by Anne Perry
He leaned forward over the railing as if peering into the jury’s faces.
“But what you really don’t want, my friends, is to live it! Or your children to live it … or, if you claim to be God-fearing men, any fellow human being on the face of this fair earth.”
He ignored Pendock, who seemed about to speak, and Coniston now standing, ready to interrupt.
“I know! I know.” Winfarthing would not be stopped. “Not relevant to the death of this wretched woman in Limehouse—Gadney, or whatever her name was, poor creature.” He leaned forward over the railing, peering at Rathbone. “But maybe it was, you see? Uncomfortable to talk about it. Makes us face the fact that we are responsible. My God, if you’re man enough to allow it, for the love of heaven, be man enough to stand up and look at what it is!” His voice had risen until the volume of it, and the outrage in it, filled the room.
“We brought opium into this country. We take the money for its sale. We use it to ease our own pain when we are injured. We drink it to stop our coughs, our bellyaches, and our sleeplessness. Thank God for it—used wisely.”
His voice sank to a growl. “But that does not give us the right to turn away from the misuse, the horrific knowledge of what it is like for those whose ignorance allows them to stumble into the living death of addiction. They’re drowning in it! A great ocean of gray, endless half-life.
“And those who sell it to them, put this magic needle into their hands, peddle hell for a profit, are not breaking any laws! Then is it not our duty before God and man to change those laws so that it is?”
No one moved in the gallery. The jurors stared at him, ashen-faced.
Coniston looked wretched. He gazed at Pendock, then at the jury, then finally at Rathbone, but he did not say anything.
Rathbone cleared his throat. “Did you tell Dr. Lambourn the horror of addiction through taking opium by needle, Dr. Winfarthing?”
“Goddamnit, man!” Winfarthing roared. “What the devil do you think I’ve been telling you?”
Pendock suddenly jumped into life, shouting, “Order!”
Winfarthing swiveled around and glowered at him. “What now?” he demanded. “My lord,” he added with just a whisper of sarcasm.
“I will not have blasphemy in my court, Dr.… Winfarthing.” He affected to forget his name and find it only with an effort. “If you repeat that offense I shall hold you in contempt.”
A look of incredulity filled Winfarthing’s face. Quite clearly a suitable retort came to his mind, and with an equally clear effort he restrained himself from giving it.
“I apologize to the Almighty,” he said without a shred of humility. “Although I am certain He knows in what sense I call on His name.” He looked again at Rathbone. “To answer your question, sir. I told Dr. Lambourn about the sale of opium fit to let into the blood, and the use to which these needles are put. Which is that a man—or woman, for that matter—may enter into their own private hell after only a few days on the poison, and be captive for ever afterward until death releases them to whatever damnation eternity offers—please God—to the seller of this nightmare and to those of us who deliberately choose not to distress ourselves with knowledge of it!”
Coniston was on his feet, his voice sharp and high above the hubbub in the room. “My lord! I must speak with you in chambers. It is of the utmost importance.”
“Order!” Pendock roared. “I will have order in my court!”
Very gradually the uproar subsided. People shifted uncomfortably, angry, frightened, wanting someone to tell them that it was not true.
Pendock was furious, his face purple.
“Sir Oliver, Mr. Coniston, I will see you in my chambers immediately. The court is adjourned.” He rose to his feet and strode out, his scarlet robe swirling wide, as if he were oblivious of what he brushed past or knocked into on the way.
Feeling a little sick, Rathbone followed Coniston and the court usher out of the side entrance and across the hall. As soon as the usher had knocked and received permission, they went into Pendock’s chambers.
The door closed behind them. They both stood before Pendock, who barely glanced at Rathbone before looking up at Coniston.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Coniston?” he demanded. “If you are going to tell me that this man Winfarthing is outrageous, I am acutely aware of it. And if Sir Oliver cannot keep him in some kind of control then I shall hold him in contempt, and that will be the end of his evidence. So far it seems to me to be inflammatory, unproven, and irrelevant to this case.”
Rathbone drew in his breath to defend Winfarthing on all counts, but before he could speak, Coniston cut across him.
“My lord, all you say is perfectly true, and I imagine that the jury can see it as the last ploy of a desperate man, as well as we can. However, there is another, more urgent and serious issue at stake here.” He leaned forward just a fraction, as if he could impress the importance of it on Pendock even more. “Winfarthing was suggesting high crimes committed by certain men, without proof, or names, but leaving the implication with which to brand innocent men, simply because they have been mentioned as knowing this wretched Lambourn. There are matters of state concerned, my lord, great dangers of bringing Her Majesty’s Government into disrepute, at home and abroad.”
“Rubbish!” Rathbone exploded in fury and frustration. “That’s a ridiculous excuse to present—”
“No, it isn’t!” Coniston was speaking to him, momentarily ignoring Pendock. “I give you credit for not knowing what this man was going to say, but now that you do, you must dismiss him, with an apology to the court, and a denial of the truth of any of it—”
“I will not deny the truth of it,” Rathbone cut across him. “I can’t, and neither can you. And if that is what he said to Lambourn, then it is relevant, whether it is true or not. It is what Lambourn then believed.”
“You don’t know whether Lambourn believed it or not!” Coniston protested, his face flushed. “You have only Winfarthing’s word for any of it. This seller of opium, if he exists at all, could be … anybody! This is totally irresponsible, and terrifies the public for no good reason at all.”
“What is irresponsible is to condemn Dinah Lambourn without giving her the best possible defense,” Rathbone retorted. “And hearing every argument and witness who—”
“Enough!” Pendock held up his hand. “This issue of needles is irrelevant to the murder of Zenia Gadney. She was beaten and disemboweled. Whatever Winfarthing thinks he knows, or has heard about opium selling or addiction, it has nothing to do with the obscene murder of one woman on Limehouse Pier. She was not buying or selling opium, and you have not proved that she had any connection to this mystery seller, or any other buyer, whatsoever.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Coniston said gratefully, his face at last ironed smooth of anxiety. He did not look at Rathbone.
Pendock’s face was pinched, but he acknowledged Coniston’s thanks. He turned to Rathbone. “Tomorrow you will begin closing arguments and we will put the matter to the jury. Is that understood?”
Rathbone felt crushed. “I have two more witnesses, my lord,” he began.
Coniston jerked upright, almost to attention. “Witnesses to what?” he asked sharply. “More horrors of degradation in our backstreets by those who choose to addict themselves?”
“Are there more?” Rathbone snapped back at him. “Then it seems you know more of it than I do!”
“I know there’s a lot of loose talk and scandalmongering,” Coniston replied. “A lot of sensationalism and seeking to frighten the public and drag their attention from the murder of Zenia Gadney, poor woman. You talk about justice! What about justice for her?”
“Justice for her would be finding the truth,” Rathbone said equally angrily. When he swung round to face Pendock again, for the first time he noticed the framed photograph on the table a little to his right, normally in the judge’s line of sight, not his visitor’s. It was of a woman and two young men, one not u
nlike Pendock himself. It might have been him, thirty-five years earlier. The other boy bore a resemblance also, but far less so. Brothers?
But the woman’s fashionable gown was modern. And when Pendock had been twenty-two or -three, as the young man was, it would have been 1832, or thereabouts. There was no such photography as this then. They had to be Pendock’s wife and sons. Rathbone was almost certain he had seen one of them, the son who did not look like Pendock, in a photograph before, in a very different setting from this elegant pose with his mother. In the other photograph he had been wearing far fewer clothes, his nakedness had been erotic, and the other person in the image had been a small, narrow-chested boy, perhaps five or six years old.
Coniston was talking. Rathbone turned to face him, waiting for him to speak again. He felt numb, as if he were at sea and the room were swaying around him. His face was hot.
Coniston was staring at him, his eyes narrowed in concern.
“Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Yes …” Rathbone lied. “Thank you. Yes. I’m … I’m quite well.”
“Then you will begin your closing argument tomorrow morning,” Pendock said stiffly.
“Yes … my lord,” Rathbone answered. “I’ll … I’ll be here.” It was a dismissal. He glanced one more time at the photograph in its ornate silver frame, then excused himself and walked out of the office, leaving Coniston and Pendock alone.
RATHBONE WENT HOME IN a daze. The hansom could have taken him almost anywhere and he might not have been aware of it. The driver had to call out to him when he reached his own door.
He alighted, paid the man, and went up the steps. He spoke only briefly as he went in, thanking Ardmore and asking him not to allow anyone to disturb him until he should call.
“Dinner, sir?” Ardmore asked with some concern.
Rathbone forced himself to be polite. The man more than deserved that much. “I don’t think so, thank you. If I change my mind, I’ll send for a couple of sandwiches, or a slice of pie, whatever Mrs. Wilton has. I’ll have a glass of brandy. In an hour or two. I need to think. I doubt anyone will call, but unless it is Mr. Monk, I cannot see them.”
Ardmore was in no way comforted. “Are you quite well, Sir Oliver? Are you certain there is nothing else I can do for you?”
“I am perfectly well, thank you, Ardmore. I have to make a very difficult decision about this case. I need time to consider what the right thing to do is, for a woman accused of a murder she did not commit—at least I don’t believe she did—and for the woman who was very brutally killed, I think merely to serve a purpose. For a man or men who committed these crimes, and for the sake of a larger justice altogether.”
“Yes, sir.” Ardmore blinked. “I shall see that you are not disturbed.”
Rathbone sat alone for nearly an hour, weighing up in his mind if he even wished to be certain that the young man in Ballinger’s photograph was Pendock’s son. If he did not use it then it did not really matter who it was.
If it was Hadley Pendock, then how would he use it? Not to get a particular verdict. There was no question in his mind that that would be irredeemably wrong. But Grover Pendock had ruled against Dinah all the way through the trial where it had mattered. Now he was attempting to end the trial before Agatha Nisbet could testify, and even if she did come on the following day, she would then not be allowed to say anything that could expose Herne, or Bawtry, or whoever it was who had brought about the murder of Joel Lambourn, Zenia Gadney, and thus also the murder of Dinah Lambourn.
That must not be allowed to happen.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in?” he called, surprised to be glad of the interruption he had specifically asked should not occur.
Ardmore came in with a tray of sandwiches, brown bread with roast beef and some of Mrs. Wilton’s best, sharp sweet pickles in a little dish. There was a wedge of fruit cake and a glass of brandy.
“In case you feel like it, sir,” he said, putting it on the table at Rathbone’s side. “Would you like a cup of tea as well, perhaps? Or coffee?”
“No, thank you, that’s excellent. Please tell Mrs. Wilton I appreciate her care, as well as yours. You may retire now. I shan’t need you again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Ardmore withdrew and closed the door gently behind him. Rathbone heard his footsteps, a mere whisper of sound, tap across the hall floor toward the kitchen.
He picked up the first sandwich. He could use a few minutes’ respite from thought, and he realized he was hungry. The sandwich was fresh, the pickles very pleasant. He ate one, then another, then a third.
Had Arthur Ballinger begun this way, feeling and thinking exactly what he was—a dirty tool to save an innocent person? What use was an advocate who was more concerned with his own moral comfort than his client’s life? If Rathbone used the photograph of Hadley Pendock, if it was indeed he, then he would feel soiled afterward. Judge Pendock would hate him. He would not tell others what had been the instrument Rathbone had used, but he might tell them it was unusual, not a thing a gentleman would ever stoop even to touch, let alone injure another by wielding. He would not tell them Rathbone was able to do so only because Pendock’s son had seduced and violated vulnerable, homeless children.
And if he did not use it and Dinah Lambourn was hanged, how then would he feel? What would Monk and Hester think of him? More important than that, what would he think of himself?
What would he ever fight for again? He would have abdicated his responsibility to act. Could anything excuse that?
Either way, whether he used the photographs or not, what was Rathbone making of himself? A safe, morally clean coward who acquiesced while an innocent woman walked to the gallows? A safe man who would have nightmares for the rest of his life as he lay alone in his magnificent bed, in a silent house?
Or a man whose hands were soiled by the use of what amounted to blackmail, to force a weak judge to be honest?
He finished the last sandwich and ate the cake, then drank the last drop of the brandy. Tomorrow he was going to carry out a decision that would change his life—and maybe Dinah’s, and that of whoever had murdered Lambourn, and Zenia Gadney.
He stood up and went to the safe where he kept Arthur Ballinger’s photographs. One day he must find a better place for them, not in this house. But for now, he was glad they were still here.
He opened the safe and took out the case. He opened that, calm now that the decision had been made. He went through the images slowly, one by one. He was disgusted, sickened by the coarseness of them, by the cruelty, the indifference to the humiliation and pain of children.
He found it. It was the same face as that in Pendock’s silver-framed photograph. And on the bottom of this one, in Ballinger’s hand, was written “Hadley Pendock,” and the date and place in which it was taken.
Rathbone put it back again, made a note in his diary, checked that it was correct, then locked the case and put it back in the safe.
He knew what he must do tomorrow morning before the trial resumed, however hard, however painful and repellent. Shame was bitter, but it was a small thing compared with the hangman’s noose.
CHAPTER
23
IN THE MORNING, LONG before the court sat, Rathbone unlocked the safe again and took one of the prints that Ballinger had made of the photograph of Hadley Pendock. It was quite small, only three inches by four, a sample to show anyone what the original contained. Even so, the faces were clearly identifiable.
Rathbone put it in his pocket between two clean sheets of white notepaper, then left the house, taking a hansom to the Old Bailey. Today he needed to be early. As he rode through the gray icy morning streets he refused to let his mind even touch on what he must do, how he would say it, or how Pendock might respond. He had made up his mind, not that this was good, only that the alternative was unbearable.
He arrived at the court even before the usher, and had to wait until the man came in, startled to se
e Rathbone there before him.
“Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” he asked anxiously. He must know how the case was going. There was pity in his face.
“Yes, thank you, Rogers,” Rathbone said bleakly. “I need to speak to his lordship before we begin today. It is of the greatest possible importance, and it may take half an hour or so. I apologize for the inconveniences I am causing you.”
“No inconvenience at all, Sir Oliver,” Rogers said quickly. “It’s a miserable case. Maybe I shouldn’t be sorry for Mrs. Lambourn, but I am.”
“It speaks well for you, Rogers,” Rathbone replied with the ghost of a smile. “May I wait here?”
“Yes, of course, sir. As soon as I see his lordship I’ll tell him you’re here, and it’s urgent.”
“Thank you.”
It was another twenty-five minutes before Pendock came up the wide hallway and saw Rathbone. He looked grim, and clearly not at all pleased with what he feared was going to be an unpleasant interview.
“What is it?” he asked as soon as they were both inside his chambers and the door closed. “I cannot allow you any further latitude, Rathbone. You have exhausted all the leniency the court can allow. I’m sorry. You are on a loser this time. Accept it, man. Don’t string this out, for all our sakes, even hers.”
Rathbone sat down deliberately, as a signal that he would not be dismissed with a word. He saw the flicker of irritation on Pendock’s face.
“It is not over, my lord, until all the evidence has been heard, and the jury has delivered a verdict,” he replied. He drew in his breath and let it out very slowly.