by Anne Perry
“Due to circumstance,” he continued, “and entirely against my wish, I have recently inherited a very remarkable collection of photographs, which I keep in a safe place, away from my home.” That would soon be true.
“For God’s sake, Rathbone, I don’t care what you’ve inherited!” Pendock said with disbelief. “What on earth is the matter with you? Are you ill?”
Rathbone reached into his pocket and pulled out the sheets of paper and the photograph between them. Once he showed it to Pendock he would, like Caesar, have crossed the Rubicon, the line marking one side from the other; and he would, like Caesar, have declared war on his own people.
Pendock made a move to stand up, in effect a dismissal.
Rathbone took the top sheet off and laid the photograph bare.
Pendock glanced at it. Perhaps he did not see it clearly. His face filled with revulsion.
“God Almighty, man! That’s obscene!” He raised his eyes. “What on earth makes you imagine I might want to look at such filth?”
“I would not have thought so until yesterday,” Rathbone answered, his voice shaking in spite of his intense effort to control it. “Then I saw the same young man’s face in that picture over there.” He looked toward the silver-framed photograph on the table.
Pendock followed his gaze and his face flooded with scarlet. He seized the photograph where Rathbone had left it and held it close enough to the silver frame to compare one with another. Then the blood drained from his skin, leaving him as gray as the dead ashes in the morning fireplace. He staggered back and all but collapsed into his chair.
Rathbone felt worse than he could ever remember in his life, worse than when he had faced Ballinger in his cell, or found his murdered body so soon after; worse than when Margaret had left, even, because this was his own deliberate doing. It was open to him to have chosen differently. But what alternative could he have chosen?
Pendock lifted his head and looked at Rathbone with the same contempt with which he had regarded the small photograph when he had not known who it portrayed.
“I will not find Dinah Lambourn not guilty!” he said slowly, his voice a croak from a dry throat. “I … I’ll pay you anything you want, but I will not mock the law!”
“Damn you!” Rathbone shouted at him, half rising to his feet. “I don’t want your bloody money! And I don’t want a directed verdict. I’ve never looked for one in my life, and I’m not now. I just want you to preside over this trial fairly. I want you to allow my witnesses to testify and the jury to hear what they have to say. Then I’ll give you the original of the photograph, and all copies, and you can do what you like with them. Whether you speak to your son or not is your own choice and God help you.”
He leaned across the table toward Pendock. “You were willing to give me money to keep your son from paying the price of his criminal use of children, revolting as you find it. Is it so repellent to you to give Dinah Lambourn at least the justice of a fair hearing? She’s somebody’s child as well; somewhere there are people who love her. And if there weren’t, would that make her any less deserving?”
“It’s the natural … the natural instinct,” Pendock stammered. “This slander will damage the government, good men. We cannot change the law to alter people’s freedom to take whatever ease of pain they can, for the sake of the few who abuse it.”
“I love my freedom as much as the next man,” Rathbone answered. “But not at the cost this is to the weaker and more vulnerable, and those who exploit them for gain. Do you love your son more than you love justice?”
Pendock sank his head into his hands. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “No. No, I don’t. I think. But …” He opened his eyes slowly, his face now that of an old man. “Bring on your witnesses, Rathbone.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER RATHBONE was standing in the open space before the witness stand, which was occupied by the largest woman he could ever remember having seen. She was not immensely fat, and only just over six foot tall, but at the top of the steps as she was, she seemed to tower above them all. She was broad-shouldered like a stevedore, huge-chested, her arms heavy and muscular. Thank heaven, she was soberly dressed, even though her expression was fierce, as if defying the ritual and establishment of the law to intimidate her.
Rathbone knew what she was going to say because he had spoken to her himself. He knew her passion to ease the pain of those who had nowhere else to turn, her knowledge of opium addiction and withdrawal, and her pity for Alvar Doulting and what he had once been. Hester had warned him that Agatha might be difficult to handle. Rathbone had a powerful feeling that that would prove to be an understatement. Still, he had used the means he dreaded most to force this chance and there was no turning back.
The court was waiting, the gallery hushed, the jurors surprised that there was still something to hear. Coniston was more than surprised. He looked confused. Obviously Pendock had not attempted to explain anything to him. How could he?
Rathbone cleared his throat. He must win. The cost had already been too high.
“Miss Nisbet,” he began, “it is my understanding that you run a voluntary clinic on the south bank of the river for the treatment of dockworkers and sailors who are injured or have illnesses due to the dangerous nature of their work. Is that correct?”
“Yes it is,” she answered. Her voice was unexpectedly gentle for so large a woman. One would not have been surprised were it baritone, like a man’s.
“Do you use opium to treat their pain?” He was asking his way gently toward the connection with Lambourn.
“Yes, course I do. There in’t nothing else as’ll do it. Some of them is hurtin’ very bad,” she answered. “Break ’alf a dozen bones an’ yer’ll know what pain is. Crush an arm, or a leg, an’ yer’ll know even better.”
“I was going to say that I can imagine,” Rathbone spoke gently, too, “but that would be a lie. I have no idea, for which I am profoundly grateful.” He hesitated a moment to allow the jury to place themselves in the same situation, facing pain beyond their nightmares, grasping some concept of what this woman dealt with every day.
“So you use a great deal of opium. You must know where to buy it, and perhaps something about opium dealing in general?” He made it a question. “And, of course, its effects on people after the pain is healed?”
Coniston was looking puzzled, but he had not yet interrupted. Surely he would any moment now.
“Course I do,” Agatha answered him.
“In this context, did Dr. Joel Lambourn come to see you within the last few weeks of his life? That would be between three and four months ago.”
“Yeah. ’E were askin’ questions about quality of opium, an’ if I knew ’ow ter give it without overdosin’ anyone,” she said.
Coniston could not endure it any longer. He rose to his feet.
“My lord, is this going anywhere of relevance? Surely my learned friend is not trying to damage the work this woman is doing to relieve the agony of injured men, just because she might have no medical training? If that is, indeed, what Lambourn was trying to do, no wonder the government judged the report to be better suppressed!”
There were murmurs of agreement and approval from the gallery.
Pendock appeared undecided. He looked from Coniston to Rathbone, and then back again.
Rathbone interrupted. “No, my lord. That is the opposite of my intention. I am only trying to establish Miss Nisbet’s skill and dedication, the fact that she is familiar with the opium market, and therefore a natural person for Dr. Lambourn to consult, possibly in some depth.”
“Proceed,” Pendock said with relief.
Coniston sat down again, even more puzzled.
Rathbone turned back to Agatha Nisbet.
“Miss Nisbet, I don’t believe it is necessary for the court to know all the details of your conversations with Dr. Lambourn regarding the purchase and availability of opium, or the ways in which you are able to know its quality. I will accept tha
t you are an expert, and I will ask his lordship if the court will accept the evidence of your success in treating men as sufficient proof of it.” He turned to Pendock. “My lord?”
“We will accept it,” Pendock replied. “Please move on to your purpose in calling the witness regarding Zenia Gadney’s death.”
Coniston relaxed and leaned back in his seat.
“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone said graciously. He looked up at Agatha again. “What was Dr. Lambourn interested in learning from you, Miss Nisbet?”
“About opium. Specially ’oo cut it wi’ wot so it weren’t pure anymore,” she answered. “So I told ’im about the trade as I know. ’E listened to all of it, poor devil.” Her face, shadowed with some dark and complex emotion, was impossible to read. “I told ’im all I knew about it.”
“About shipping opium and its entry into the Port of London?” Rathbone continued.
“That’s wot ’e wanted, ter start with,” she replied.
“And then?”
“My lord!” Coniston shot up from his seat and protested again.
“Sit down, Mr. Coniston,” Pendock ordered. “We must allow the defense to reach a point of some relevance, which I assume will not be much longer in coming.”
Coniston was taken aback. He had clearly expected Pendock to support him, but at least for the time being he was willing to wait.
Rathbone began again. “But I assume that you told him more than simply details of shipping,” he said to Agatha. “That would not seem to relate in any way at all to the death of Zenia Gadney, or indeed to Dr. Lambourn’s own death, apparently by suicide.”
“Course not,” Agatha said with heavy disgust. “I told ’im about the new way o’ giving ’igh-quality opium with a needle. Acts faster and stronger for pain. Trouble is, it’s a hell of a lot ’arder ter stop when yer ’ave to. Longer you take it, ’arder it gets. Weeks or more, an’ some can’t stop it at all. Then yer got ’em fer life. Sell their own mothers for a dose of it.”
This time Coniston did not hesitate. He was on his feet and striding out into the main space of the floor before he even began to speak.
“My lord! We have already established that it is possible for the unskilled or ignorant to misuse opium, probably any other medicine, and your lordship has ruled that raking it up here in this trial, which has nothing to do with opium except in the most oblique way, is irrelevant. It is a waste of time; it will frighten the public unnecessarily, and may well be slanderous to doctors who are not here to defend themselves, their honor and their good name.”
Pendock was ashen gray, and he controlled himself with a difficulty that was clearly visible to everyone.
“I think we must allow Miss Nisbet to tell us what troubled Dr. Lambourn so much, if indeed she knows,” he answered. “I will warn her that no names are to be mentioned, unless she has proof of what she says. That should allay your anxieties about slander.” He looked at Rathbone. “Please continue, Sir Oliver, but arrive at something relevant as soon as you can, preferably before luncheon.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone inclined his head graciously. Even before Coniston had returned to his seat, confused and angry, he asked Agatha Nisbet to continue.
“ ’E asked me a lot o’ questions about addiction,” she said quietly. “An ’ow yer can get over it. I told ’im that for most people, yer can’t.”
Now the silence in the room was intense, as if every man and woman in it were holding his or her breath, afraid to move in case the slightest rustle of fabric distorted a word.
The moment was here. Rathbone hesitated, breathed in and out slowly, then asked the question, his voice a trifle husky.
“And what was his response, Miss Nisbet?”
“ ’E were gutted,” she said simply. “ ’E asked me if I would show ’im some proof of it, so ’e would know what ’e were talkin’ about, an’ so ’e could put it in ’is report for the government.”
“Did he say why he wanted to put it in his report?”
“Course ’e didn’t, but I ain’t bleedin’ stupid! ’E wanted to ’ave the government make a law so it would be a crime ter sell people that kind of opium, wi’ needles to put it inter their blood. ’E wanted it so only doctors ’oo really knew what they was doin’ could give it ter anyone.” She looked back at him with a rage so deep, words seemed inadequate to serve it. She blinked several times. “ ’E wanted ter see what it really did to anyone … to know everything about it.”
“And did you agree to do that?” Rathbone said softly.
“Course I did,” she answered witheringly, but there was pain in her voice, and Rathbone felt a sense of guilt himself for what he was about to do. But there was no choice. He was not only at the last, desperate point of his defense of Dinah Lambourn; he knew this was what Joel Lambourn had died for, and unequivocally, what was right. There was a horror waiting to destroy thousands, tens of thousands of people over time. He could not balk at causing this one person’s pain.
Coniston was on his feet. “My lord, Miss Nisbet may be a very worthy woman, and I don’t mean to belittle her efforts in any way, but all this is still hearsay. I assume she is not addicted to opium herself? If so, she seems to be managing with extraordinary ability to hide it. It would be flippant to suggest it is doing her good, but I do suggest she is an observer, and not a professionally skilled one at that. If we are to believe this of opium, then we must have doctors tell us so, not Miss Nisbet, for all her charitable work.”
Pendock looked at Rathbone with the question in his face, the panic in his hollow eyes.
Rathbone turned to the witness stand. “Who did you take Dr. Lambourn to see, Miss Nisbet?”
“Dr. Alvar Doulting,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve known ’im for years. Known ’im when ’e were one o’ the best doctors I ever seen.”
“And he is not now?” Rathbone asked.
Her look was bitter and filled with grief. “Some days ’e’s all right. Will be today, most likely.”
“He is ill?” Rathbone asked.
Coniston stood up again. “My lord, if the witness is not coming, for reasons of ill health or whatever else”—he used the terms scathingly—“then what is the purpose of this hearsay?”
“He is coming, my lord,” Rathbone stated, hoping to heaven he was correct. Hester was supposed to be bringing him, with Monk’s help, if that should prove necessary.
Coniston looked around him as if searching for the missing doctor. He gave a very slight shrug. “Indeed?”
Rathbone was desperate. Neither Monk nor Hester had come into the courtroom to indicate that Doulting was safely here. If Rathbone called him and he failed to appear, Coniston would demand they begin their summing up and Pendock would not have any excuse to refuse him.
“I still have further questions for Miss Nisbet,” Rathbone said, his mind racing to think how he could string this out any further. There really was little else Agatha Nisbet could say that would not be obvious even to the jury as playing for time.
“My lord”—Coniston’s weariness was only slightly an exaggeration—“the court is being indulgent enough to the accused in allowing this doctor to testify at all. If the man cannot even appear, then—”
Pendock took it out of his control. “The court will adjourn for an hour, to allow everyone to compose themselves, perhaps take a glass of water.” He rose stiffly, as if all his joints hurt, and walked from the room.
As soon as he was gone Coniston came over to Rathbone. His face was very pale and for the first time Rathbone had ever seen it, his collar was a trifle askew.
“Can we talk?” he asked urgently.
“I’m not sure what there is to say,” Rathbone answered.
Coniston moved his hand as if to take Rathbone by the arm, then changed his mind and let it fall again. “Please? This is very serious. I’m not sure if you understand the full implications.”
“I’m not sure they’re going to make any difference,” Rathbone told him frankly
.
“Well, I could do with a drink anyway,” Coniston replied. “I feel like hell, and you look like it. What the devil have you done to Pendock? He looks like a corpse dug up!”
“That’s none of your concern,” Rathbone replied with a brief smile to rob the words of their sting, although he meant them. “If he wants to tell you, that is up to him.”
They were out in the hall now and Coniston stopped abruptly, staring at Rathbone. For the first time he realized that something really had changed, and he was no longer in control.
Rathbone led the way now, going out of the courthouse and down the steps to the street. They went to the nearest decent public house and ordered brandy, in spite of the early hour.
“You’re playing with fire,” Coniston said very quietly after he had taken the first sip of his drink and allowed its burning warmth to slide down his throat. “Do you know what sort of restrictions Lambourn was going to advocate, and who would be made into a criminal because of it?”
“No!” Rathbone said quietly. “But I’m beginning to have a rather strong idea that you do.”
Coniston looked grim. “You know better than to ask me that, Rathbone. I can’t reveal anything told me in confidence.”
“That rather depends on by whom,” Rathbone pointed out. “And whether it conceals the truth of Lambourn’s death, and consequently protects whoever murdered and then eviscerated Zenia Lambourn.”
“It doesn’t,” Coniston’s eyes widened. “You know me better than that.”
“Are you sure?” Rathbone asked, meeting Coniston’s gaze and holding it. “What about the effective murder of Dinah Lambourn? And that is what it will be if we deliberately allow her to be hanged for a crime she did not commit. I think you can see as well as I can that there is a great deal more to this case than domestic jealousy between two women who have known about each other for the best part of fifteen years.”
Coniston was silent for several moments, sipping his brandy again. His hand around the glass was white-knuckled.
“Lambourn’s death was the catalyst,” he said finally. “Suddenly his money was at stake, Dinah’s whole life as she knew it, and that of her children.”