A Sunless Sea

CHAPTER 20

Rathbone lay awake a good deal of that night, his mind in turmoil. Monk had sent him regular notes to keep him aware of what he had discovered. But as yet there was no proof that could be presented in court.

Dinah’s only defense was that she believed her husband had been murdered because he discovered something that would ruin the reputation of someone, someone who would commit murder rather than be exposed. And she, in turn, was willing to risk her own life on the gallows in order to force the police and the court to find the truth.

When should Rathbone tell that to the jury? If he told them too soon it would have lost its power by the time he summed up. If he waited too long it would look like a desperate, last-minute invention.

He stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the total darkness, and felt as if he had lost control of the case. He must get it back. Even if he was actually working on trust that Dinah was innocent, and hope that Monk would find a thread of proof that he could unravel, he could not let Coniston know that. Above all he must not let the jury see it.

Monk’s note had spoken quite clearly of an opium addiction far more profound than even that of those who smoked it, one where the substance was injected directly into the bloodstream through a vein. Someone was deliberately introducing people to it, in a time of their weakness because of physical or emotional agony, and then when they were dependent, exploiting that desperation.

It was an evil of almost limitless proportion, but it was not technically a crime in the eyes of the law. Monk had acknowledged that himself. So why kill Lambourn? What had he discovered that he must die for?

Rathbone had to guess the answer, and guess correctly. Then he could hope to spin out the trial until Monk found the beginning of proof. Rathbone would have built up the foundations of a case, and would have to add only the final piece that tied it all together and name the man behind the murders of both Lambourn and Zenia Gadney.

Would he be able to do that? He fell asleep at last with only the outline of a plan in his mind.

When the trial resumed in the morning, Rathbone looked across at Sorley Coniston and saw the smooth pleasure in his face. As things were now, he could hardly lose.

Rathbone must begin to take control of the pace and the temper of the evidence now. The end of the week was Christmas. As it stood, the best verdict he could hope for was reasonable doubt, and looking across the room to the twelve men in the jury box, he could not see even one doubter among them. They sat motionless, grim-faced, as if steeling themselves to answer levelly that they were prepared to condemn a woman to death for what they believed she had done.

Rathbone had no other suspect even to suggest to them, but he had to create one. In his own mind it was a nameless, faceless assassin employed by someone guilty of wanting to destroy Lambourn’s credibility and see his report buried. Repeated like that, it sounded as desperate to Rathbone as it would to anyone else. He must give this person reality, ambitions, fear of loss, greed-evil.

Everyone came to order for Judge Pendock. Coniston rose to his feet and called his final witness. Rathbone had been advised who it was, as the law required, but he had no defense against what he knew the man would say. He had been hoping Coniston would not think to look for him, but considering Amity Herne’s knowledge, and her loathing of Dinah Lambourn, it was to be expected.

Rathbone had managed to raise just a shadow of doubt as to whether Lambourn had taken his own life or whether, in view of the absence of a weapon or anything in which to dilute or drink the opium, there had been someone else present. No one had yet suggested the use of a syringe.

The new witness swore as to his name and occupation, and to tell the truth.

“Mr. Blakelock,” Coniston began, “you are a registrar of births, deaths, and marriages?”

“Yes, sir,” Blakelock answered. He was a handsome man, prematurely gray but otherwise wearing his years well.

“Did you register the marriage, eighteen years ago, of Dr. Joel Lambourn?”

“I did.”

“To whom?” Coniston asked.

There was no interest in the courtroom. Only Rathbone sat stiff, his eyes on the jury.

“Zenia Gadney,” Blakelock replied.

“Zenia Gadney?” Coniston repeated, his voice ringing out, high and sharp, as if the answer astonished him.

Even Pendock jolted forward, his jaw slack.

In the jury box there was a ripple of amazement. One man gasped and all but choked.

Coniston waited for the full impact to sink in, and then with a very slight smile he continued.

“And was that marriage dissolved, sir?”

“No,” Blakelock answered.

Coniston shrugged and made a wide, helpless gesture with his hands. “Then who is Dinah Lambourn, the mother of his children, and with whom he has lived for the last fifteen years, until his death?”

“I presume ‘his mistress’ would be the most appropriate term,” Blakelock replied.

“Then when Lambourn died, Zenia … Lambourn would be his widow, not the accused?” Coniston went on.

“Yes.”

“And so heir to his estate?” Coniston added.

Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, that is an assumption that Mr. Blakelock is not qualified to make, and indeed it is an error. If you wish it, I can call Dr. Lambourn’s solicitor, who will tell you that his estate is left to his daughters, Adah and Marianne. There was a small bequest, an annuity, to Zenia Gadney. It would amount to approximately the same amount as he gave her when he was alive.”

Pendock glared at him. “You were aware of this, Sir Oliver?”

“I was aware of the provisions of the will, my lord. It seemed a fairly obvious inquiry to make,” Rathbone answered.

Pendock drew in his breath to add something further, and then changed his mind. It would have been improper to ask what Dinah had confided in Rathbone, and the jury would draw their own conclusions anyway.

Coniston realized as much; he certainly had no need to win such minor skirmishes as this. “I apologize, my lord,” he said with a slight smile. “It was an assumption, and as my learned friend has pointed out, in this case, unjustified. Perhaps for the defense, he will call someone to prove that the accused was aware that her children would inherit? Then her very natural fear of being left destitute by her husband’s suicide would be set aside, leaving only the motive of an equally natural jealousy.”

Rathbone allowed a look of incredulity to cross his face.

“Is the prosecution suggesting that the accused was jealous of the woman she so obviously supplanted in Dr. Lambourn’s affections?” he asked. “Or perhaps that Zenia Gadney was so jealous, after all these years, that she attacked Dinah Lambourn? In which case the mutilation is repellent and unnecessary, but the blow that caused Mrs. Gadney’s death may very well be considered self-defense!”

“This is preposterous!” Coniston said with disbelief, but no apparent ill humor. “My lord-”

Pendock held up his hand. “Enough, Mr. Coniston. I can see for myself the absurdity of it.” He glared at Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, I will not have this grave and very terrible trial turned into a farce. The accused went to seek the victim where she lived. Whatever happened after she found her ended in the victim’s death by violence, and then her hideous mutilation. These facts are beyond dispute. Is that the end of your case for the prosecution, Mr. Coniston?”

“Yes, my lord, it is.”

“Have you any questions for Mr. Blakelock?” Pendock turned to Rathbone.

“No, thank you, my lord.”

“Then we shall adjourn for luncheon. After that you may call your first witness for the defense.” Pendock turned to Blakelock. “Thank you. You may leave the stand.”

Rathbone stood in the center of the floor feeling as if he were in an arena waiting for lions, naked of armor and without a sword to attack. He had never felt so vulnerable before, even in cases where he knew his client was guilty. He realized with a shock that it was not his faith in Dinah that was wounded, perhaps critically, but his belief in himself. His confidence, and some of his hope, had bled away.

Now he must lay very careful suggestions of a powerful figure bent on protecting himself. And all the time, in everything, he must believe that Dinah was innocent, no matter how far against reason that seemed to be. It must be in his mind always that Lambourn discovered something in his research that imperiled a man of power, and he was murdered to silence him. It was made to look like suicide to discredit him. Zenia Gadney was murdered to destroy Dinah and her crusade to save Lambourn’s reputation, and therefore his cause.

He made himself smile, feeling as if it were ghastly on his face.

“I call Mrs. Helena Moulton.”

Helena Moulton was called by the usher. A moment later, she appeared and rather hesitantly climbed the steps up to the witness stand. She was clearly nervous. Her voice shook as she swore to tell the truth.

“Mrs. Moulton,” Rathbone began gently, “are you acquainted with the accused, Dinah Lambourn?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Moulton avoided looking up at the dock. She stared straight ahead of her at Rathbone as if her neck were fixed in a brace.

“Were you friends?” he pursued.

“I … yes. Yes, we were friends.” She gulped. She was very pale and her hands were locked together on the rail of the stand. The light glinted on the gems in her rings.

“Think back to your feelings during that friendship,” Rathbone began. He was painfully aware that Helena Moulton was embarrassed now about owning to having been Dinah’s friend, afraid the society in which she lived would then associate her with Dinah, as if testifying were somehow condoning what Dinah was accused of having done.

Rathbone did not believe her testimony would sway the case in Dinah’s favor, even that it would necessarily make any difference at all, but he needed every extra hour he could to stretch out the testimony of the few witnesses he had to create the outline of someone else to suspect. Perhaps even now Monk would find something that would prove this person’s existence. And curiously enough, Rathbone had almost as much faith in Runcorn as he did in Monk. There was stubbornness in the man that would cling on to the very end, especially because he was angry at having been used and misled in the first place.

Mrs. Moulton was waiting for the question, as was Pendock, who was beginning to be irritated.

“You spent time together?” Rathbone continued. “You went to afternoon parties, exhibitions of art and photographs of travel and exploration, soirées, dinner parties at times, even the theater, and of course garden parties in the summer?”

“I did with many people,” she replied guardedly.

“Of course. Without lots of people, it is hardly a party, is it?” he said smoothly. “You enjoyed each other’s company?”

It was a question to which she could hardly say no. That would be to suggest some ulterior motive.

“Yes, yes, I … did,” she agreed a shade reluctantly.

“You must have spoken of many things?”

Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, this is wasting the court’s time. The prosecution concedes that Mrs. Moulton was friends with the accused.”

Rathbone wanted to object, but he had no grounds on which to argue the point. If he lost, it would be only one more defeat for him in the minds of the jury.

Pendock looked at Rathbone with annoyance. “You have some point, Sir Oliver? If so, please proceed to make it. The social comings and goings of Mrs. Moulton and the accused seem totally irrelevant.”

“I am trying to establish, my lord, Mrs. Moulton’s standing in her ability to comment on the accused’s state of mind.”

“Then please consider it established and ask your question,” Pendock said tartly.

“Yes, my lord.” Rathbone had hoped for more time, but there was nothing with which to argue. “Mrs. Moulton was the accused anxious or worried in the week or so before Dr. Lambourn’s death?”

She hesitated. She looked up for an instant, as if to meet Dinah’s eyes in the dock above the courtroom gallery, then changed her mind and stared fixedly at Rathbone.

“As I recall, she was just as usual. She … she did mention that he was working very hard and seemed rather tired.”

“And after his death?” he asked.

Her face filled with compassion, the tension vanishing as all consciousness of herself and the courtroom was swallowed up by her pity. “She was like a woman walking in her sleep,” she said huskily. “I have never seen anyone more numbed with grief. I knew they were close. He was a very gentle man, a good man …” She gulped and composed herself again with difficulty. “I felt for her deeply, but there was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do.”

“Indeed not,” he agreed softly. “Even the very closest of friends cannot reach out far enough to touch such a loss. Death is terrible in itself, but that a person should have taken his own life is so very much worse.”

“She never believed that!” Mrs. Moulton said urgently, leaning forward over the rail as if three or four inches less between them would lend power to her words. “She always said that he had been killed to … to keep his work from being accepted. I am sure she believed that.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Moulton, so do I,” Rathbone agreed. “In fact I intend to make that clear to the jury.”

A flicker of displeasure crossed Coniston’s face.

Pendock was irritated but he did not interrupt.

Rathbone hurried on, gaining a lick of confidence, which was like a flame in the wind, any moment to be extinguished.

“When the police arrested her and accused her of murdering Zenia Gadney, she told them that she had been with you at the time she was said to have been seen in Copenhagen Place, searching for Mrs. Gadney. Is that correct?”

Helena Moulton looked uncomfortable. “Yes.” She said it so quietly that Pendock had to ask her to repeat her answer so the jury could hear her. “Yes,” she said with a sudden jolt.

Rathbone smiled at her, very slightly, in reassurance. “And was she with you at that time, Mrs. Moulton?” he asked.

“No.”

Pendock leaned forward.

“No,” she said more clearly. “She … she said that she was with me at a soirée. I don’t know why on earth she said that. I couldn’t support her. I was at an art exhibition, and dozens of people saw me. There wasn’t a soirée anywhere near us that day.”

“So it was quite impossible that she was telling the truth,” Rathbone concluded.

“Yes, it was.”

Coniston rose to his feet again. “My lord, my learned friend is wasting time again. We have already established that the accused was lying! That is not an issue.”

“My lord.” Rathbone faced Pendock. “That is not the point I am trying to make. What Mr. Coniston has apparently missed is the fact that Dinah Lambourn could never have expected to be believed in that statement.”

Coniston spread his hands. It was a gesture of helplessness, inviting the court in general, and the jury in particular, to conclude that Rathbone was indeed doing no more than using up time in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.

“Sir Oliver.” Pendock was exasperated. “This seems to be a completely pointless exercise. If you have some conclusion to all this … farrago, please let the court know what it is.”

Rathbone was being hurried far more than he wished, but he could see in Pendock’s face that he was going to get no more latitude. Now was the moment to tell them Dinah’s brave and desperate gamble.

“My lord, I am trying to show the jury that Dinah Lambourn believed that her husband had been defamed by having his report refused, and his professional ability slandered. Then when he would not accept that and go away quietly, denying what he knew to be true, he was murdered, and his death made to appear as suicide.”

There was a burst of noise from the gallery. Someone shouted out abuse. Another cheered. The jury swung round in their seats, looking one way and then another.

Pendock demanded order.

Coniston appeared impatient and then disgusted.

As soon as he could be heard, Rathbone continued, raising his voice above the rustle of movement and mutter of voices. “She was willing to face trial for a murder she did not commit,” he said loudly. “In order to gain a public hearing for her husband’s contrived disgrace and to oblige at least someone to investigate his death again.” He turned to face the astonished jury. “She is willing to risk her own life so that you, as representatives of the people of England, can hear the truth of what Joel Lambourn discovered, and judge for yourselves whether he was a good man, honest and capable, trying to serve the people of this country, or whether he was deluded, vain, and in the end suicidal.”

He pointed up toward the dock. “That is how much she loved him-still loves him. She killed no one-nor does she know who did-either Joel Lambourn, or the unfortunate Zenia Gadney. And, by the grace of God, and the laws of England, I will prove that to you.”

There was uproar in the gallery and this time Pendock’s calls for order were useless. He cleared the court, ordering an early adjournment for the day. Then he rose to his feet and strode out, his great red gown flying out behind him like broken scarlet wings.

The next day, Rathbone was prepared to call both Adah and Marianne Lambourn if necessary, simply to stretch out the time and give Monk every chance to find at least some element of truth that would raise doubt. Originally, Rathbone had hoped to learn who had killed Zenia, and be able to prove it. If he could even prove Lambourn did not commit suicide, it would make Dinah look rational, sympathetic, but so far he had been blocked in that at every step. Now there was only the suggestion of a manipulative figure behind the murder that he must give flesh to.

Perhaps he should not have been surprised. If Dinah was right then someone with power had a great deal to hide, and both Coniston and Pendock had been advised of it. There must also have been the threat that his exposure would damage someone’s reputation irrevocably, and with it, perhaps, the honor of the government.

He admitted to himself he was depending on proving reasonable doubt: the possibility of there being any other answers, no matter how vague, whose existence he could prove. He just had to last today and tomorrow, then the courts were closed for Christmas, which would give them a brief reprieve, until Tuesday. But he also knew that darkening Christmas with the necessity to return immediately after would not endear him to anyone. He would not have done it had he any other choice.

In the morning he called Dinah Lambourn’s servants, who had nothing to reveal of their mistress’s behavior on the nights her husband and Zenia Gadney died that would implicate her in any way.

Rathbone’s first witness of the afternoon was the shopkeeper who had described Dinah’s visit to Copenhagen Place, and the extreme emotion she had exhibited, so much so that most of the shoppers in the street now felt as if they had seen her, and should have realized who and what she was.

But Rathbone knew that the mind can deceive the eye. He hoped that his discussion with Mr. Jenkins had shown the man how much had been suggested by circumstance, and that what he was experiencing was not in fact memory but hindsight. It was something of a risk to put him on the stand where Coniston could question him immediately afterward, but he had nothing left to lose. Please God, Monk or Runcorn had learned something of value, however fragile.

Mr. Jenkins took the stand looking very nervous to be out of the security of his own shop and the trade with which he was familiar. He gripped the rail as though he were at sea and the whole stand was tossing like the bridge of a ship. Was that the very understandable anxiety of a man in extraordinary surroundings, knowing that a woman’s life might rest on what he said? Or did he plan now to go back on what he had told Rathbone, and he was afraid of Rathbone’s anger-or of Coniston’s anger, and the weight of the established law should he displease them?

Rathbone must set him at his ease as much as he could. He walked forward to be close enough to the witness stand not to have to raise his voice to be heard.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins,” he began. “Thank you for giving us your time. We appreciate that you have a business to run and that your customers require you every day but Sunday. I will not keep you long. You have a general grocery shop in Copenhagen Place, Limehouse, is that correct?”

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Are most of your customers local people, living, say, within half a mile or so of your shop?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because people need groceries of one sort or another almost every day and naturally would not wish to carry them farther than necessary?” Rathbone asked.

Coniston shifted impatiently in his seat.

Pendock looked annoyed.

Only the jury were listening with attention, believing something pertinent and perhaps controversial was coming. Rathbone was famous, his reputation formidable. If they had not known that before the trial began, they knew it now.

“Yes, sir,” Jenkins agreed. “I know ’em, like. I keep the things they need. They don’t ’ave ter ask.”

“So you would notice a stranger in your shop?” Rathbone smiled as he said it. “Someone who did not live locally, perhaps whose needs you did not know.”

Jenkins gulped. He knew the importance of the question. “I reckon so.” Already he was less sure, an equivocation in his words, not a certainty.

“Say, a well-dressed woman who was not from Limehouse, who had never bought her groceries from you, and who carried no bag or basket in which to put whatever she bought,” Rathbone elaborated.

Jenkins stared at him.

Rathbone had to be as absolute as possible. There would be no going back and retracing his steps or he would sound desperate, and the jury would hear it.

“I imagine you are friendly or at least comfortable with most of your customers, Mr. Jenkins? They are decent people going about their business?”

“Yes … yes, course they are,” Jenkins agreed.

“So a woman behaving wildly, hysterically, would be extraordinary in your shop?”

Coniston rose to his feet.

Rathbone turned to him, carefully assuming a look of amazement and questioning on his face and in the angle of his head.

Coniston gave a sigh of exasperation, as if infinitely bored, and resumed his seat. None of this would be lost on the jury. But their concentration would have been momentarily broken, the emotion lessened.

“My learned friend appears not to have perceived the importance of my question, Mr. Jenkins,” Rathbone said with a smile. “Perhaps it is unclear to others as well. I am trying to show that your shop is a local service. You know all the women in the area who use your establishment to purchase their daily needs of tea, sugar, flour, vegetables, and so on. They are decent and civil people, feeling that they are among friends. A woman you have never seen before, and nobody else appears to know, and whose manner is hysterical and demanding, is highly unusual, and you would be likely to remember her, in fact be almost certain to. Is that correct?”

Jenkins now had no alternative but to agree. Perhaps Coniston, by interrupting, had unintentionally done the defense a favor? Rathbone did not dare to look at him to see. It would be obvious to the jury, and they would see gamesmanship behind it.

“I … I suppose I would,” Jenkins conceded.

“Then would you please look up at the dock and tell me if you are certain that the woman sitting there is the same woman who came into your shop and asked to know where Zenia Gadney lived? We have already heard that it was a woman tall and dark, who looked something like her, but there are thousands of such women in London. Are you sure, beyond doubt, that it was this woman? She swears that it was not.”

Jenkins peered up at Dinah, blinking a little as if he could not see clearly.

“My lord,” Rathbone looked up at Pendock, “may I have the court’s permission to ask the accused to rise to her feet?”

Pendock had no choice; the request was only a courtesy. He would have to explain any refusal, and he had no grounds for it.

“You may,” he replied.

Rathbone turned to the dock and Dinah rose to her feet. It was an advantage. Rathbone realized it immediately. They could all see her more clearly, and every single juror was craning his neck to stare. She looked pale and grief-ravaged, and in a way more beautiful than when she had been in her own home, surrounded by familiar things. She had not yet been found guilty in the law, even if she had by the public, so she was permitted to wear her own clothes. Since she was still in mourning for her husband, it was expected she wear black, and with her dramatic features and pale, blemishless skin the loveliness of her face was startling, as was the suffering in it. She was composed, as if she had no energy left to hope, or to struggle.

Jenkins gulped again. “No.” He shook his head. “I can’t say as it were ’er. She … she looks different. I don’t recall ’er face being like that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins,” Rathbone said, gasping with relief inside. “My learned friend may wish to question you, but as far as I am concerned, I appreciate your time, and you are free to go back to your business and your service to the community in Copenhagen Place.”

“Yes, sir.” Jenkins turned anxiously toward Coniston.

Coniston’s hesitation was only fractional, but it was there. At least one or two of the jurors must have seen it.

“Mr. Jenkins,” Coniston began gently, aware of the court’s sympathy with the shopkeeper. He was a man like themselves, probably with family to support, trying to do his best in a situation he hated. He was eager to be done with it and free to carry on with his quiet, hardworking life, complete with its small pleasures, its opinions that were not weighed and measured, its very limited responsibility.

Rathbone knew all this was going through Coniston’s mind, because it had gone through his own.

Coniston smiled. “Actually, Mr. Jenkins, I find I have nothing to ask you. You are an honest man in a wretched situation, placed there by chance, and none of your own doing. Your compassion, carefulness, and modesty are to be admired. Please accept my thanks also, and return to your business, which I’m sure must need you, most particularly this close to Christmas.” Coniston gave a very slight bow and walked back gracefully to his seat.

Pendock’s face was tense. He glanced at the clock, then at Rathbone.

“Sir Oliver?”

Rathbone rose to his feet.

“My next witness may testify at some length, my lord, and I believe Mr. Coniston is bound to wish to question some of his evidence quite closely.” He too looked at the clock. He would not like to have to admit that he could not locate Runcorn at this hour, but he would if Pendock forced him into it.

“Very well, Sir Oliver,” Pendock sighed. “The court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

As soon as Rathbone was in his chambers he wrote a note to Runcorn, telling him that he required him to testify when the court resumed the following morning. What small chance they had of success depended upon it. He told Runcorn he would string it out as long as possible, for which he apologized, but he had little else, except Dinah herself, unless Monk had found something more to give shape to another suspect the jury could believe in. He would at least raise the subject of the syringe, and the far deeper and more terrible addiction it led to.

As soon as he had sent the messenger with the letter folded in an envelope, and sealed with wax, he wondered if he had said too much.

He went home tired, but unable to rest.

In the morning Rathbone took a hansom to the court, exhausted and worried. He did not even know if Runcorn would be there, and he had no excuses to offer. Not that he believed Pendock would accept any, however valid. He did not know for certain if Runcorn had even received his note. He had sent it to his home, in case he did not call in to the police station. But perhaps Runcorn had returned home late, tired, and had not even looked at any letters.

The traffic was jammed at Ludgate Circus, with shoppers, friends exchanging well wishes, celebrators beginning Christmas early, calling out cheerfully to one another.

Rathbone banged on the front of the hansom to attract the driver’s attention.

“Can’t you find a way around this? I have to be in court in the Old Bailey!” he demanded.

“Doin’ my best, sir,” the cabby answered. “It’s nearly Christmas!”

Rathbone bit back the answer that rose to his lips. It was not the man’s fault and being rude would only make matters worse. Why had there been no answer from Runcorn? What on earth was he going to say to the court if the man did not appear? Who else could he call at short notice? He would look totally incompetent. His face burned at the thought of it.

Perhaps he should have sent the note to the police station after all.

Then the hansom stopped again. All around there were vehicles of one sort or another, drivers shouting, laughing, demanding right-of-way.

He was too impatient to wait any longer. It was only a short walk along Ludgate Hill to the Old Bailey. The huge dome of St. Paul’s rose into the winter sky ahead of him and the Central Criminal Court to his left, Newgate Prison just beyond. He lunged out of the cab, pushing a handful of coins at the driver, and began to walk rapidly, then to run along the pavement.

He raced up the steps and almost bumped into Runcorn just inside the doors. Why was he so overwhelmingly relieved? He should have trusted the man. There was no time or opportunity to speak to him now. It was his own fault for being late. Coniston was standing a few yards away, and Pendock was coming down the hallway. If he attempted to confer with Runcorn, he would look as if he were uncertain about what evidence Runcorn had to offer. That was a gift he could not offer Coniston.

Fifteen minutes later he was behind his table. His notes were in front of him, a letter from Runcorn on the top. He tore it open and read the few lines.

Dear Sir Oliver,

All ready. Been looking into a few other things of interest. Don’t know for certain, but I think Mrs. Monk has been looking for the doctor.

Runcorn

Again Rathbone blamed himself for lacking in trust.

“Please call your witness, Sir Oliver,” Pendock ordered. His voice gravelly, a little tight, as if he also had slept little.

“I call Superintendent Runcorn of the Blackheath Police,” Rathbone replied.

Runcorn came in, watched by every eye in the room as he walked past the gallery. He was an imposing figure: burly, exuding confidence. He took the oath and stood upright waiting for the questions. His hands were by his sides: no clinging to the railing for him.

Rathbone cleared his throat. “Superintendent, you are in command of the police in the Blackheath area, are you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Runcorn said gravely.

“Were you called out when the body of Joel Lambourn was discovered on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park nearly three months ago?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Lambourn was a noted and much-admired figure in the area. Because of his importance, the investigation into his death was extended to include my force in Blackheath.”

Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, we have already heard about Dr. Lambourn’s death in some detail, and the accused’s reaction to it. I fail to see what Mr. Runcorn can add to what has already been said. My learned friend is desperate and wasting the court’s time. If it will help, the prosecution will accede to the facts as already presented.”

Rathbone would see Runcorn’s testimony barred before he had even begun. He interrupted before Pendock could speak.

“Since it was presented by the prosecution, my lord, it is really meaningless to say that they accede to it.”

“It is wasting the court’s time to hear it again,” Pendock snapped. “If you have nothing new to add, Sir Oliver, I sympathize with your predicament, but it is not my place to indulge it. Mr. Coniston’s point is well taken.” He turned to Coniston. “Mr.-”

“My lord!” Rathbone raised his voice, trying hard to keep his emotion out of it. “Mr. Coniston introduced evidence regarding Dr. Lambourn’s death, but for some reason best known to himself, he did not question Superintendent Runcorn, the man in charge of the inquiry into it. Had he not considered the matter relevant he would not have raised it at all. Indeed, your lordship would not have permitted him to. With respect, I put to the court that the defense has the right to question Mr. Runcorn about it, now, in light of further evidence discovered.”

There was total silence in the room. No one moved.

Pendock’s mouth was closed in a thin, hard line. Coniston looked at Pendock, then at Rathbone.

Runcorn stared across at the jury and smiled.

One of the jurors fidgeted.

“Keep to the point, Sir Oliver,” Pendock said at last. “Whether Mr. Coniston objects or not, if you deviate from it, then I will stop you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone said, keeping control of himself with an effort. Again he was sharply aware that Pendock was watching to catch him in any error at all.

Rathbone turned to Runcorn again.

“You were called to the death of Dr. Joel Lambourn when his body was found on One Tree Hill.” He said this to the jury, even though it was Runcorn he addressed.

“Yes.” Runcorn took it on, adding to it. “A man walking his dog had found Lambourn’s body more or less propped up-”

Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Runcorn is suggesting that-”

“Yes, yes,” Pendock agreed. He turned to the witness stand. “Mr. Runcorn, please watch your language. Do not make suggestions outside your knowledge. Simply what you saw, do you understand?”

It was patronizing in the extreme. Rathbone saw the color wash up Runcorn’s face, and prayed he would control his temper.

“I was going to say ‘propped up by the trunk of the tree,’ ” Runcorn said between clenched teeth. “Without its support he would have fallen. In fact he was leaning over anyway.”

Pendock did not apologize, but Rathbone saw the irritation with himself in his face, and the jurors must have seen it, too.

Rathbone forced himself not to smile. “He was dead?” he asked.

“Yes. Cold, in fact,” Runcorn agreed. “But the night had been chilly and there was something of a light wind, colder than usual for the time of year. His wrists had been cut across the inside and he appeared to have bled to death.”

Pendock leaned forward. “Appeared? Are you implying that it was not the case, Mr. Runcorn?”

“No, my lord.” Runcorn’s face was almost expressionless. “I am trying to say no more than I was aware of myself at the time. The police surgeon confirmed that. Then the autopsy afterward added that he also had a considerable dose of opium in him, but not sufficient enough to kill him. I presumed at the time that it had been taken to dull the pain of the cuts in his wrists.”

“At the time?” Rathbone said quickly. “Did you afterward learn anything for certain? Surely the police surgeon could not tell you the reason for taking the opium, only the facts?”

Runcorn stared back at Rathbone. “No, sir. I changed my own mind. I don’t believe Dr. Lambourn cut his own wrists, sir. I believe the opium was to make him sleepy, slow to react, possibly even unconscious, so he would not fight back. Defensive wounds would be very difficult to explain in a supposed suicide.”

Coniston was on his feet again.

Pendock glared at Runcorn. “Mr. Runcorn! I will not tolerate wild and unprovable assertions in this court. This is not the reopening of a case already closed and with a verdict returned, the fact of which I know you are perfectly aware. If you have something to offer pertinent to the murder of Zenia Gadney, then tell us. Nothing else is permissible here. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Runcorn said boldly. There was no defensiveness in his voice or his manner. He stood head high, his gaze straight. “But since we now know that Zenia Gadney was also Joel Lambourn’s wife, a fact we were not aware of at the time of his death, the manner of it, so shortly before her murder, seems to raise a number of questions. It is hard to be sure there is no connection.”

“Of course there is a connection!” Pendock snapped. “It is Dinah Lambourn, the accused! Are you going to tell me that she murdered her husband also? That is hardly of service to the defense, who have called you.”

Coniston almost hid his smile, but not quite.

The jury members were looking completely bemused.

“It seems likely that it was by the same person,” Runcorn answered Pendock. “At least a possibility it would be irresponsible not to look into. But after questioning Marianne Lambourn, I am satisfied it could not have been Dinah Lambourn. Marianne was awake in the night, having had a nightmare. She heard her father go out. Her mother did not.”

Rathbone was stunned. Was Runcorn sure of what he said? What would happen if he called Marianne to the stand? Would Coniston then tear her apart and show that she could not possibly be certain she had not fallen asleep, and simply not heard her mother leave also?

Even if that happened, it would buy him at least half a day! Had Monk found nothing further yet? Had Runcorn any ideas at all?

Coniston was staring at Rathbone, trying to read his face.

“Sir Oliver!” Pendock said slowly. “Were you aware of this? If you are presenting some-”

“No, my lord,” Rathbone replied quickly, gathering his wits. “I have not had the opportunity to speak to Superintendent Runcorn since last Friday.”

Pendock turned to Runcorn.

“I learned this only yesterday, my lord,” Runcorn said with sudden humility. “I had occasion to reinvestigate Dr. Lambourn’s death because of certain other facts that have come to light concerning his report on the sale of opium in England, and reflecting on the opium trade in general, and in particular the means of administering it through a new kind of hollow needle attached to a syringe, which sends the drug straight into the bloodstream, making it immeasurably more addictive-”

“This is the trial of Dinah Lambourn for the murder of Zenia Gadney!” Pendock overrode him loudly. “I will not have it turned into a political circus in an attempt to divert the jury from the issue at hand. Still less will I permit any attempt to argue the merits or otherwise of the sale or the uses of opium. They have no place in this courtroom.” He turned to Rathbone. “Evidence, Sir Oliver, not speculation, and above all I will not tolerate malicious scandal. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, my lord,” Rathbone replied with as much semblance of humility as he could manage. “This place, above all others, is one where no one should make accusations they cannot substantiate.” He kept his face as devoid of expression as he could. Only because of the rise of color up Pendock’s cheeks did he realize he had not entirely succeeded.

Coniston sneezed, or perhaps he choked. He apologized half under his breath.

Rathbone looked again at Runcorn.

“Please be very careful, Superintendent,” he warned him. “Do these facts that you uncovered have any direct bearing on the murder of Zenia Gadney, or the fact that Dinah Lambourn has been charged with that crime?”

Runcorn considered for a moment.

Rathbone had the intense impression that he was weighing up exactly how much he could get away with.

“Superintendent?” Rathbone felt he had better speak before Coniston could rise to his feet yet again.

“Yes, sir, I believe it does,” Runcorn answered. “If Dr. Lambourn and Zenia Gadney were killed by the same person, and it could not have been the accused, then it was someone else, and we must find that person. It is appearing to the police more and more likely that it was someone whom Dr. Lambourn learned about in his investigations into the use of opium-someone who was making a vast profit, first causing people to become addicted to the drug by their taking it directly into the blood for the relief of pain from broken bones and the like, and then becoming so dependent on it they couldn’t live without it. Then he can charge them whatever he likes-”

Coniston was on his feet. “My lord, can Mr. Runcorn, or anyone else, offer even a shred of proof as to this supposed poison? It’s a fairy tale! Speculation without any proof at all.” He took a hasty breath and changed the subject. “And as to anyone swearing that Mrs. Lambourn did not leave the house again that night-we have heard nothing whatever to substantiate any of this except the word, reported secondhand, of a fourteen-year-old girl, very naturally loyal to her mother. What child of this age would be willing to believe that her mother could have cold-bloodedly slit her father’s wrists and then watched him until he bled to death?”

Rathbone felt as if the ground had suddenly lurched beneath him, pitching him off balance, and he was left struggling to regain his posture.

“Sir Oliver,” Pendock said with evident relief, “you are risking becoming absurd. This is all a rather desperate attempt to waste time, I don’t know for what purpose. Who are you imagining will ride to your rescue? You have provided absolutely nothing to support this fantasy of conspiracy that you are asking us to believe in. Either produce it, sir, or provide us with some credible defense. If you have none, then save this fruitless distress to your client and allow her to plead guilty.”

Rathbone felt the blood burn up his face. “My client has told me she is not guilty, my lord,” he said, the bitterness harsh in his voice. “I cannot ask her to say that she beat to death and then eviscerated a woman, in order to save the court’s time!”

“Be very careful, Sir Oliver,” Pendock warned, “or I shall hold you in contempt.”

“That would only delay the trial even longer, my lord,” Rathbone retorted, then the instant after regretted it, and knew it was too late. He had made an irrevocable enemy of Pendock.

There was a ripple of excitement in the gallery. Even the jurors were suddenly intensely alive, their eyes moving from Rathbone to Pendock, then to Coniston, lastly to Runcorn, still waiting for further questions.

Dinah Lambourn was not the only one on trial. Perhaps in one way or another, everyone in the court was. They each had a part to play in finding justice.

Rathbone now chose his words with meticulous care. Dinah Lambourn’s life might hang on his skill, and his ability to forget his own vanity or temper and think only of her, and whatever truth he could force the jury to hear.

He had no idea what else Runcorn knew. Staring at his face now, he wondered what on earth the man wanted him to ask. What could it concern that he could not raise without Pendock stopping him again? What tied Zenia Lambourn to the sale of opium and needles, except Lambourn and his research?

“Mr. Runcorn, did you have occasion to consider the possibility that Zenia Gadney might have known something of Dr. Lambourn’s research into crimes involving, or following from, the sale of opium pure enough to inject into the blood, and the degeneration into madness or death that can result from it?”

Now the jurors were craning forward to listen, faces tense, fascinated and frightened.

Runcorn seized the chance. “Yes, sir. We thought it possible that Dr. Lambourn made more than one copy, at least of the most controversial parts of his report. Since it was not found in his own home, we thought he might well have left it with his first wife, Zenia Gadney. He may have believed that no one else, apart from Dinah Lambourn, knew of her existence.”

Coniston stood. “Then the poor woman cannot have been murdered for it, except by Dinah Lambourn, which is our contention. All Sir Oliver has done is provide the accused with a second motive, my lord.”

Pendock looked at Rathbone with a faint smile on his face.

“You appear to have shot yourself in the foot, Sir Oliver,” he observed.

Runcorn drew in a sharp breath, looked at Rathbone, and then beyond him into the body of the gallery.

Rathbone understood instantly what Runcorn meant. He gave him the slightest of nods, then smiled back at Pendock.

“If Dinah Lambourn were the only one to have known the truth, that would be so, my lord. Perhaps you are unaware that both Barclay Herne and his wife, Amity Herne, Joel Lambourn’s sister, both knew of his first marriage.” Rathbone allowed his voice to take on a slightly sarcastic tone. “I believe they … forgot to mention this in their earlier testimony, though they have both confessed as much to me in the privacy of their own home.”

Again the color drained from Pendock’s face and he sat rigid, his hand in front of him, a closed fist on his great carved bench.

“Are you suggesting that one of them murdered this unfortunate woman, Sir Oliver?” he said very slowly. “I assume you have ascertained their whereabouts at the time in question?”

Rathbone felt as if he had been physically struck. In a matter of seconds victory had turned to defeat.

“No, my lord,” he said quietly. “I was pointing out that Dinah Lambourn was not the only person aware of the fact that Joel Lambourn was married to Zenia Gadney, and visited her once a month, that we know of. It is always possible that either Barclay or Mrs. Herne may have told other people, perhaps their acquaintances from that earlier time when Dr. Lambourn was still together with Zenia Gadney, or should I say Zenia Lambourn?”

“Why on earth would either of them do such a thing?” Pendock asked incredulously. “Surely it is something no one would wish to make public? It would be most embarrassing. Your suggestion is eccentric, to put it at its kindest.”

Rathbone made one last attempt.

“My lord, we are uncertain whether Dr. Lambourn’s report contained references to the sale of opium and these needles, with details of the horror of the addiction such methods cause. Whether the stories are entirely true or not we do not know. But it remains likely that people’s names are mentioned, either as dealers of this poison or addicts to it. Finding every copy of these papers and making certain they do not fall into the wrong hands could be regarded as a service to anyone mentioned in them-and perhaps the country in general. Opium, used properly, and under medical supervision, remains the only ease we have for mortal pain.”

Pendock was silent for a long time.

The court waited. Every face in the gallery and in the jury box was turned toward the judge. Even Runcorn in the witness box turned to watch and wait.

Seconds ticked by. No one moved.

Finally Pendock reached a decision.

“Do you have any evidence of this, Mr. Runcorn?” he said quietly. “Evidence, not supposition and scandal?”

“Yes, my lord,” Runcorn answered. “But it is all in bits and pieces, scattered among the accounts of tragic infant deaths that Dr. Lambourn was looking for. He came across this other evidence by accident and we think he only pieced together who was behind it in the last few days of his life.”

Rathbone took a step forward.

“My lord, if we might have the rest of the day to assemble it sensibly, and make certain that no innocent person is unintentionally slandered, we might be able to present it to the court, or to your lordship in chambers, and see what the value of it may be.”

Pendock sighed heavily. “Very well. The court is adjourned until Tuesday morning.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone inclined his head, suddenly almost sick with relief.

Runcorn came down from the stand and walked toward him.

“Sir Oliver, Mr. Monk would like to see you, as soon as possible,” he said quietly. “We have more.”