A Sunless Sea

CHAPTER 23

In the morning, long before the court sat, Rathbone unlocked the safe again and took one of the prints that Ballinger had made of the photograph of Hadley Pendock. It was quite small, only three inches by four, a sample to show anyone what the original contained. Even so, the faces were clearly identifiable.

Rathbone put it in his pocket between two clean sheets of white notepaper, then left the house, taking a hansom to the Old Bailey. Today he needed to be early. As he rode through the gray icy morning streets he refused to let his mind even touch on what he must do, how he would say it, or how Pendock might respond. He had made up his mind, not that this was good, only that the alternative was unbearable.

He arrived at the court even before the usher, and had to wait until the man came in, startled to see Rathbone there before him.

“Are you all right, Sir Oliver?” he asked anxiously. He must know how the case was going. There was pity in his face.

“Yes, thank you, Rogers,” Rathbone said bleakly. “I need to speak to his lordship before we begin today. It is of the greatest possible importance, and it may take half an hour or so. I apologize for the inconveniences I am causing you.”

“No inconvenience at all, Sir Oliver,” Rogers said quickly. “It’s a miserable case. Maybe I shouldn’t be sorry for Mrs. Lambourn, but I am.”

“It speaks well for you, Rogers,” Rathbone replied with the ghost of a smile. “May I wait here?”

“Yes, of course, sir. As soon as I see his lordship I’ll tell him you’re here, and it’s urgent.”

“Thank you.”

It was another twenty-five minutes before Pendock came up the wide hallway and saw Rathbone. He looked grim, and clearly not at all pleased with what he feared was going to be an unpleasant interview.

“What is it?” he asked as soon as they were both inside his chambers and the door closed. “I cannot allow you any further latitude, Rathbone. You have exhausted all the leniency the court can allow. I’m sorry. You are on a loser this time. Accept it, man. Don’t string this out, for all our sakes, even hers.”

Rathbone sat down deliberately, as a signal that he would not be dismissed with a word. He saw the flicker of irritation on Pendock’s face.

“It is not over, my lord, until all the evidence has been heard, and the jury has delivered a verdict,” he replied. He drew in his breath and let it out very slowly.

“Due to circumstance,” he continued, “and entirely against my wish, I have recently inherited a very remarkable collection of photographs, which I keep in a safe place, away from my home.” That would soon be true.

“For God’s sake, Rathbone, I don’t care what you’ve inherited!” Pendock said with disbelief. “What on earth is the matter with you? Are you ill?”

Rathbone reached into his pocket and pulled out the sheets of paper and the photograph between them. Once he showed it to Pendock he would, like Caesar, have crossed the Rubicon, the line marking one side from the other; and he would, like Caesar, have declared war on his own people.

Pendock made a move to stand up, in effect a dismissal.

Rathbone took the top sheet off and laid the photograph bare.

Pendock glanced at it. Perhaps he did not see it clearly. His face filled with revulsion.

“God Almighty, man! That’s obscene!” He raised his eyes. “What on earth makes you imagine I might want to look at such filth?”

“I would not have thought so until yesterday,” Rathbone answered, his voice shaking in spite of his intense effort to control it. “Then I saw the same young man’s face in that picture over there.” He looked toward the silver-framed photograph on the table.

Pendock followed his gaze and his face flooded with scarlet. He seized the photograph where Rathbone had left it and held it close enough to the silver frame to compare one with another. Then the blood drained from his skin, leaving him as gray as the dead ashes in the morning fireplace. He staggered back and all but collapsed into his chair.

Rathbone felt worse than he could ever remember in his life, worse than when he had faced Ballinger in his cell, or found his murdered body so soon after; worse than when Margaret had left, even, because this was his own deliberate doing. It was open to him to have chosen differently. But what alternative could he have chosen?

Pendock lifted his head and looked at Rathbone with the same contempt with which he had regarded the small photograph when he had not known who it portrayed.

“I will not find Dinah Lambourn not guilty!” he said slowly, his voice a croak from a dry throat. “I … I’ll pay you anything you want, but I will not mock the law!”

“Damn you!” Rathbone shouted at him, half rising to his feet. “I don’t want your bloody money! And I don’t want a directed verdict. I’ve never looked for one in my life, and I’m not now. I just want you to preside over this trial fairly. I want you to allow my witnesses to testify and the jury to hear what they have to say. Then I’ll give you the original of the photograph, and all copies, and you can do what you like with them. Whether you speak to your son or not is your own choice and God help you.”

He leaned across the table toward Pendock. “You were willing to give me money to keep your son from paying the price of his criminal use of children, revolting as you find it. Is it so repellent to you to give Dinah Lambourn at least the justice of a fair hearing? She’s somebody’s child as well; somewhere there are people who love her. And if there weren’t, would that make her any less deserving?”

“It’s the natural … the natural instinct,” Pendock stammered. “This slander will damage the government, good men. We cannot change the law to alter people’s freedom to take whatever ease of pain they can, for the sake of the few who abuse it.”

“I love my freedom as much as the next man,” Rathbone answered. “But not at the cost this is to the weaker and more vulnerable, and those who exploit them for gain. Do you love your son more than you love justice?”

Pendock sank his head into his hands. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “No. No, I don’t. I think. But …” He opened his eyes slowly, his face now that of an old man. “Bring on your witnesses, Rathbone.”

Twenty minutes later Rathbone was standing in the open space before the witness stand, which was occupied by the largest woman he could ever remember having seen. She was not immensely fat, and only just over six foot tall, but at the top of the steps as she was, she seemed to tower above them all. She was broad-shouldered like a stevedore, huge-chested, her arms heavy and muscular. Thank heaven, she was soberly dressed, even though her expression was fierce, as if defying the ritual and establishment of the law to intimidate her.

Rathbone knew what she was going to say because he had spoken to her himself. He knew her passion to ease the pain of those who had nowhere else to turn, her knowledge of opium addiction and withdrawal, and her pity for Alvar Doulting and what he had once been. Hester had warned him that Agatha might be difficult to handle. Rathbone had a powerful feeling that that would prove to be an understatement. Still, he had used the means he dreaded most to force this chance and there was no turning back.

The court was waiting, the gallery hushed, the jurors surprised that there was still something to hear. Coniston was more than surprised. He looked confused. Obviously Pendock had not attempted to explain anything to him. How could he?

Rathbone cleared his throat. He must win. The cost had already been too high.

“Miss Nisbet,” he began, “it is my understanding that you run a voluntary clinic on the south bank of the river for the treatment of dockworkers and sailors who are injured or have illnesses due to the dangerous nature of their work. Is that correct?”

“Yes it is,” she answered. Her voice was unexpectedly gentle for so large a woman. One would not have been surprised were it baritone, like a man’s.

“Do you use opium to treat their pain?” He was asking his way gently toward the connection with Lambourn.

“Yes, course I do. There in’t nothing else as’ll do it. Some of them is hurtin’ very bad,” she answered. “Break ’alf a dozen bones an’ yer’ll know what pain is. Crush an arm, or a leg, an’ yer’ll know even better.”

“I was going to say that I can imagine,” Rathbone spoke gently, too, “but that would be a lie. I have no idea, for which I am profoundly grateful.” He hesitated a moment to allow the jury to place themselves in the same situation, facing pain beyond their nightmares, grasping some concept of what this woman dealt with every day.

“So you use a great deal of opium. You must know where to buy it, and perhaps something about opium dealing in general?” He made it a question. “And, of course, its effects on people after the pain is healed?”

Coniston was looking puzzled, but he had not yet interrupted. Surely he would any moment now.

“Course I do,” Agatha answered him.

“In this context, did Dr. Joel Lambourn come to see you within the last few weeks of his life? That would be between three and four months ago.”

“Yeah. ’E were askin’ questions about quality of opium, an’ if I knew ’ow ter give it without overdosin’ anyone,” she said.

Coniston could not endure it any longer. He rose to his feet.

“My lord, is this going anywhere of relevance? Surely my learned friend is not trying to damage the work this woman is doing to relieve the agony of injured men, just because she might have no medical training? If that is, indeed, what Lambourn was trying to do, no wonder the government judged the report to be better suppressed!”

There were murmurs of agreement and approval from the gallery.

Pendock appeared undecided. He looked from Coniston to Rathbone, and then back again.

Rathbone interrupted. “No, my lord. That is the opposite of my intention. I am only trying to establish Miss Nisbet’s skill and dedication, the fact that she is familiar with the opium market, and therefore a natural person for Dr. Lambourn to consult, possibly in some depth.”

“Proceed,” Pendock said with relief.

Coniston sat down again, even more puzzled.

Rathbone turned back to Agatha Nisbet.

“Miss Nisbet, I don’t believe it is necessary for the court to know all the details of your conversations with Dr. Lambourn regarding the purchase and availability of opium, or the ways in which you are able to know its quality. I will accept that you are an expert, and I will ask his lordship if the court will accept the evidence of your success in treating men as sufficient proof of it.” He turned to Pendock. “My lord?”

“We will accept it,” Pendock replied. “Please move on to your purpose in calling the witness regarding Zenia Gadney’s death.”

Coniston relaxed and leaned back in his seat.

“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone said graciously. He looked up at Agatha again. “What was Dr. Lambourn interested in learning from you, Miss Nisbet?”

“About opium. Specially ’oo cut it wi’ wot so it weren’t pure anymore,” she answered. “So I told ’im about the trade as I know. ’E listened to all of it, poor devil.” Her face, shadowed with some dark and complex emotion, was impossible to read. “I told ’im all I knew about it.”

“About shipping opium and its entry into the Port of London?” Rathbone continued.

“That’s wot ’e wanted, ter start with,” she replied.

“And then?”

“My lord!” Coniston shot up from his seat and protested again.

“Sit down, Mr. Coniston,” Pendock ordered. “We must allow the defense to reach a point of some relevance, which I assume will not be much longer in coming.”

Coniston was taken aback. He had clearly expected Pendock to support him, but at least for the time being he was willing to wait.

Rathbone began again. “But I assume that you told him more than simply details of shipping,” he said to Agatha. “That would not seem to relate in any way at all to the death of Zenia Gadney, or indeed to Dr. Lambourn’s own death, apparently by suicide.”

“Course not,” Agatha said with heavy disgust. “I told ’im about the new way o’ giving ’igh-quality opium with a needle. Acts faster and stronger for pain. Trouble is, it’s a hell of a lot ’arder ter stop when yer ’ave to. Longer you take it, ’arder it gets. Weeks or more, an’ some can’t stop it at all. Then yer got ’em fer life. Sell their own mothers for a dose of it.”

This time Coniston did not hesitate. He was on his feet and striding out into the main space of the floor before he even began to speak.

“My lord! We have already established that it is possible for the unskilled or ignorant to misuse opium, probably any other medicine, and your lordship has ruled that raking it up here in this trial, which has nothing to do with opium except in the most oblique way, is irrelevant. It is a waste of time; it will frighten the public unnecessarily, and may well be slanderous to doctors who are not here to defend themselves, their honor and their good name.”

Pendock was ashen gray, and he controlled himself with a difficulty that was clearly visible to everyone.

“I think we must allow Miss Nisbet to tell us what troubled Dr. Lambourn so much, if indeed she knows,” he answered. “I will warn her that no names are to be mentioned, unless she has proof of what she says. That should allay your anxieties about slander.” He looked at Rathbone. “Please continue, Sir Oliver, but arrive at something relevant as soon as you can, preferably before luncheon.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone inclined his head graciously. Even before Coniston had returned to his seat, confused and angry, he asked Agatha Nisbet to continue.

“ ’E asked me a lot o’ questions about addiction,” she said quietly. “An ’ow yer can get over it. I told ’im that for most people, yer can’t.”

Now the silence in the room was intense, as if every man and woman in it were holding his or her breath, afraid to move in case the slightest rustle of fabric distorted a word.

The moment was here. Rathbone hesitated, breathed in and out slowly, then asked the question, his voice a trifle husky.

“And what was his response, Miss Nisbet?”

“ ’E were gutted,” she said simply. “ ’E asked me if I would show ’im some proof of it, so ’e would know what ’e were talkin’ about, an’ so ’e could put it in ’is report for the government.”

“Did he say why he wanted to put it in his report?”

“Course ’e didn’t, but I ain’t bleedin’ stupid! ’E wanted to ’ave the government make a law so it would be a crime ter sell people that kind of opium, wi’ needles to put it inter their blood. ’E wanted it so only doctors ’oo really knew what they was doin’ could give it ter anyone.” She looked back at him with a rage so deep, words seemed inadequate to serve it. She blinked several times. “ ’E wanted ter see what it really did to anyone … to know everything about it.”

“And did you agree to do that?” Rathbone said softly.

“Course I did,” she answered witheringly, but there was pain in her voice, and Rathbone felt a sense of guilt himself for what he was about to do. But there was no choice. He was not only at the last, desperate point of his defense of Dinah Lambourn; he knew this was what Joel Lambourn had died for, and unequivocally, what was right. There was a horror waiting to destroy thousands, tens of thousands of people over time. He could not balk at causing this one person’s pain.

Coniston was on his feet. “My lord, Miss Nisbet may be a very worthy woman, and I don’t mean to belittle her efforts in any way, but all this is still hearsay. I assume she is not addicted to opium herself? If so, she seems to be managing with extraordinary ability to hide it. It would be flippant to suggest it is doing her good, but I do suggest she is an observer, and not a professionally skilled one at that. If we are to believe this of opium, then we must have doctors tell us so, not Miss Nisbet, for all her charitable work.”

Pendock looked at Rathbone with the question in his face, the panic in his hollow eyes.

Rathbone turned to the witness stand. “Who did you take Dr. Lambourn to see, Miss Nisbet?”

“Dr. Alvar Doulting,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve known ’im for years. Known ’im when ’e were one o’ the best doctors I ever seen.”

“And he is not now?” Rathbone asked.

Her look was bitter and filled with grief. “Some days ’e’s all right. Will be today, most likely.”

“He is ill?” Rathbone asked.

Coniston stood up again. “My lord, if the witness is not coming, for reasons of ill health or whatever else”-he used the terms scathingly-“then what is the purpose of this hearsay?”

“He is coming, my lord,” Rathbone stated, hoping to heaven he was correct. Hester was supposed to be bringing him, with Monk’s help, if that should prove necessary.

Coniston looked around him as if searching for the missing doctor. He gave a very slight shrug. “Indeed?”

Rathbone was desperate. Neither Monk nor Hester had come into the courtroom to indicate that Doulting was safely here. If Rathbone called him and he failed to appear, Coniston would demand they begin their summing up and Pendock would not have any excuse to refuse him.

“I still have further questions for Miss Nisbet,” Rathbone said, his mind racing to think how he could string this out any further. There really was little else Agatha Nisbet could say that would not be obvious even to the jury as playing for time.

“My lord”-Coniston’s weariness was only slightly an exaggeration-“the court is being indulgent enough to the accused in allowing this doctor to testify at all. If the man cannot even appear, then-”

Pendock took it out of his control. “The court will adjourn for an hour, to allow everyone to compose themselves, perhaps take a glass of water.” He rose stiffly, as if all his joints hurt, and walked from the room.

As soon as he was gone Coniston came over to Rathbone. His face was very pale and for the first time Rathbone had ever seen it, his collar was a trifle askew.

“Can we talk?” he asked urgently.

“I’m not sure what there is to say,” Rathbone answered.

Coniston moved his hand as if to take Rathbone by the arm, then changed his mind and let it fall again. “Please? This is very serious. I’m not sure if you understand the full implications.”

“I’m not sure they’re going to make any difference,” Rathbone told him frankly.

“Well, I could do with a drink anyway,” Coniston replied. “I feel like hell, and you look like it. What the devil have you done to Pendock? He looks like a corpse dug up!”

“That’s none of your concern,” Rathbone replied with a brief smile to rob the words of their sting, although he meant them. “If he wants to tell you, that is up to him.”

They were out in the hall now and Coniston stopped abruptly, staring at Rathbone. For the first time he realized that something really had changed, and he was no longer in control.

Rathbone led the way now, going out of the courthouse and down the steps to the street. They went to the nearest decent public house and ordered brandy, in spite of the early hour.

“You’re playing with fire,” Coniston said very quietly after he had taken the first sip of his drink and allowed its burning warmth to slide down his throat. “Do you know what sort of restrictions Lambourn was going to advocate, and who would be made into a criminal because of it?”

“No!” Rathbone said quietly. “But I’m beginning to have a rather strong idea that you do.”

Coniston looked grim. “You know better than to ask me that, Rathbone. I can’t reveal anything told me in confidence.”

“That rather depends on by whom,” Rathbone pointed out. “And whether it conceals the truth of Lambourn’s death, and consequently protects whoever murdered and then eviscerated Zenia Lambourn.”

“It doesn’t,” Coniston’s eyes widened. “You know me better than that.”

“Are you sure?” Rathbone asked, meeting Coniston’s gaze and holding it. “What about the effective murder of Dinah Lambourn? And that is what it will be if we deliberately allow her to be hanged for a crime she did not commit. I think you can see as well as I can that there is a great deal more to this case than domestic jealousy between two women who have known about each other for the best part of fifteen years.”

Coniston was silent for several moments, sipping his brandy again. His hand around the glass was white-knuckled.

“Lambourn’s death was the catalyst,” he said finally. “Suddenly his money was at stake, Dinah’s whole life as she knew it, and that of her children.”

“Rubbish,” Rathbone replied. “Her life as she knew it ended with his death because she loved him. He was murdered because of his proposal to add restrictions to the sales of opium because of what he discovered about the effects of taking it by needle. She is willing to risk being hanged in order to clear his name of suicide and professional incompetence, and perhaps even to see his work completed simply because he believed in it. Even though she didn’t, and still doesn’t, know what it really is.”

“For God’s sake, Rathbone!” Coniston exclaimed. “She’s facing the hangman because the evidence says she’s guilty. She lied to Monk and he caught her in it. From the evidence you’ve provided, if Lambourn didn’t kill himself, it’s even possible she killed him also. We have only her own, and her sister-in-law’s, word for it that she knew about Zenia Gadney. There’s a very reasonable case to say that she only learned about Zenia just before Lambourn’s death, and that’s the connection.” He smiled with a bitter irony. “You might just have proved her guilty of both murders.”

Rathbone sat staring at Coniston. He realized now how shallow his knowledge of the man was. Good family; excellent education; good career, improving all the time. Fortunate, if possibly dull marriage. Three daughters and a son. But he knew nothing of the inner man, the hopes or the dreams. What hurt him, or made him laugh? What was he afraid of, apart from poverty or failure? Was he afraid of making a mistake, convicting an innocent person? Was he ever lonely? Did he doubt the best in himself, or fear the worst? Had he ever loved someone, and been proved hideously wrong, as Rathbone had?

He had no idea.

“Do you give a damn what the truth is?” he said quietly.

Coniston leaned forward across the table, his face tense, the skin drawn suddenly tight with his own urgency. “Yes, I do! And I care like hell that we don’t betray our country’s laws and freedoms, the tolerance of individuals’ rights to take whatever medicines they choose, how they choose. Information is one thing, and I’m all for that. But making opium illegal and the sellers of it criminals is quite another. You can’t prove anything at all from this Nisbet woman’s words.”

“We may not be able to affect what the Pharmacy Act says, and whether opium sales are restricted, or not. That is not our decision,” Rathbone argued. “But we can and must affect what happens in the Old Bailey this week. You’d better choose where you stand, Coniston, because you aren’t going to be able to play the middle any longer. Are you sure, beyond reasonable doubt, that what this Nisbet woman says isn’t true, and doesn’t have any bearing on why Lambourn was killed?”

Coniston blinked. “What are you saying? That someone selling pure opium here in London, now, killed Lambourn, and then Zenia Gadney?”

“Are you saying that isn’t a possibility?” Rathbone watched Coniston’s face, and the realization hit him. He drew in his breath and let it out very slowly. His heart was pounding so violently he felt as if it must be making his body shake. “My God. You know who is behind this, don’t you!” It was a statement, not a question, in fact all but an accusation.

“He did not kill either Lambourn or Zenia Gadney,” Coniston said so softly, Rathbone barely heard him. “Do you really think I didn’t make certain of that myself?”

“Did you? Are you saying that out of knowledge or belief?” Rathbone asked. Was it all slipping away from him again, in his grasp, and then gone, like mist from empty hands?

“Knowledge,” Coniston answered. “Give me that much credit. He believes Lambourn’s response to what Agatha Nisbet told him was hysterical and completely disproportionate. He wanted that part of his report excluded. He’s not guilty of this. Lambourn was a fanatic and he took his own life. His wife couldn’t accept that and chose this insane and terrible way of trying to force the government’s hand.” His glance wavered, but only for an instant.

“What?” Rathbone demanded.

“Bring in your witness.” Coniston’s voice was a whisper, all but caught in his throat. He sighed. “Play it out. I imagine you’re going to anyway. But be warned, if you somehow manage to ruin an innocent man, I’ll personally see that you pay for it with your career. I don’t care how damn clever you are.”

“An innocent man? What is he innocent of? Murder of Lambourn and Zenia Gadney, or of selling people a one-way ticket to hell?”

“Just stop dancing around and prove something!” Coniston answered.

“I mean to.” Rathbone finished the last of his brandy. “But don’t forget, reasonable doubt is enough.” He put the empty glass down and rose to his feet. He walked away without looking back.

Rathbone saw no sign of either Monk or Hester in the hallways as he returned. His muscles locked tight with tension.

The court resumed with Agatha Nisbet back on the stand again. The jurors looked pale and unhappy, but not one of them averted his eyes or his attention from her.

“You have described some of the most terrible suffering any of us here has heard,” Rathbone began. “Did you describe these things also to Dr. Joel Lambourn?”

“Yes, I did,” she said simply. “I took ’im an’ I showed ’im.”

“And what was Dr. Lambourn’s reaction?” he asked, looking up at Agatha again.

“ ’E were sick,” she answered. “Looked like a man with the ague. At first ’e were just revolted, like anyone would be, then as we saw more, ’e got gray in the face an’ I were afraid ’e were going to ’ave a seizure or an ’eart attack. I even fetched ’im brandy.”

“And that revived him?”

“Not a lot. ’E looked like a man as ’ad seen death in front of ’im. Reckon as perhaps ’e ’ad, save it weren’t more’n a few days before ’e were found with ’is wrists cut, poor sod.” Her language was coarse, but the pity in her face, even the grief, was too powerful to belittle or ignore.

Rathbone deliberately took a risk, but time was pressing hard on him. “Did he seem to you suicidal?”

“The doctor?” she said incredulously. “Don’t be a fool! ’E were ’ell-bent on stoppin’ it, whatever it cost. Never reckoned as it’d cost ’im ’is life. Not ter even think of ’is wife too.”

“Are you referring to Zenia Gadney?”

“Never ’eard of ’er, till now. I meant Dinah. An’ if yer think she killed ’im yer dafter than them as is in Bedlam chained ter the walls an’ ’owlin’ at the moon.”

Rathbone controlled the slightly hysterical laughter that welled up inside him.

“I do not think so, Miss Nisbet. Nor do I think she killed Miss Gadney. I think Dinah Lambourn guessed some of this. Then when Zenia Gadney was murdered, she allowed herself to be accused, even adding to her appearance of guilt by telling a lie she knew would very quickly be found out.”

He hesitated only a moment. “She did this, risking her own life, so this court could discover and expose the truth. That is a truly remarkable love, a loyalty beyond death. I thank you, Miss Nisbet, for your courage in coming here to tell us of horrors I am sure you would far rather not relive. Please wait there in case Mr. Coniston has anything to ask you.”

He returned to his seat, wondering what Coniston would do, and if Pendock would support him if he objected.

Coniston rose slowly. He walked out into the center of the floor with even more grace than usual. Rathbone did not know him well enough to be certain if that was a mark of excess of confidence, or a time-wasting maneuver because he lacked confidence.

As soon as Coniston spoke, he knew it was the latter. All his original certainty had evaporated, but it was a good mask, nonetheless. The jury would not read him.

“Miss Nisbet,” he began courteously, “you have seen some shocking and very dreadful things. I respect you since they so clearly move your compassion, and your will to help and minister to the sick.” He moved two or three steps to the left and then turned. “In all this horror, did you see the face of any man responsible for the sale of opium, and the needles to administer it into the blood? Are you certain you would even recognize him if you saw him again, unconnected to his trade?”

Rathbone saw the look of confusion in Agatha’s face. He rose to his feet.

“My lord, Miss Nisbet has not stated that she would remember him, or indeed that she ever knew his name. All she said was that Dr. Lambourn had a powerful and extremely distressed reaction to her story and behaved as if he knew who it was.”

“You are quite correct, Sir Oliver,” Pendock agreed. He turned to Coniston. “Perhaps it would be simpler, Mr. Coniston, if you were merely to ask the witness if she believes she would recognize the man again, were she to see him, here or elsewhere.”

Coniston’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed.

Agatha answered simply. “I never saw ’im, far as I know. But-” She stopped abruptly.

“But …?” Coniston asked quickly.

“But that in’t no use,” she answered, clearly lying.

Coniston drew breath to ask a further question, then changed his mind. “Thank you, Miss Nisbet,” he said, turning and walking back toward his table. “Oh! Just one more thing, did Dr. Lambourn tell you that he knew who this man was, or that he was acquainted with him, that he would challenge him, ruin him, see him in prison? Anything like that?”

It was a gamble, and even the jury seemed to be aware of it. The silence was intense.

Rathbone rose again. “My lord, perhaps one question at a time might be clearer, both for Miss Nisbet and for the jury?”

“Indeed,” Pendock agreed. “Mr. Coniston, if you please?”

Coniston’s face colored deeply, and his jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in it bulged.

“My lord.” There was the slightest edge of sarcasm in his acquiescence. “Miss Nisbet, did Dr. Lambourn say that he knew this man you say sells opium for profit?”

“No, sir, but ’e went white like ’e were going ter faint,” she replied.

“Could that be the very natural horror of a decent man told of abominable human crime and suffering?”

“Course it could,” she said tartly.

“Did he say that he had either the wish or the power to ruin this man? For example, send him to prison?” Coniston continued.

“I went ter get ’im brandy. ’E didn’t say much at all, ’ceptin’ ter thank me.”

“I see. Did he at any time tell you that he was going to face this man, accuse him, or otherwise bring him to answer for his terrible trade? Did he tell you this man’s name?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Miss Nisbet. That is all I have to ask you.”

Rathbone was on his feet yet again. “May I re-direct, my lord?”

“Of course,” Pendock told him.

Rathbone looked up at Agatha. “Miss Nisbet, did you form the opinion that Dr. Lambourn was deeply horrified by what you told him?”

“Course ’e was,” she said witheringly.

“Because of the suffering, the crime of it?”

“I think it were ’cos ’e ’ad an idea ’oo it were,” she said slowly and distinctly. “But ’e never told me.”

There was an immediate ripple of amazement and horror through the room. Rathbone turned to look at the gallery, and at that moment saw the door open and Hester come in. Their eyes met and she gave a very slight nod. Relief washed through Rathbone like a wave of heat. He turned to the judge, the smile still on his lips.

“I would like to call Dr. Alvar Doulting to the stand, my lord.”

Pendock glanced at the clock on the far wall.

“Very well. You may proceed.”

Alvar Doulting came up the aisle between the seats in the gallery and across the open floor. He climbed the steps of the witness stand with difficulty. When he reached the top and faced Rathbone, suddenly all that Agatha Nisbet had said of a living hell became real to Rathbone’s eyes. Doulting looked like a man who lived in a nightmare. His skin was gray and sheened with sweat. In spite of the fact that he clung to the rail, he was trembling violently. A muscle in his face twitched and he was so gaunt the bones of his skull seemed to stretch his skin.

Rathbone felt a searing guilt that he had compelled the man to come here.

Doulting swore to his name and his professional qualifications, which were impressive. He had clearly once been a great doctor in the making. The man who stood in front of them now was the more horrifying because of it.

Based upon what Agatha Nisbet had told him, Rathbone began his questioning, urged on by the feeling that Doulting might not stay well long enough to say much. If the diarrhea, vomiting, and cramps that Winfarthing described in the withdrawal symptoms of addiction were to strike him, he would be unable to continue, no matter how critical his evidence was to the case. And yet still Rathbone felt brutal doing it.

“Thank you, Dr. Doulting,” he said with profound sincerity. “I appreciate your coming. Since you are clearly unwell, I shall be as brief as I can. Did you speak with Dr. Joel Lambourn, shortly before his death in early October?”

“Yes, I did.” Doulting’s voice was steady, in spite of his physical distress.

“Did he ask you about the sale and use of opium, in the course of his investigation into the possible Pharmacy Act prepared by Parliament?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him, if anything, beyond the dangers of people overusing it because of the fact that it was inadequately labeled?”

Doulting gripped the railing more tightly and took a deep breath.

“I told him about the relief opium gave to agonizing pain when it was administered directly into the bloodstream using the recent invention of a hollow needle attached to a syringe. I also told him how much more deeply addictive it is, acting within a matter of days to make someone so dependent upon it that it is almost beyond a person’s ability to stop using it. It takes over their lives. The hell of being without it is almost as bad as the pain it relieved.”

Rathbone was compelled to ask the next question, even though he hated doing so. He felt the clenching of his own body as he imagined not only the man’s pain but his humiliation.

“And how do you know this, Dr. Doulting?”

“Because I am addicted to it myself,” Doulting answered. “I was given it with the best intentions, after I had my pelvis crushed in an accident. My pain then was almost unbearable. The opium was given to me for some time, until the bones healed. Now that the pain is almost forgotten, I wish I had never seen opium, never heard of it. I dread the hell of withdrawal and can bear to survive only for the comfort the next dose of opium will bring.”

“Where do you obtain it?” Rathbone asked.

“From a man who sells it to me, in a form pure enough to inject into my body.”

“Is it expensive?”

“Yes.”

“How do you afford it?”

“I have lost everything I had, my house, my family, my practice. Now I must do his bidding to sell it to others who have also become its slaves. I think perhaps I would rather be dead.” There was no melodrama in his voice, no self-pity. “It would certainly be better for others, and perhaps it would be better for me also.”

Rathbone wished he could reply with any comfort at all, even if only to acknowledge his dignity, but this was not the place.

“Do you know the name of this man, Dr. Doulting?” he asked.

“No. I would tell you if I did.”

“Would you? What would happen to your supply then?”

“It would be stopped, as I imagine it will be now that I have testified here. I really don’t think I care anymore.”

Rathbone lowered his gaze. “There is nothing I can say to touch your pain. The best I can do is thank you for coming here and testifying to this court-at such price to yourself. Please wait there in case Mr. Coniston has anything to ask you.”

Coniston stood up slowly. “Dr. Doulting, do you expect us to take this fearful account solely on your word? By your own admission, you are the servant of this man and will do anything for your dosage of opium.”

Doulting looked at him with weary contempt. “If you doubt me, go into the back alleys and gutters where the lost and the dying are. You’ll find others who’ll tell you the same thing. For God’s sake, man, look at me! Before the opium I was as respectable as you, and as comfortable. I had rank and position, a home, a profession. I had health. I slept at night in my own bed and woke looking forward to the day. Now all I want is redemption-and death.”

There was a wave of pity from the court in sighs and murmurs so palpable that Coniston found himself unable to continue. He looked up at Doulting, then across at Rathbone. Someone in the gallery called out to him to sit down.

“Order!” Pendock said loudly. “I will have order. Thank you, Mr. Coniston. Is that all?”

“Yes, my lord, thank you.”

Pendock looked at Rathbone. “Court is adjourned for today.”

Late that afternoon and into the evening, Rathbone, Monk, Hester, and Runcorn sat around the kitchen table eating, drinking tea, and planning the last day of the trial. Sleet battered against the windows and the oven made the room an island of warmth.

“Might have enough evidence for a verdict based on reasonable doubt,” Rathbone said unhappily, “which I suppose is better than I hoped for a day or two ago. But I want to prove her innocent. Her life will still be ruined without more than this.”

“And she will not have cleared Lambourn’s name,” Monk pointed out.

Hester was staring at the plates arranged on the dresser, but clearly her vision was beyond them, far into a space only she could see.

“Do you believe Lambourn knew who it was?” she asked, shaking her head a little and looking at Rathbone. “He must have, mustn’t he? Or at the very least, whoever it is thought he knew. That has to be why he was killed. If he had handed in a revised report and the government had seen it, especially Mr. Gladstone, who is something of a moral crusader, selling opium might well be made illegal.”

“It would make sense,” Runcorn agreed. “If he was killed by someone he knew, that would explain why he went out to meet them alone in the evening. Maybe he even walked up One Tree Hill with them.”

“If he went up the hill alone with them, at night, knowing who they were and what they did, then he was an idiot!” Monk said savagely. He ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry,” he apologized. “There’s something here we’re missing. It does look as if he could well have gone up the hill with someone he knew. There were no marks of hoofprints or tire tracks on the path or the grass, and no one could have carried him up there single-handed. Even two would have found it difficult. It doesn’t make sense.”

Rathbone nodded. “We always assumed he walked willingly, but alone.” He turned to Runcorn. “Were there any footprints other than his?”

“Those of the man who found him, and by the time I got there, other police, and the police surgeon,” Runcorn replied. “There could have been anyone else’s and I wouldn’t have seen. And to be honest, at that time I assumed it was suicide, too. I didn’t think of alternatives. I should have.” He looked wretched, filled with guilt for an irresponsible oversight.

Rathbone glanced at Monk and saw the pity in his face. This was something that would have been unimaginable only a year or two ago.

“Actually we know it wasn’t either Herne or Bawtry in person, because there are people who’ll swear they were elsewhere, lots of people,” Hester said. “So if it was one of them who was selling the opium, then he had somebody else actually kill Lambourn. But they can’t account for their time when Zenia Gadney was killed. They wouldn’t think to, because as far as anyone else knew, there was no connection.”

“They paid someone to kill Lambourn?” Rathbone asked. “Zenia? Is that possible? And then killed her so she couldn’t betray them, or blackmail them?”

“Why wait two months?” Monk asked.

“Perhaps she didn’t try blackmail until then?” Rathbone suggested.

“Or perhaps it isn’t either Herne or Bawtry anyway?” Runcorn put in. “Where do we go if it’s someone else altogether?”

Monk sighed. “Let’s look at who it has to be.” He ticked off the points on his fingers, one by one. “Someone Lambourn knew, and who had the power to have his report rejected, and his name blackened for incompetence.” He went to the second finger. “Someone who had access to raw opium of pure quality in order to sell it.” He touched the third. “Someone who knew of Lambourn’s connection with Zenia Gadney, and was in a position to make it look as if Dinah had killed her.”

“One more,” Hester added.

“What?”

“Someone who knew a woman who could pose as Dinah in the shop in Copenhagen Place. She could have worn a wig to imitate Dinah’s hair, but it had to be a woman,” she answered.

“Unless it really was Dinah?” Monk looked from one to the other of them to see what they thought.

Suddenly an idea came to Rathbone’s mind. He looked up quickly.

“I … I think I know.” The words seemed absurd, not courageous but idiotic and desperate. “I want to have Bawtry in court tomorrow, and Herne and his wife. I think I know how I might trick them on the stand.”

“Think?” Monk said softly.

“Yes … I think. Do you have a better idea?”

Monk pushed his hands through his hair again. “No.” He looked at Runcorn.

“We’ll do whatever you want,” Runcorn promised. “God help us.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone answered almost under his breath, wondering if he could be right, and if he could possibly pull it off.