about the report is correct, then there are very large amounts of money involved, and perhaps reputations as well. But that doesn’t mean Lambourn was murdered, or that Dinah is innocent.”
“I’ll help you,” she said again.
Monk was happy to yield to her, at least for now. There was something in Dinah’s courage that moved him, in spite of the fact that logic told him she was guilty. Certainly he was unsatisfied with the idea that Lambourn’s suicide was caused by his sense of despair over the rejection of his report. His career until then, and the way his colleagues had spoken of him, said that he was made of stronger material than that.
And he felt sufficiently conscious of his own happiness to want very much indeed to do anything he could to distract Rathbone from the bitterness of his current disillusions.
He checked in at the police station at Wapping first, and then went to the records department of the Metropolitan Police to learn who had been in charge of the investigation into the death of Joel Lambourn. He already knew that because of Lambourn’s importance, the case had not been restricted to the local police in Greenwich.
He was startled to find that it had been Superintendent Runcorn, who at the beginning of his career had been Monk’s friend and partner, later his rival, and later still his superior. It was a matter of opinion as to whether Runcorn had dismissed Monk from the force first, or Monk had given his resignation. Either way, it had been a heated and unpleasant exchange. They had parted anything but friends. Monk had spent the next few years as an agent of inquiry available for private hire. It had given him a great deal of freedom as to which cases to take and which to refuse, at least in theory. In practice it had been very hard work, and financially precarious.
During that time he and Runcorn had crossed paths on a few occasions. Surprisingly, they had each gained a better respect for the other. Later Monk had realized that his own manner had been unnecessarily aggressive, often intolerant. Being in command of men in the River Police had taught him how damaging to a force even one obstructive subordinate can be. It had profoundly changed his view of Runcorn.
When Monk had no longer been his junior in rank, but still constantly a step in front of him in reasoning, Runcorn had developed an appreciation of his skill, and a surprising respect for his courage and the handicap that his amnesia had once been.
Monk had never regained his memory of the majority of his life before the accident. There were occasional flashes, but no complete pictures. The separate pieces did not join up into a whole. Now it no longer haunted him. He did not fear strangers as he once had, always aware that they could know him, and he had no idea whether they were friends or enemies.
Facing Runcorn again was in some ways more awkward than dealing with someone who did not know him, but at least no explanations would be necessary. For all the enmity they had had over the years, they were past the times of misjudgment.
Monk went to the Blackheath Police Station, where Runcorn was superintendent, and gave his name and rank to the sergeant at the desk.
“The matter is very grave,” he told the man. “It concerns a death in the recent past about which I have further information. Superintendent Runcorn should know immediately.”
Monk was taken up to Runcorn’s office within ten minutes. He went in and was not surprised to see how tidy it was. Runcorn had always been neat to the point of obsession, quite unlike Monk. Now there were even more books than before, but there were also very pleasant pictures on the walls, pastoral landscapes that gave an instant feeling of ease. That was new; quite out of character for the man he had known. There was a vase on a space on one of the shelves, a blue and white painted thing of great delicacy. It might not have been worth much in a monetary sense, but it was lovely, its shape the simplest of curves.
Runcorn himself stood up and came forward, offering his hand. He was a big man, tall and thickening in the middle as he grew older. He seemed grayer than Monk remembered him, but there was none of the inner anger that used to mar his expression. He was smiling. He took Monk’s hand briefly.
“Sit down,” he invited, indicating the chair opposite the desk. “Culpepper said something about information on a recent death?”
Monk had been preparing himself for a completely different reception-in a sense, almost a different man. He was caught off balance. But if he hesitated now it would put him at a disadvantage-something he could not afford with Runcorn-and it would also make him appear less than honest.
“I’ve been working on a particularly brutal murder, a woman whose body was found on Limehouse Pier nearly a fortnight ago,” he began, accepting the proffered seat.
Runcorn’s expression changed instantly into one of revulsion and something that looked like genuine distress.
Again Monk was surprised. He had rarely seen such sensitivity in Runcorn in the past. Only once did he recall a sudden wave of pity, at a graveside. Perhaps that was the moment he had felt the first real warmth toward Runcorn, an appreciation for the man beneath the maneuvering and the aggression.
“Thought you’d arrested someone for that,” Runcorn said quietly.
“I have. Newspapers haven’t got hold of it yet, but it can’t be long.”<
br />
Runcorn was puzzled. “What has that to do with me?”
Monk took a deep breath. “Dinah Lambourn.”
“What?” Runcorn shook his head in denial, as if he believed it could not be possible.
“Dinah Lambourn,” Monk repeated.
“What about her?” Runcorn still did not understand.
“All the evidence says that it was she who murdered the woman by the river. Her name was Zenia Gadney.”
Runcorn was stunned. “That’s ridiculous. How would Dr. Lambourn’s widow even know a middle-aged prostitute in Limehouse, still less care about her?” He was not angry, just incredulous.
Monk felt conscious of the absurdity as he answered. “Joel Lambourn was having an affair with Zenia Gadney, over the last fifteen years or so,” he explained. “He visited her at least once a month and gave her money. He was her sole support.”
“I don’t believe it,” Runcorn said simply. “But if he was, then when he died, she would be left with nothing. She probably went out on the streets again and ran into a bloody lunatic. Isn’t that the obvious answer?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Except that we can’t find any trace of a lunatic. A man who would kill like that doesn’t commit just one crime with nothing before or after it. You know that as well as I do. He strikes with a few random acts of violence, which get worse as he gets away with it and his insanity increases.”
“Someone just passing through?” Runcorn suggested. “A sailor. You can’t find him because he doesn’t belong there. His earlier crimes happened somewhere else.”
“I wish that were the answer.” Monk meant it. “This was terribly personal, Runcorn. I saw the body. A man insane enough to do that leaves traces. Other people up and down the river would have heard of him. Even a foreign sailor would have been seen by someone. Don’t you think we’ve looked for that?”