A Sunless Sea (19 page)

O
UTSIDE THE PRISON
, R
ATHBONE
stood on the icy pavement in the rising wind, astonished at his own rashness. He was stepping out into quicksand, and already it was too late to retreat. He had given his word.

Then perhaps rather than going to his chambers this early, to think on what he had committed to, he should continue on eastward and cross the river at Wapping, so he could go on to Paradise Place and tell Monk that he had taken the case. He would need more information from him than the minimum he had been given yesterday. Monk had talked Rathbone into this. Now Rathbone needed to talk him into helping untangle the almighty mess.

He walked briskly out to the main thoroughfare and took a hansom, directing the driver to go all the way to Wapping Stairs. He sat back as they weaved through the morning traffic and he thought about what he needed to know. How on earth could he raise reasonable doubt in any jury’s minds without another suspect? In the sane light of a winter day, would he even have reasonable doubt himself?

Was Dinah Lambourn a woman who loved her husband in spite of all his weaknesses, the betrayal with another woman over fifteen long
years, and finally his preposterous story about the government’s refusal to acknowledge the truth about the use and abuse of opium? Surely if Lambourn’s facts were even close to the truth, about opium or any other medicine, there would be no way for the government to ignore that truth indefinitely. All Lambourn’s death would’ve achieved was a delay; an act would be passed eventually. Was that delay worth anyone’s death, let alone an insane murder like that of poor Zenia Gadney?

Did Dinah simply refuse to believe in failure, her husband’s or her own? The most likely answer of all was that she was touched by insanity herself, a victim of the facts she refused to acknowledge. Perhaps to survive she needed any answer at all that left her make-believe world unbroken.

He rode all the way to the ferry deep in other people’s delusions, his own credulity swaying one way, then the other. He was glad to get out and pay the driver, then stand for a few minutes in the wind, listening to the sounds of the water until the ferry came.

He went down the stone steps, which were wet and a little slippery. He was very careful. The last thing he wanted was a drenching in the cold, dirty water. He climbed into the boat and sat down.

The river was running fast as the tide ebbed. Choppy little waves made it a rough passage, but he welcomed the sharper wind in his face and the smell of salt and mud, and the scream of the gulls above.

At the far side he enjoyed the walk up from Princes Stairs, across Rotherhithe Street and on up in a few hundred yards and several turnings to Paradise Place.

Hester welcomed him at the door. She looked well. He found himself smiling, although he had nothing to celebrate. He had nothing even to feel certain about, except their friendship.

“Oliver!” she said with pleasure. “Come in. How are you?” They were not empty words. Her eyes searched his face, probing for truth. Did she see the disillusion in him, the loneliness he would very much rather have kept hidden?

“I’m well, thank you,” he replied, stepping inside. “But Monk has given me a near-impossible case. I will need his help. Please don’t tell me he has gone already?”

“He’s here,” she assured him. “Would you like to sit in the parlor where you can be private? I’ll bring you tea, if you wish, or even breakfast. It must be cold on the river.”

“Don’t you know about the case already?” he said with surprise.

She allowed a tiny smile to touch her lips. “He said he had been obliged to arrest Dinah Lambourn. Is that the case you have taken? So soon? How … rash of you.” Now the smile was larger. Long ago, when she had first realized that he was in love with her, she had teased him about his caution, that he was too careful and well ordered to be happy with anyone as impulsive as she was. At the time he had thought she was right. Perhaps at that time it had been true. It was not true now.

“What man who was not rash would even contemplate it?” he said wryly.

“Then come into the kitchen,” she invited him, leading the way down the hall.

Inside, the room was warm, a little untidy, very much the center of the house. Clean linen lay on one of the benches; the kettle was simmering gently just off the top of the stove. Dried herbs hung from hooks on the ceiling, as well as a couple of strings of onions. Blue-rimmed china lay waiting to be put away on the dresser.

Monk was sitting at the kitchen table and rose as soon as he saw Rathbone. He was eating a bowl of porridge and milk, which was presumably why it had been Hester who had answered the door.

Rathbone suddenly realized he had not eaten this morning and was extremely hungry.

Hester saw him glance at Monk’s plate. Without asking, she ladled him a bowl of porridge as well and set a place for him at the other side of the table. She did not ask if he wanted tea, but simply poured it.

“Well?” Monk demanded, his own food forgotten until he knew if Rathbone had accepted the case.

Rathbone gave a tight little laugh and met Monk’s cool gray eyes. He sat down opposite him. “If I hadn’t taken it I would have sent you a message at Wapping, and perhaps one here as well,” he said ruefully. “But I’m going to need your help.”

“I’m not sure what I can do.” In spite of his words, Monk looked pleased.

“Well, to begin with …” Rathbone paused and took a tiny sip of his tea. It was a little too hot to drink, but the fragrance of it soothed him. Hester was right; it had been cold on the river. He had not appreciated it at the time; He had been too eager to get to Monk. “Is there anything you can swear to that can help? What else could there be about Zenia that would mark her out as a victim?”

Monk thought for several moments before he replied. “I suppose the fact that she had never had any other clients but Lambourn, as far as anyone knows, would leave her in a very awkward position, in trying to seek out new business,” he said slowly.

“She was in her mid-forties, at least,” Rathbone added, pouring milk on his porridge and taking the first spoonful.

Monk looked surprised. “How do you know?”

“Dinah said so.”

Monk’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Did Lambourn tell her that?”

Rathbone felt a needle prick of anxiety. “Wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she was, but how did Dinah know? She claims never to have met her,” Monk pointed out.

“Then I suppose Lambourn did tell her. Seems an odd thing for them to have discussed.”

Hester was watching him. “You don’t know whether to believe her or not, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “I have a very strong feeling she’s lying about something, if not in fact then in omission. I just don’t think I believe she killed and gutted that poor woman.”

“Well, Lambourn didn’t,” Monk said. “By the time she was killed he was long dead, poor soul.”

“If Lambourn couldn’t have, and Dinah didn’t, who did?” Rathbone asked. “Is it really just a ghastly coincidence that she ran into some murderous madman just at the time that Dinah came looking for her?”

“Did she admit to looking for her?” Monk asked.

“No. But you told me she’d been identified.”

“Only roughly. A woman answering her description,” Monk corrected him. “Tall, dark hair, well-spoken, but beside herself with rage or panic or opium—whatever it was, it made her behave hysterically.”

“Opium makes people dazed, slow, and clumsy,” Hester put in, “but not violent. They’re more likely to fall asleep than attack you.”

Rathbone was puzzled. “Dinah says someone in the government may have killed both Lambourn and Zenia Gadney,” he said, “in order to discredit Lambourn’s report, and then to have Dinah charged with murder and hanged, so the whole subject could never be raised again.” He turned from Monk to Hester and back again. “Is that possible, in your opinion?”

“Yes,” Hester said at the same instant as Monk said, “No.”

“Perhaps possible,” Monk corrected himself. “At least that someone
could
do it, but it wouldn’t work, and anyone but a fool would know that. It would bury Lambourn’s report, certainly, but not the Pharmacy Act in total. It would delay it, that’s all.”

“That’s what I thought,” Rathbone agreed. He bit his lip. “Which leaves me where I was before; Zenia may have been clumsy and vulnerable because she was out of practice at finding business, and also poor in judgment as to who was dangerous and who was as safe.” He looked at Monk. “Is there any part of Dinah’s story that can be proved?”

“Nothing I can think of that would make a difference to her case,” Monk answered. “No one even imagined she had anything to do with her husband’s death. At first she denied knowing about Zenia Gadney, and then she admitted that she did know of her, and that is what her sister-in-law, Amity Herne, says also. And from her slip to you regarding Zenia’s age, she has to have known at least a few details. After all, even the newspapers didn’t print such facts, because we didn’t know for certain ourselves. Zenia certainly looked quite well for her age, to judge as far as you can by body and texture of skin, hair and so on. Her teeth were very good. One of the people I spoke to put her younger.”

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?”