A Sunless Sea

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.”

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?”

“Dinah Lambourn would have been seen, too,” Runcorn retorted instantly.

“She was … by several people. She made quite a scene trying to find Zenia Gadney. People in the shops at the time remember her; so does the shopkeeper.”

Runcorn looked stunned. He shook his head. “You want me to testify to something about her? I can’t. She seemed to me one of the sanest women I ever met: a woman who loved her husband very deeply indeed and was shattered by his death. She could hardly believe it.” His own face was crumpled with grief. “I can’t imagine how anyone deals with the fact that the person they love most in the world, and trust, has taken their own life, without even letting you know they were hurting, let alone wanted to die.”

“Neither can I.” Monk refused to think of Hester. “Imagine what it did to her to hear of his fifteen-year affair with a middle-aged prostitute in Limehouse.”

“Did she know?”

“Yes. Her sister-in-law says she did, and Mrs. Lambourn herself admits it.”

Runcorn sat motionless in his chair as if part of him were paralyzed.

“Does she admit to killing this … Gadney woman?”

“No. She says she didn’t. She swore she was with a friend of hers at the time, a Mrs. Moulton, at a soirée …”

“There you are!” Runcorn was overcome with relief. Finally he relaxed, easing himself in the chair.

“And Mrs. Moulton says she was at an art exhibition, and under pressure, she admitted that Dinah Lambourn was not with her,” Monk told him.

Runcorn stiffened again.

“What do you want from me? I can’t testify against her. I know nothing about her but her dignity and her grief.” Runcorn met his eyes with frankness, and quite open pity.

This was the most difficult part. Monk found himself uncharacteristically reluctant to offend Runcorn. It surprised him. In the past he had been happy enough actually to seek opportunities to quarrel.

“She begged me to ask Oliver Rathbone to defend her,” he began a little awkwardly. “He agreed. Now he’s asked me to help him. I don’t know if he thinks she could be innocent. Nothing in the facts so far supports that. But the whole issue is full of ambiguities, and it matters far more than merely finding justice for Zenia Gadney.”

“ ‘Merely’?” Runcorn asked, his eyes wide.

Monk did not defend his choice of word. “It is a matter of justice for Dinah Lambourn also, and for Joel Lambourn, and it pertains to the whole question of the Pharmacy Act.”

Runcorn frowned. “Joel Lambourn? I don’t understand.”

Monk plunged in. “Dinah says he did not take his own life. She says he was murdered because of the report he made on the sale of opium and the damage it does, particularly the deaths of so many babies and small children. She also claims that the same people who murdered him murdered Zenia Gadney, and framed her, in order to prevent her from raising questions about Lambourn’s death, or raising too much interest in his report. The report itself seems to have vanished-all copies, and his notes.”

Runcorn did not interrupt, just sat forward a little in his chair, tense and puzzled, his body slightly hunched.

“And, of course, if his affair with Zenia Gadney were to become public, which obviously it will,” Monk went on, “then that provides an excellent motive for his suicide.” He watched Runcorn’s face and saw the revulsion, the anger, and then the pity. This was a Runcorn he did not know, a man of gentleness he had never seen before. Was it because Runcorn was utterly changed, or because something in Monk had changed, and he only now perceived what had always been there?

Runcorn thought for several moments before he answered. When he did, his words were carefully chosen, and his eyes did not leave Monk’s face.

“I wasn’t really happy about the verdict on Lambourn,” he admitted. “I wanted to look into it more carefully, tie up all the ends.” He shook his head very slightly. “Not that I could see any other answer. He was up there by himself, sitting on the ground half tumbled over, his back against that tree. His wrists were slashed and covered in blood. His clothes, too. I don’t even know why I wanted to look any further, just that it’s such a hell of a thing for a man with a family to do to himself.” He stopped, as if he needed a space to weigh what he meant to say next.

Monk thought of Runcorn’s solitary life and wondered if he had imagination of what it would be like to have a woman love him as Dinah Lambourn had loved her husband.

“The government was eager to close the whole thing as quickly as possible,” Runcorn continued. “They said his work was sensitive just at that time, and that he had made some very serious errors of judgment. I don’t know what errors precisely.” He looked puzzled. “We know he was collecting facts about the import and sale of opium, where it is available, and the way it is labeled, that type of thing. So what error in judgment could he have made?”

“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “Perhaps as to how much proof he needed before he accepted a story? Whether records of doctors were accurate or properly kept? Did they say?”

“No.” Runcorn shook his head. “Just that for the sake of his reputation, and his family, it needed to be closed as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. I wasn’t happy about the details, but I could understand their wishes, and the need for compassion. Are you saying there is a strong chance it is themselves they were protecting, not Dinah and her daughters?”

“I’m not sure.” Monk was compelled to be honest. “And I need to be. Did you ever see this report of his?”

“No. They searched his house. I never did. The report would be government property anyway. They commissioned it and paid him for it. They said it was based on his emotional beliefs rather than scientific gathering of evidence, but that’s all: no details.” Runcorn sighed. “They suggested, without actually saying so, that it was evidence of the imbalance of his mind. They didn’t seem surprised that he had taken his life.”

“Did they mention his affair with Zenia Gadney?”

Runcorn shook his head. “No. They said he was eccentric in several ways. Perhaps that is what they were hinting at.” He looked grieved. “What do you want to do?”

“Go over the evidence again,” Monk answered. “See if there is any sense at all in Dinah Lambourn’s story, anything that raises questions, or doesn’t fit in with suicide, or the theory that he was losing his mind or was emotionally unbalanced.”

“Are you sure he had an affair with this woman in Limehouse?” Runcorn’s face still mirrored his disbelief. Surely Runcorn had been a policeman long enough to know that such an apparent aberration was in fact quite possible?

“Dinah denied knowing about it at first, but then she admitted it,” Monk repeated.

“It doesn’t sound right,” Runcorn insisted, looking at the desk, then up at Monk again. “I’d welcome the chance to go over it all piece by piece, to see if there were mistakes, but we’ll have to do it very quietly and unofficially, or we’ll get the government stepping in and blocking us.” There was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt.

Monk was not surprised, except at his courage. The Runcorn he had known in the past would never have defied authority, either openly or behind their backs. He held out his hand.

Runcorn took it. There was no need to give words to their agreement.

“I can get away at four o’clock,” Runcorn said. “Come to my house at five.” He wrote down an address in Blackheath on a small piece of paper. “I’ll tell you everything I know, and we can plan where to begin.”

Monk was even more surprised when he arrived at the house at five minutes before five that afternoon. It was a respectable family home on a quiet street. The garden was well kept and from the outside it had an air of comfort, even permanence. He would never have associated it with Runcorn.

He was completely taken aback when the door was opened not by Runcorn, or a maid, but by Melisande Ewart, the beautiful widow he and Runcorn had questioned as a witness in a murder some time ago. She had insisted on speaking to them when her overbearing brother had tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent her. Monk had realized at the time that Runcorn had admired her far more than he wished to, and that he would have been mortified with embarrassment had she guessed it. Indeed it was too sensitive even for Monk to have made any remark at the time. If the situation had been less delicate, Monk would have joked about it. Runcorn was the man least likely to fall in love, let alone with a woman of superior social rank and position, even though she had had no money and was dependent upon a brother she found oppressive.

Now she smiled at him with slight amusement and perhaps the faintest flush of color in her cheeks. “Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How nice to see you again. Please do come in. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea while you discuss the case?”

He found his tongue and thanked her, accepting the offer of tea. A few moments later he was sitting with Runcorn in a small but charming parlor with all the signs of well-accustomed domestic peace. There were pictures on the walls; a vase of flowers on the sideboard, arranged with some artistry; and a sewing box stacked neatly in one corner. The books on the shelf were different sizes, chosen for content, not effect.

Monk found himself smiling. He could not remark on the difference he saw in Runcorn, the inner peace that had eluded the man all his life until now, and was suddenly so overwhelmingly present. Monk could not remember their early friendship, or how it had changed to become so bitter. That was part of his lost past. But he had found enough evidence of his own abrasiveness, the quickness of his tongue, the searing wit, the physical grace, the ease of manner Runcorn could never emulate. Runcorn was awkward, had always been in Monk’s shadow and increasingly lacking in self-confidence with each social failure.

Yet now none of it mattered. Runcorn had taken the past off like an ill-fitting coat and let it drop. Monk was far happier for him than he would have imagined possible. He would probably never know how Runcorn had wooed and won Melisande, who was beautiful, more gracious and infinitely more polished than he. It did not matter.

Runcorn shifted a little self-consciously, as if guessing his thoughts. “These are my notes from the case.” He offered Monk a sheaf of neatly written papers.

“Thank you.” Monk took them and read. Melisande brought the tea, with hot buttered toast and small cakes. She left again with only a word of consideration, no attempt to intrude. They both started to eat.

Runcorn waited patiently in silence until Monk had finished reading and looked up.

“You saw Lambourn where they found him?” he said to Runcorn.

“Yes,” Runcorn agreed. “At least, that’s what the police said.”

Monk caught the hesitation. “You doubt it? Why?”

Runcorn spoke slowly, as if re-creating the scene in his mind. “He sat a little to one side, as if he had lost his balance. His back was against the trunk of the tree, his hands beside him, and his head lolling to one side.”

“Isn’t that what you’d expect?” Monk said with a whisper of doubt. “Why do you think they might have moved him?”

“I thought at first it was just that he didn’t look comfortable.” Runcorn was picking words with uncharacteristic care. “I haven’t seen many suicides, but those who have done it relatively painlessly looked … comfortable. Why would you sit so awkwardly for such a thing?”

“Perhaps he fell awkwardly as he was dying?” Monk suggested. “As you said, as his strength ebbed away, he lost his balance.”

“His wrists and forearms were covered with blood,” Runcorn went on, his face puckered a little at the memory. “And there was some on the front of the thighs of his trousers, but more on the ground.” He looked up at Monk, his eyes steady. “The ground was soaked with blood. But there was no knife. They said he must have thrown it somewhere, or even staggered and dropped it. But there was no trail of blood leading to where he lay. And why on earth would you throw a knife away after you’ve cut your wrists? Would you even have the strength to hold it, let alone hurl it far enough so no one would find it?”

Monk tried to imagine it, and could not.

“What time was it?” Monk asked.

“Early morning, about nine when I got there.”

“Then whoever found him must have found him very early,” Monk observed. “About seven or so. What were they doing in the park on One Tree Hill at seven on an October morning?”

“Out walking,” Runcorn answered. “Exercise. Hadn’t slept well and went out to clear his head before the day, so he told us.”

“Could he have taken the knife?”

“Not unless he’s a lunatic,” Runcorn said drily. “Come on, Monk! What sane man steals the knife a suicide has just slashed his wrists with? He was a respectable middle-aged man. Worked for the government at something, I don’t remember what, but he told us.”

“For the government?” Monk said quickly.

Runcorn caught his meaning. “I looked for blood leading to the place. There wasn’t any. And the knife wasn’t ever found. I looked for it everywhere within a hundred yards of where he was. It’s open ground. If it had been there we’d have seen it.”

“An animal carried it away?” Monk suggested without conviction.

Runcorn curved his lips down. “Taking the knife but not disturbing the blood on the corpse? You’re slipping, Monk!”

“So who took the knife, and why? What were they doing there? Was it at the time of this death, or afterward?” Monk gave words to what he knew they were both thinking. “That’s where we begin. There’s a lot to follow.”

“I’ll go back over the witnesses,” Runcorn offered, his face bleak. “We’ll have to be discreet, as if we’re trying to close any door in the face of this new trial. The government men were …” He shrugged. “I assumed they were strong-arming me out of compassion for the Lambourns, but now it’s beginning to look as if that was their guise for keeping me out.”

Monk nodded. “I’m taking some time off. It’s overdue. Give me the names and addresses of witnesses, and I’ll say exactly that: I’m trying to make certain that Dinah Lambourn’s defense doesn’t open anything up.” He was not certain if the excuse would be believed, or if he would be fobbed off with the same stories, but he could think of no better way to start their investigation.

He bade Runcorn farewell, and thanked Melisande. Then he went out into the darkness of the quiet street, prepared to walk until he could find a hansom to take him home, although in truth it was not so very far.

Monk began the next morning by telling Orme what he was about to do. Then he went back to Greenwich determined to speak directly to the people who had seen Lambourn’s body. He had not previously been given the name of the man who had discovered Lambourn, but now he had it from Runcorn. This time he would also persist until he found Constable Watkins, the first policeman on the scene, wherever he was on duty, or off.

He would also go back to Dr. Wembley. He could say it was to protect his own case against any accusations Dinah might make. He half acknowledged to himself that he hoped to find that Lambourn had not committed suicide, either over his failure to produce a report that the government would be obliged to accept, or because his personal life had crumbled to pieces around him. But that acknowledgment annoyed him-he was made of better fiber than to be so sentimental.

He walked briskly in the pale sun, but it was nearly ten o’clock when he reached the quiet, well-ordered office of Mr. Edgar Petherton, just off Trafalgar Road. This was the man who had found Lambourn’s body, and Monk introduced himself and explained to him immediately who he was.

Petherton was in his fifties, but already silver-haired. His eyes were unexpectedly dark, his features showing both humor and intelligence. He invited Monk to sit down in one of the two handsome, leather-upholstered chairs by the fire, while he took the other.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked. His voice was quiet and full of curiosity. “Are you sure it is me you wish to speak to, and not my brother? He works in the Naval College. His name is Eustace. We are occasionally confused.”

“I might be in error,” Monk admitted. “Was it you or your brother who was walking your dog very early in the morning about two and a half months ago, and found the body of Dr. Joel Lambourn?”

Petherton made no attempt to disguise his pain at the memory.

“No error, I’m afraid. It was I. I have already answered all the questions the police asked me at the time, and those of a gentleman from the government. Home Office, I believe.”

“I’m sure.” Monk now gave the explanation he had been planning. “I dare say you read of the very violent murder of the poor woman found on Limehouse Pier, at the beginning of this month?”

Petherton’s shock was transparent. “What on earth has that to do with Lambourn’s death? The poor man was gone long before then.”

“Lambourn’s widow has been arrested and charged with killing the woman,” Monk replied. “We are trying to keep down the public hysteria, in order to have some semblance of a fair trial.”

“Mrs. Lambourn?” Petherton shook his head in disbelief. “That’s preposterous! Why, in God’s name, would she do such a thing? You have to have made some hideous mistake.”

“Possibly,” Monk conceded, wondering if it really was possible, or if he was just mouthing conciliatory words. “Because of the nature of her likely defense, I am rechecking all the facts so they cannot be twisted to support a story that is not the truth.”

“And if it is the truth?” Petherton challenged.

“Then she may well be innocent, and we shall have to look further to find whoever butchered this poor woman,” Monk answered.

Petherton frowned. “Can you really believe any woman, never mind a civilized and dignified lady, could do such a thing to another of her own sex?” He looked at Monk as if he were some curiosity of nature, not quite human.

“I’ve been in the police for a long time,” Monk told him. “I can believe a lot of things that I wouldn’t have ten or fifteen years ago. Even so, I find it hard to believe it of Mrs. Lambourn. That is why I need to learn the details of the case for myself. Perhaps another explanation is possible.”

“I can only say what I have already said.” Petherton looked as if he wished very much that he could find the imagination or the courage to lie.

“Do you often walk your dog so early?” Monk asked him. “And is it usually to Greenwich Park that you go?”

“Quite often in the park,” Petherton answered. “Far more often than not. But to answer your first question, no, not usually so early. I could not sleep and it was a fine morning. I went a good hour earlier than is my habit.”

“And you usually go to One Tree Hill?”

“Not often. I wanted to think that day. A certain personal matter had been causing me concern. I wasn’t really paying much attention to where I was. I only became aware of my surroundings when Paddy-my dog-started to bark, and I was afraid he was bothering someone. It was an unusual sort of sound, as if he were troubled by something. Which of course he was. I ran after him and found him bristling, hackles raised, staring at a man sitting with his legs out in front of him, his back against the tree. He had lolled a bit to one side, as if he were asleep. Except, of course, he was dead.”

“Was that immediately clear?” Monk asked quickly.

“I …” Petherton hesitated, clearly thinking back with some distress. “I rather think I did know it right away. His face was very pale indeed, almost bloodless. He looked dreadful. And of course his wrists were scarlet with blood, and there was blood on the ground. I didn’t touch him at first. I was rather … shaken. When I gathered my wits I bent down and touched his forearm, above the slashes-”

“His sleeve was rolled up?” Monk interrupted.

“Yes. Yes, his shirtsleeve was quite high.”

“Jacket?”

“I … as I recall he had no jacket on. No, he definitely was in a shirt only. I touched his arm and the flesh was cold. His eyes were sunken. I could find no pulse at his neck. I didn’t try his wrists-the blood.” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t want to … to leave a mark where I … I admit, I didn’t want to put my fingers in his blood. It seemed not only repellent, but intrusive. The poor man had already reached the lowest hell a living person can. His despair should be treated with … with some decency.”

Monk nodded. “Certainly that was the right decision. And where was the knife?”

Petherton blinked. “I didn’t see it.”

“Wouldn’t it have been close to his hand?” Monk continued almost casually.

“It wasn’t.” Petherton shook his head. “Perhaps he had moved, and it was half under him?”

“Hidden by his jacket?”

“I told you, he didn’t have a jacket, just a shirt,” Petherton repeated.

“Were you wearing a jacket?”

“Yes, of course I was. It was October and early in the morning. Barely light. It was cold.” Petherton was now frowning and clearly troubled. “It doesn’t make complete sense, does it? Would a man intent on committing suicide walk half a mile, or more, in the cold, before dawn? I never thought of that before.” He chewed on his lip. “He must have been half out of his mind with despair over something … and yet he looked so peaceful, as if he had just sat down there against the tree and let it happen.” He stopped there and looked at Monk.

“He had taken a lot of opium,” Monk said, watching Petherton’s face. “That was probably why he looked so calm. He was probably all but insensible from it.”

“Then how did he climb that hill?” Petherton said immediately. “Or is that what you are saying-he took it once he got up there? Then he’d still want a jacket while he was walking. I wonder what happened to it.”

“Did you see the footprints of anyone else there?” Monk asked.

Petherton looked surprised. “I didn’t look. It was very early daylight. Only just enough to see by. You think someone was with him?”

“Well, as you point out, he surely would have worn a jacket, unless he went out early the previous evening, and didn’t intend to go so far,” Monk replied.

Petherton saw what he was leading to. “Or meant only to go for a short walk, and return home? As I remember, it was actually a very mild evening the previous day. It turned cold overnight. I was outside myself. Pottering in the garden until quite late.”

Monk changed his direction of approach.

“Did you see anything that could have had opium in it, or water to take a powder with?”

“No. I didn’t search his pockets!” Again the faint revulsion showed in his face.

“But could he have had a bottle or a vial in them?” Monk persisted.

“Not a bottle. A small vial in a trouser pocket, I suppose. What are you saying happened?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Petherton. That is what I need to find out. But for your own sake as well as that of the investigation, please do not discuss this with anyone. God knows, we have had sufficient tragedy already.” He said the words easily, but he felt a weight in his mind as he struggled to think of any answer but suicide, and failed to find one, in spite of the small anomalies they had just discussed. Was it even conceivable that Dinah had gone out after him, followed him up a path that perhaps he often took? Was it she who had found him and removed the knife and the vial to make the death seem more suspicious than it was?

Monk thanked Petherton again, and left him looking just as confused as he himself felt. He walked out into the fresh air and turned west toward the police station to look for Constable Watkins.

That proved to be far more difficult than he had expected. First he was mistakenly directed to Deptford, an awkward journey that took him over an hour, only to discover that Constable Watkins had already left and gone back to Greenwich.

In Greenwich, Watkins was involved in an investigation and Monk was told to wait. After an hour he asked again. With profuse apologies, the sergeant told him that Watkins had been called away and would not return until the following day. And no, he did not know where Watkins lived.

It was too late to find Dr. Wembley again, and until Monk had confirmed Petherton’s story with Watkins, there was no purpose anyway. He had wasted a whole day, and he went home angry and more sure than ever that he was being intentionally misled, although whether to protect Lambourn or to hide some secret, he did not know.

He was at the police station in Greenwich the next morning by half-past seven, much to the dismay of the sergeant at the desk. He waited there until Constable Watkins came in. The sergeant attempted to block Monk, but there was an old woman in a drab cotton dress and torn shawl who was distracting his attention, complaining about a stray dog.

“Constable Watkins?” Monk said loudly and clearly.

The young man turned around to face him. “Yes, sir. Morning, sir. Do I know you?” There was absolutely no guile in his wide blue eyes.

“No, Constable, you don’t,” Monk replied with a smile. “I’m Commander Monk of the Thames River Police at Wapping. I need to ask you very briefly about an incident that was reported to you, just to verify certain facts. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea to start the day? And a sandwich?”

“Not necessary, sir, but … yes, thank you, sir,” Watkins accepted, trying to hide his relish at the thought of a fresh sandwich, and not making much of a success of it.

The sergeant shifted his weight from one foot to the other, drawing in his breath sharply. Monk knew in that moment that he had had orders not to let this happen.

“Constable!” he said sharply. “Mr. Monk-Constable Watkins has duties, sir. He can’t just …” He looked at Monk’s face and his voice wavered.

“Have you received orders from your senior officers that you are not to permit Constable Watkins to cooperate with the River Police in any investigation, Sergeant?” Monk asked very clearly. “Or with one investigation in particular?” He said it with an edge to his voice that would have cut glass.

The sergeant stammered a denial, but it was obvious to Monk, at least, that that was exactly what he had been told to do.

Monk went with Watkins to the peddler at the next street corner from the station and bought hot tea and sandwiches from him. It was a cold morning, the light only just broadening. A stiff wind blew up from the river, cutting through the wool of coats and scarves.

Watkins was uncomfortable after the exchange between Monk and the sergeant, but he recognized that he had no choice but to cooperate. Monk knew he would have to do what he could to protect the man from the ire of his senior officers.

“Constable, you were first on the scene of Dr. Joel Lambourn’s death, up on One Tree Hill, about two and a half months ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I spoke to Mr. Petherton, the man who had found Dr. Lambourn. He was most helpful. But you understand I also need a more trained eye to tell me if his observations were correct.”

“Yes, sir.” Constable Watkins sipped his tea but his eyes never left Monk’s.

Monk repeated precisely what Petherton had told him, including the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the blood on Lambourn’s wrists, and the ground, both in shape and degree.

“Was there anything else?” he asked. “Please think carefully, Constable. It would not do to have to add anything later. It would look gravely incompetent, at the very best. At the worst it would seem like deliberate dishonesty. We can’t have that. A man’s death is very serious, any man’s. Dr. Lambourn’s importance to the government makes his even more so. Have I just described it as you witnessed it? Bring it to your mind, your recollection as a police officer, and then answer me.”

Watkins closed his eyes, was silent for several moments, then opened them and looked at Monk. “Yes, sir, that’s perfectly correct.”

“So Mr. Petherton is both accurate and honest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He didn’t leave anything out? Nothing else to see at all? Footprints? Marks of a scuffle? Anything?”

“No, sir, nothing at all.”

“Thank you, Constable. That’s all. I must not hold you from your duties any longer. You may tell your sergeant I am obliged to him, and that all you did was confirm your own recollection, as you gave it before. You never added anything or changed anything. You can swear to that in court, if need be.”

Watkins gave a sigh of relief and the color flooded up his face. “Thank you, sir.”

Monk saw Dr. Wembley again, but the doctor could not recall or add anything significant; he simply repeated the evidence he had given before.

Later that evening, in fine, cold rain, Monk went to Runcorn’s house and told him the results of his day.

They were in the small, comfortable parlor with the fire burning well and fresh tea and slices of cold chicken pie on the table between them. This time Melisande was also there. She had initially come in simply to bring the food, but Runcorn had signaled her to stay. Considering the firmness with which he did so, Monk did not raise any objection. He did not want to distress her. He had little knowledge of her personality, except for the courage with which she had insisted on giving evidence during the case they were investigating when they had first met her. He glanced at her face once or twice, and saw only pity and intense concentration.

“That’s the same as they told me,” Runcorn said when Monk had finished his account. “I went back over the instructions I was given.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “I thought at the time they were to protect Lambourn’s reputation, and his widow’s feelings. Now they look a good deal more as if they were to conceal the truth. And if someone went to that much trouble to conceal the truth, we have to wonder why.”

“He walked up there in his shirtsleeves,” Monk reasoned aloud. “Or else he had a jacket and someone removed it. But Petherton said that the evening before was mild. He was out in his own garden. The night turned cold and by morning it was definitely chill. It looks as if Lambourn might not have intended to go so far, and definitely not to stay there.”

Runcorn nodded but did not interrupt.

“Petherton was certain there was no knife, and nothing with which to carry liquid-unless it was very small indeed, and in his trouser pocket. Watkins agreed, except he was also certain there was nothing in Lambourn’s pocket. I don’t think they are both lying. And you can’t swallow those things dry.”

“Someone else was there, then, and at best took away the knife and whatever Lambourn drank the opium with after Lambourn had committed suicide,” Runcorn concluded. “Or at worst, Mrs. Lambourn was right, and he was murdered.” He looked at Monk, his brow furrowed.

“And they expected to be able to conceal it,” Monk thought aloud. “But they were careless. No knife. Nothing to take the opium with. No jacket to walk that distance on an October evening. Was that because they were caught by surprise and had to act quickly, without preparation? Or was it just arrogance?”

Melisande spoke for the first time. “It seems very stupid,” she said slowly. “The knife should have been there beside him. He should’ve been wearing a jacket. Why didn’t they leave those items there, even if it was murder?” She looked from one to the other of them. “Was there something in the knife or the vial that would have made it obvious who the killer was?”

No one needed to answer her. Runcorn looked at Monk intently. “Is it really possible someone killed him to silence him, and bury his report? But why?”

Monk answered, his voice a little hoarse. “Yes, I am beginning to think it is possible. And there has to be a reason, something deeper than just wanting to delay his report, and thus the bill.”

They sat without speaking for several moments. The fire burned gently in the hearth, creating a warm light and a soft, whispering sound.

“What are you going to do?” Melisande said at last, looking at Runcorn. There was fear both in her voice and in her face.

Runcorn looked back at her. Monk had never before seen emotion so naked or so intensely readable in his face. It was as if he and Melisande were alone in the room. He cared intensely what she thought of him, yet he knew he must make the decision alone.

Monk barely drew breath, willing Runcorn to give the right answer.

Ash collapsed in the fireplace and the coals settled.

“If we do nothing, we become part of this … conspiracy, if there is one,” Runcorn said at last. “I’m sorry, but we must learn the truth. If Lambourn was murdered then we must find out and prove who did it, and who concealed it, and why.” He put out his hand gently and touched hers. “It may be very dangerous.”

She smiled at him, her eyes bright with fear and pride. “I know.”

Monk had no need to answer her question for himself. He had come to Runcorn in the first place because this was precisely what he feared. He admitted to himself now that if he had truly believed Dinah Lambourn was guilty, he would not have taken the case to Rathbone, let alone pursue the evidence himself.

Runcorn stood up and stoked the fire.

They talked a little more, making further plans to report to Rathbone. Then Monk said good night and went outside into the dark street. The rain had stopped, but it was colder. At this late hour, it might be difficult to get a cab. He would have a better chance if he went toward the lamplit streets in the center of the town, where there were clubs and theaters with other people looking for transport, perhaps even a place where cabbies ate, or waited for fares.

He was walking briskly along the footpath, seeing clearly enough in the light from a few lamps at front doors, when he was aware of someone behind him. His first thought was that it might be another person hoping to find a hansom. Their steps were quiet and they seemed to be moving very rapidly. He stepped aside to let them pass. It was at that instant that he felt the blow on his shoulder, so hard it numbed his whole left arm. Had it landed on his head it would have knocked him senseless.

His assailant regained his balance and swung again, but this time Monk lashed out with his foot hard and high. He caught the man in the groin and the attacker pitched forward. Monk raised his knee under the man’s jaw as he collapsed, snapping his head back so hard Monk was afraid he might have broken his neck. The cudgel clattered away across the pavement and into the gutter.

Monk’s own left arm was still paralyzed.

The man rolled over, gasping, struggling to get up onto his hands and knees.

Relieved that he was alive, Monk kicked him again, hard, in the lower chest where it would knock the wind out of him.

The man coughed and retched.

Monk straightened up. There was another figure on the far side of the street, not running toward him, as someone might do if he meant to help, but moving easily, carrying something in his right hand.

Monk swung round. There was a dense shadow ahead of him also, maybe the bulk of someone half concealed in a doorway. He turned on his heel, his left arm still leaden and throbbing with pain. He ran as fast as he could back the way he had come.

He was less than a mile from Runcorn’s house. He did not know how many more attackers there might be. He was in an area he did not know, and it was close to midnight. His left arm was useless.

He did not go directly back to Runcorn’s house. Whoever was after him would expect that. He kept to the broader streets, going as fast as he could, around the back, through other people’s gardens, and eventually arrived at Runcorn’s kitchen door, searching desperately for a sign someone was still up.

He saw nothing. He crouched in the back garden, trying to be invisible among rows of vegetables and a potting shed. He could not imagine Runcorn doing anything as domestic as gardening. He smiled to himself, in spite of the fact he was beginning to shiver. He could not stay out here. For one thing it was extremely cold and beginning to rain again, and he was hurt. More urgently, sooner or later they would think to look here for him. Very likely, it would be sooner!

He picked up a handful of small stones out of the earth and tossed them at one of the upstairs windows.

Silence.

He tried again, harder.

This time the window opened and Runcorn put his head out, just visible as a greater darkness against the night sky.

Monk stood up slowly. “They’re after us,” he said in the dark. “I was attacked.”

The window closed and a moment later the back door opened and Runcorn came out, a jacket over his nightshirt. He said nothing but helped Monk in, locked the back door again, and shot the bolt home, then looked Monk up and down.

“Well, at least we know we’re right,” he said drily. “We’ve got a spare room. Are you bleeding?”

“No, just can’t move my arm.”

“I’ll fetch you a clean nightshirt, and a stiff whisky.”

Monk smiled. “Thank you.”

Runcorn stood still for a moment. “Like the way it used to be, isn’t it?” he said with a bleak satisfaction. “Only better.”