by Anne Perry
It was at that moment that he made up his mind to go and see Amity Herne, and somehow gain from her a stronger understanding of Lambourn, and his complicated relationships. He might learn things he did not want to, but it was too late now to balk at any truth, if it proved Dinah’s guilt. There was no time left to flatter his own wishes.
SUNDAY LUNCHEON WAS A most unseemly time to call upon anyone, especially uninvited, but circumstances left no choice. Moreover, Rathbone admitted to himself, he really did not care how inconvenienced or offended Amity and her husband might be.
He dressed with conservative elegance, as if he had just come from church, although he had not. This morning he would have found the ritual assurance of it, and the rather pompous certainty of the minister, anything but soothing. He needed to think, to plan, to face the ugliest and worst of possibilities.
At half-past twelve he was on Barclay Herne’s doorstep. A few moments later, the butler somewhat reluctantly showed him into the morning room and asked him to wait while he informed his master that Sir Oliver Rathbone had called.
Actually it was Amity Herne that Rathbone wished to see, but he would take the opportunity to speak with both of them. If it could be arranged, he would like to observe their reaction to each other. He had wondered if it was possible Amity was being influenced by Barclay and by his ambition, to distance herself from Lambourn. Rathbone was perfectly willing to put every emotional pressure on her that he could in order to learn anything that would change the jury’s perception of Dinah, even long enough to stretch out the trial beyond Christmas and give Monk a chance to find something more.
As the thoughts went through his head, he moved restlessly in the rather pretentious morning room. Its shelves held matching leather-bound books and there was a large, flattering painting over the fireplace of Amity, about twenty years younger, with blemishless face and shoulders.
The door opened and Barclay Herne came in, closing it behind him. He was quite casually dressed, in a loose cravat rather than a more formal tie, and a smoking jacket mismatched with his trousers. He looked puzzled and ill at ease.
“Good afternoon, Sir Oliver. Has something happened to Dinah? I hope she has not collapsed?” It was definitely a question and he searched Rathbone’s face anxiously for the answer.
“No,” Rathbone assured him. “As far as I know, her health is still at least moderate. But I am afraid I cannot offer much hope that it will remain so.”
Herne flinched. “I don’t know what to do for her,” he said helplessly.
Rathbone felt uncomfortable, aware that he was embarrassing both of them, possibly to no purpose. He plunged on. “I feel that there is something vital that I don’t understand. I would appreciate it very much if I am allowed to speak to you and Mrs. Herne frankly. I am aware that it is Sunday afternoon, and you may well have other plans, especially this close to Christmas. However, this is the final opportunity for me to find any cause whatever to raise reasonable doubt as to Mrs. Lambourn’s guilt, or even to ask for mercy.”
The last vestige of color drained from Herne’s face, leaving him pasty, a fine beading of sweat on his brow. “Perhaps if you would come through to the withdrawing room … We have not yet eaten. You may care to join us.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” Rathbone apologized, following Herne out of the door and across the handsome hallway into the withdrawing room. This was lush with burgundy velvet curtains and rich, dark wine-colored furniture with carved mahogany feet. The low, matching tables had shining surfaces, and were as immaculate as if they were never used.
Amity Herne was sitting in one of the chairs by the side of the fire, which was already burning vividly, even this early in the afternoon. Beyond the windows, the winter sun lit a small garden. All the perennial plants had been clipped back and the fresh, black earth weeded and raked.
She did not rise to her feet. “Good afternoon, Sir Oliver.” She was surprised to see him, and clearly not pleased. She glanced at her husband and read his expression, then looked back at Rathbone.
Herne answered her implicit question.
“Sir Oliver would like to speak with us to see if there is anything we can tell him that might help Dinah,” he explained.
Amity looked at Rathbone. Her hazel eyes were cool, guarded. She must dislike everything he had reminded her of on this quiet Sunday when perhaps she had hoped for a day’s respite from the inevitable.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “Were it possible to choose a better time, I would.” She had not invited him to sit down, but he preempted her and did anyway, choosing the chair diagonally across from her. Deliberately he made himself comfortable, indicating his intention to stay. He saw from the slight change in her expression that she understood.
“I don’t know what you think I can tell you that would be of any assistance whatever,” she said a little coolly. “Isn’t it a trifle late now?” It was a brutal question, but honest.
“It is,” he agreed. “But I have a strong feeling that there is something of importance that I don’t know, and any defense may rest upon it.”
“What defense can there be for killing a woman … like that?” Herne interrupted, walking past Rathbone to sit in the chair on the other side of the fireplace, opposite his wife. “There can be no cause on earth to justify doing that to someone. She … she cut her open, Sir Oliver. She did not merely fight with her and hit her too hard. That, one might understand, but not this … atrocity.” He breathed in quickly, as if to change his choice of word, mumbling something unintelligible.
“You do not need to explain yourself, Barclay,” Amity said quickly. “Zenia Gadney may have been a woman of loose morals, and an embarrassment to the family, but she did not deserve to be gutted like a fish.”
Again Herne opened his mouth to protest; then again he fell silent instead.
“Of course you are perfectly right,” Rathbone agreed. “There doesn’t seem to be anything that would make sense of such complete barbarity. You say, and Dinah has admitted it, that she was always aware of Zenia Gadney’s existence, of her relationship to Dr. Lambourn, and that he had supported her for over fifteen years. Indeed, the money came out of the housekeeping account and was noted in the household ledger, on the twenty-first day of every month. Dinah says that she admired Dr. Lambourn for caring for Mrs. Gadney in that way, and when the will was probated she intended to continue doing so.”
Amity’s eyes widened. “And you believe her? Sir Oliver, perhaps there is something you are unaware of. I would not mention it, even now—I find it distasteful, a discredit to my brother, and it is something I would much rather remain a family secret. But in light of what you just said, I feel it is my responsibility to tell you. Zenia Gadney, or should I say Zenia Lambourn, was my brother’s widow, legally. She was entitled to his entire estate, not a few pounds every month, bestowed on her at the discretion of a woman who was actually no more than his mistress.”
Rathbone stared at Amity. “So you do know the truth, then,” he said grimly.
She met his gaze unflinchingly. She showed no sign of being embarrassed by her lie, or surprised that Rathbone knew her brother’s secret. “I do. But I saw no reason to make that truth publicly known, for Dinah’s sake. Can you imagine how she would look in the jury’s eyes when they find out that she was nothing more than Joel’s mistress, mother of two illegitimate children? It is better for the world to see poor Zenia as the other woman. But I imagine if you have discovered the fact that Joel and Zenia were married, Coniston will be able to as well.”
“Amity …,” Herne protested.
She ignored him. “If Coniston brings the facts to light, you would have difficulty in presenting your theory to a jury in a sympathetic light, Sir Oliver. Killing for money, even to feed your children, is not justified. Most particularly with that insane degree of savagery. If I were Mr. Coniston, I would suggest to them that Joel had begun to grow tired of Dinah, and was considering asking Zenia to return to him, a
s his lawful wife, and that was what threw Dinah into such a frenzy of hatred.”
“For God’s sake, Amity!” Herne burst out. “Do you need to—”
“Please do not blaspheme, Barclay,” she said quietly. “Especially on the Sabbath, and in front of our guest. I am not advocating such a course, only warning Sir Oliver what may happen in the prosecutor’s summing up of the case. Surely it is better he be prepared for it?”
Rathbone felt the coldness increase inside him. He hated what she had said, and the calm, intelligent way in which she had framed it, but it was true. In Coniston’s place he might do the same.
“I had not considered such a thing,” he admitted aloud. “But of course you are right. While I do not believe what you suggest, neither can I offer any proof that it is untrue.”
“I’m sorry. I wish we could help you,” Amity said more gently. “But in the end only the truth will serve.”
Barclay leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Was he more deeply distressed than his wife? Or was he simply more overtly emotional? Lambourn had been Amity’s brother. Perhaps there was an element in her that could not forgive Dinah for the grief she had caused him.
“Did you know Zenia well?” Rathbone asked, looking at Amity. “I mean before whatever it was that caused her addiction, and her separation from Dr. Lambourn.”
A look of confusion crossed Amity’s face. Clearly she had not anticipated the question. She hesitated, searching for the right answer.
“No,” Herne put in for her. “We were not living in the same area then, and at that time my wife was not well enough to travel. Joel told us that Zenia was quiet, gentle, a very decent woman but somewhat ordinary.”
Amity turned to Rathbone, irritation marking two tiny lines between her fine brows. “What my husband means is that she was not eccentric, and she did not draw attention to herself.”
Unlike Dinah, Rathbone thought, but he did not say so. Against his will, he thought of Margaret, and then of Hester. There had been a time when he had found Margaret’s quiet dignity, her grace and composure, to be beautiful, and exactly what he most wished in a woman, particularly in a wife. The passion and energy of Hester had been too exhausting, far too unpredictable. But perhaps he had been in love with Hester in a way he never was with Margaret?
Then why had he not pursued Hester, before she married Monk? Had that been out of wisdom, knowing better than to imagine she would bring him happiness? Or had he just been a coward? Had Joel Lambourn left Zenia out of boredom, captured by the color and vitality of Dinah, and her obvious love for him? And had he grown to regret that?
Would Rathbone have grown tired of Hester? Would her fire and intelligence have demanded of him more than he was willing to give, perhaps more passion than he possessed?
He did not need to think about it. Monk had loved Hester when they were married—probably long before. Rathbone knew, merely by watching Monk’s face, that he loved her far more deeply now. Time, experiences—good and bad—had hollowed out a larger vessel of both of them, able to hold a more profound emotion. If he himself were worth anything at all, it would have done so of him as well.
He looked at Amity. “Did Dr. Lambourn confide his feelings to you, Mrs. Herne? I appreciate your sensitivity in protecting his privacy, especially since he is no longer able to do so himself, but I am in great need of understanding the truth.”
Herne lifted his eyes to watch Amity, waiting for her answer.
Amity seemed to be struggling with herself.
“I can judge only by his actions,” she said at last. “He visited Zenia more and more often, possibly more frequently than he allowed Dinah to know. Perhaps she found that out. Joel was a very quiet man. He hated emotional scenes, as I believe most men do. Some women use them as a weapon—implicitly, of course, not openly. Dinah had a tendency to dramatize. She was self-centered and demanding. Some beautiful women are very spoiled, and never learn that good looks are as much a burden as a gift. One can come to rely upon them.”
“And Zenia was … ordinary,” Rathbone put in softly.
Amity smiled. “Very. She was not plain, just—how can I say it without being cruel?—she was dull. But she was gentle and unselfish. Perhaps that is a different kind of beauty, one that improves with time, whereas superb coloring and fine features can do the opposite. Constant drama can become very wearing, after a while. One longs for an ordinariness, honesty without effort.”
Herne was staring at her, his face creased in distress. However, there was nothing in his expression to indicate what it was that hurt him.
“I see.” Rathbone heard his own voice sounding flat. “This would be before he became so distressed over the rejection of his report on the use of opium, and his recommendation for control of its sales?”
“We have already covered that,” Herne interrupted sharply. “The report was full of anecdotes, which was totally inappropriate. Joel allowed himself to become sentimentally involved with the tragedies of the issue, which is understandable; it would be inhuman not to pity a woman who has quite accidentally killed her own child.” He winced, and his emotion showed naked in his face. He drew his breath in with a gasp and continued hoarsely, “But such feelings have no place in a scientific study. I tried to explain that to him, to point out that the whole thing should be reduced to facts and figures, material details that could be measured, so we might calmly take the necessary measures to reduce the risks, without at the same time being overrestrictive and denying legitimate use of medicines. But he was … hysterical about it. He refused to listen.” He looked across at Amity, as if for her confirmation of what he said.
She gave it immediately, turning to Rathbone. “Joel was completely unreasonable. He seemed to have lost his balance. I respected him for his compassion for those who suffer, of course—we all do—but to allow yourself to become emotionally overwrought is of no help to the cause. We both tried …” She looked at Herne, who nodded quickly. “But we could not persuade him to take the hearsay out of his paper and keep it strictly to the numbers. He should have provided in each case the proper details and dates of all his witnesses, and of course the places where they lived, and the records of the products used, and such doctors’ or coroners’ reports as were reliable.”
Rathbone was surprised. What he had heard from others of Lambourn’s professional conduct was very different.
“I see,” he said grimly. “No court of law would accept only anecdotal evidence. I can quite see why Parliament would not, either. Do you think his health was affected by this time?” He asked this of Amity.
She weighed her answer for several moments. In the silence Rathbone could hear footsteps across the hall, and then voices.
Amity froze, upright and absolutely motionless in her seat.
Herne rose very slowly to his feet, his face stiff with apprehension. He turned to Rathbone.
“Mr. Bawtry is joining us for luncheon,” he said a little breathlessly. “He said he would if he was able. I’m sorry. I appreciate that this is a family matter, but he is my superior, and I cannot refuse him.”
Rathbone made a small, gracious gesture to dismiss the matter. “Of course not. And we have already discussed the more personal side of the subject. Should there be anything more that concerns the report, or Dr. Lambourn’s reactions to its rejection, Mr. Bawtry will be as much involved with it as you are. I shall be as brief as I can.”
He looked at Amity, expecting to see ice in her eyes, and saw instead a vitality that completely took him aback. Then she blinked and stood up, turning toward the door as the footman opened it. An instant later Sinden Bawtry came in. Clearly he had been warned of Rathbone’s presence. He came forward, smiling at Amity, then held out his hand to Rathbone.
“Good afternoon, Sir Oliver. Very agreeable to see you, but I imagine you are here to gain any last-minute knowledge you can in order to get this very wretched trial over with as decently as is possible, and if we may, before C
hristmas.”
Rathbone took his hand, which was firm and cool, his grip powerful but without any attempt to crush. He had no need to. This was not his house, but he dominated the room as naturally as if he had been the host and the other three of them friends.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Herne said with a rising note of desperation. “We’ve already explained that poor Joel was rather losing his grip, overemotional, and all that. Couldn’t accept the report. Not professional.”
Amity shot a glance of irritation at him but was prevented from saying anything by Bawtry’s intervention.
“I think the least said about poor Joel the better,” he observed, smiling at Rathbone. “It would be most unfortunate for your case to be trying to justify the murder of that woman by suggesting there was some kind of cause for it. Frankly the only hope I can see for Mrs. Lambourn is to raise some reasonable doubt that Mrs. Gadney was desperate for money and tried her somewhat unpracticed hand at prostitution.”
He smiled bleakly, almost as an apology. “You could do it easily enough without soiling her name too badly. For heaven’s sake don’t suggest she deserved it, only that she was unlucky enough not to be able to defend herself because she was alone at the time of the attack. If she screamed, no one heard her. A woman who was accustomed to life in the streets might have been careful enough not to frequent such a place without a … whatever they are called … a pimp.”
Herne looked wretched. “She was once a decent woman!” he protested.
“So was Dinah!” Amity said sharply. “For heaven’s sake, Barclay, let us have it over with. There is only one way it can end. We are deluding no one by making all this pretense that it was some kind of mischance, and nothing to do with Dinah’s jealousy or her desperation to make sure that she inherited Joel’s money. The fairy story that he didn’t take his own life but was killed by some mysterious conspiracy in Greenwich Park is absurd. No one believes it.” She turned to Rathbone. “If you have any—”