A Sunless Sea

CHAPTER 24

Rathbone slept badly. There was too much racing through his mind, too many possibilities for success, and for failure. His plans were made, but everything rested in the balance of his one last, great gamble. In his mind he turned over everything he could say, every disaster he might avert, or rescue if it came down to it.

He drifted off into fitful sleep, still troubled. If he lost, Dinah would be hanged. Either way, in using the photograph to dictate Pendock’s behavior, to force him into decisions he would not have otherwise made, what had Rathbone done to himself?

Would Pendock ever forgive him? Rathbone knew that if he were certain of the decision he had made in his own mind, that should not matter. But how could one ever be certain when it came to using such methods?

Was he sure Dinah was innocent? Was he seeing her as a woman who would risk anything and everything to save her dead husband’s name because that was what he wanted to see, needed to believe someone would do? And did it ease any of the pain he felt from the bitter end of his own marriage?

He woke late, with a jolt of panic; what if he did not get to the Old Bailey in time? The day was jarringly cold; the sky was dark and the easterly wind carried a sleety edge of worse to come. The pavements were icy, and keeping balance was hard as he strode along.

Runcorn, his first witness, was already waiting for him in the hallway as he went toward his chambers to put on his wig and gown. He had never imagined he would find Runcorn’s figure reassuring, but it was acutely so today. The man had a solidity to him, a certainty of the things he believed in.

“All present and correct, Sir Oliver,” Runcorn said quietly.

For a moment Rathbone was puzzled. It seemed an oddly inclusive expression to use referring to himself.

“Mr. and Mrs. Herne, Bawtry, and the police surgeon, sir,” Runcorn explained. “And Mrs. Monk says she’ll do the best to fetch Dr. Doulting again, just as you said. Could be that the poor man’s too ill.”

Rathbone drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of overwhelming relief. “Thank you.”

“And there’s a Mr. Wilkie Collins here as well,” Runcorn went on. “Something to do with the Pharmacy Act. Says he’s supporting it, and to send you the message that he’ll remember Joel Lambourn. I gather he’s a writer of some sort.”

Rathbone smiled. “Indeed he is. Please give him my compliments, Mr. Runcorn. If I survive this, I’ll take him to the best dinner in town.”

Runcorn smiled back. “Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later Runcorn was on the witness stand and Rathbone was looking across at him. The gallery was silent, the twelve jurors sitting motionless. A few of them appeared not to have slept much either.

Upon his high chair Pendock seemed like an old man. Rathbone wanted to avoid looking at him at all, but to do so would be both foolish and impossibly rude. He was acutely aware that if he had not spoken, Pendock might have died without ever knowing of his son’s aberration. The knowledge of it now was a dark burden to carry, whatever the nature of this one trial.

At the next table Coniston was tense, looking one way and then another. Even the jury must see that he had lost the certainty he had shown as recently as yesterday morning.

Rathbone cleared his throat, coughed, then coughed again.

“Mr. Runcorn, in the light of further evidence and certain facts that seem to be unclear, I must take you back to your earlier testimony regarding the death of Joel Lambourn.”

Coniston half rose, but Pendock was there before him.

“I realize you object, Mr. Coniston, but nothing has been said yet. I shall stop Sir Oliver if he wanders from the point. I imagine the prosecution is as keen as the rest of the court to learn the truth of this. If indeed Dr. Lambourn was murdered, then in the interests of justice we must know that.” He smiled in a ghastly gesture, looking like a man drowning. “If the accused is guilty of that also, I assume you wish to know it?”

Coniston sat back down again, looking at Rathbone with an expression of complete confusion. “Yes, my lord,” he said grudgingly.

Rathbone waited a second or two, then asked his first question of Runcorn.

“You were called to take over the investigation of Dr. Lambourn’s death as soon as the local police realized who he was, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Runcorn replied simply. This was the last stand, and there was no time or need to elaborate beyond what was absolutely necessary.

“You examined the body, and the surrounding scene?” Rathbone asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you tell if Dr. Lambourn had walked to the place where you found him, or been carried there in some way?”

“I can tell you that there were no marks on the ground of any kind of transport, sir,” Runcorn said firmly. “Nothing with wheels anywhere near, no hoofprints of any horse, just the foot marks of several men, and those of a dog, matching the one belonging to the gentleman who found the body.”

“Do you conclude from that absence of these indications that Dr. Lambourn walked?”

“Yes, sir. He was at least an average height and weight of man. It would have been impossible for one man to have carried him all the way from the path. It was some distance-hundred yards or so-and steep.”

“Two men?” Rathbone asked.

Coniston rolled his eyes with exasperation, but he did not interrupt.

“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Runcorn answered. “Two men carrying a body would have left some kind of mark on the grass, and even on the path. It’s very awkward, carrying a dead weight. Have to go sideways some of the time, or even backward. Slips out of your grip. Anyone who’s tried it would know.”

“But what footprints were there around the body?” Rathbone persisted.

“Clearly?” Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “Impossible to say, sir. Too many people been there. The gentleman who found him, the policemen, the surgeon. They all went up to him, naturally, at first probably to see if they could help. Pretty well mucked up everything. No harm meant, of course. Couldn’t know it would ever matter.”

“Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “So he could have walked there himself, either alone, or with someone else?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you ever find the knife with which he had cut his wrists?”

Runcorn shook his head. “No, sir. Looked very hard, even at some distance, to see if he could have thrown it. Don’t know how far a man can throw a knife when he’s just cut his wrists. Come to that, don’t know why he would want to.”

“Nor do I,” Rathbone agreed. “Did you find anything in which he could have taken the opium? I’m thinking of a bottle for water, or a vial that contained any solution in which opium could have been dissolved.”

“No, sir. Looked for that, too.”

“Or a syringe with a needle?” Rathbone asked.

“No, sir, nothing.”

“Nevertheless, at first you concluded that his death was suicide?”

“At first, yes, sir,” Runcorn agreed. “But the more I thought about it, the unhappier I got. Still, there was nothing I could do until Mr. Monk came along about a second death, which was very definitely a murder, and asked me to look into Dr. Lambourn’s death a little harder.”

“But you had been told to leave the matter as it was, had you not?” Rathbone pressed.

“Yes, sir. I did it in my own time, but I’m aware I’d been ordered to leave it,” Runcorn admitted. “But I began to think he was murdered. I can’t leave that to rest without knowing for sure.”

Coniston stood up abruptly.

“Yes, yes,” Pendock said quickly. “Mr. Runcorn, please do not give us any conclusions you may have come to unless you have proof that they are correct.”

“Sorry, my lord,” Runcorn said contritely. He did not argue, although Rathbone could see from his face that his silence was not easy.

“Mr. Runcorn, did you see any marks of struggle on the ground, or on Dr. Lambourn’s person?” Rathbone asked. “Were his clothes torn or in disarray, for example? Were his shoes scuffed, his hair tangled or his skin bruised?”

“No, sir. He looked fairly peaceful.”

“As a man might who had committed suicide?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or been brought there, dosed with opium he took to be something else?” Rathbone suggested. “Given to him by someone he trusted, causing him to be insensible when that person carefully slit his wrists and left him there to bleed to death, alone in the night?”

Runcorn’s face showed his imagination of the tragedy. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, his voice a little husky. “Exactly like that.”

Coniston looked up at Pendock, but this time kept his silence with grim resignation.

“Thank you, Mr. Runcorn,” Rathbone said courteously. “Please wait until Mr. Coniston has asked you whatever he wishes to.”

Coniston stood up and walked toward the witness stand. “Mr. Runcorn, did you see anything whatsoever to prove that Dr. Lambourn was in the company of anyone when he went up One Tree Hill in the middle of the night?”

“It isn’t so much what I saw as what I didn’t see,” Runcorn replied. “No knife to cut his wrists, nothing with which to take opium.”

“And from that you deduce that it was someone he knew, and trusted, this mystery companion?” Coniston pursued.

“Yes, sir. Seems to make sense. Why would you go up a hill in the dark with someone you didn’t trust? And there were no signs of a fight. Anyone fights for their life, when it comes down to it.”

“Indeed.” Coniston nodded. “Then it could even have been a woman, for example the accused, his … mistress, with whom he lived as if she were his wife, and pretended to the world that she was, who was with him?”

There was a gasp in the gallery at Coniston’s blunt statement. Several jurors actually looked up at the dock, where Dinah sat white-faced.

“Could’ve been,” Runcorn agreed quietly. “But then, it could’ve been the lady who really was his wife.”

One of the jurors blasphemed-and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth and blushed scarlet.

Pendock glanced at him but said nothing.

“Thank you, Mr. Runcorn. I think we have heard enough of your remarkable suppositions.” Coniston returned to his seat.

“Anything further, Sir Oliver?” Pendock inquired.

“No, thank you, my lord,” Rathbone answered. “I would like to call Dr. Wembley, the surgeon who examined Dr. Lambourn’s body.”

Wembley was called, sworn in, and faced Rathbone.

“I shall be very brief, Dr. Wembley,” Rathbone began, still standing out in the center of the open space, every eye upon him. “Were there any marks on the body of Joel Lambourn when you examined him on One Tree Hill, or later in your postmortem?”

“Other than the cuts on his wrists, you mean?” Wembley asked. “No, none at all. He seemed to be a healthy man in his fifties, well nourished and perfectly normal.”

“Could you say whether or not he had been involved in any kind of physical struggle immediately prior to his death?” Rathbone asked.

“He had not.”

“Were there any bruises, ligature marks, abrasions, anything at all on his body or his clothes to suggest he had been carried manually?” Rathbone pursued. “Or that he had been tied up, perhaps by the ankles, arms, or any other part of his body? Or bumped around? The rubbing of fabric, perhaps, twisting as if something had been used to make carrying easier?”

Wembley looked incredulous. “Nothing whatsoever. I can’t think what gives you that idea.”

“I do not have that idea, Doctor,” Rathbone assured him. “I simply want to exclude it. I believe Dr. Lambourn walked up One Tree Hill in the company of someone he trusted completely. It never occurred to him that they might do him any harm whatsoever.” He smiled bleakly. “Thank you, Dr. Wembley. That is all I have to ask you.”

This time Coniston did not take the trouble to cross-examine. His face showed his belief in the total futility of the entire exercise.

MONK ARRIVED AT THE Old Bailey considerably later than Rathbone, after the trial had resumed. He had been out since before dawn questioning people near the Limehouse Pier and along Narrow Street leading to it, asking the new questions that they had planned yesterday evening. He had the answers, even though he had come perilously close to putting them in the witnesses’ mouths. But he believed them, and time was desperate.

He was walking up the long hall when he recognized ahead of him the figures of Barclay and Amity Herne. They were standing fairly close to each other, but there was no ease in either of them. Barclay was facing a doorway to one side of the hall, as if expecting someone to emerge out of it. There was anxiety in every line and angle of his body, and the side of his face that Monk could see was sharp with fear.

Amity was facing him, half facing Monk, but she was oblivious to everyone else aside from her husband. She was speaking to him urgently and-to judge by her expression-with both anger and contempt.

Monk stopped, pretending to search his pockets for something, and watched them discreetly.

Amity appeared to repeat something she had said and took Herne by the arm. He shook her off as though her touch soiled his clothes. Then, with a single word of dismissal, he walked briskly away, disappearing around the first corner.

Amity stood still. Her back was to Monk now, so he could not read her expression, but the rigidity of her body, the stiff, high shoulders, were expressive enough.

He was about to move forward himself when the door Herne had been watching opened and Sinden Bawtry came out. Immediately, as if by the simple drawing of a curtain, Amity Herne changed completely. She turned toward him and Monk could see most of her face. It was lit with joy, her eyes soft and bright, a slight smile parting her lips.

Could she be so good an actress? Surely this was an unguarded moment no one was meant to see, perhaps least of all her husband?

Bawtry came toward her, smiling. Was there more warmth in it than courtesy required, or was Monk imagining it because of the sudden fire in her? Bawtry touched her, just one hand on her arm, but the gesture was clearly gentle. His hand lingered. Her smile became even softer.

Then they remembered themselves and the moment vanished. He spoke. She answered, and formality was restored again.

Monk stepped forward from the place where he had stopped and walked briskly on toward the court where he knew he would soon be called.

Rathbone was relieved when Monk climbed the steps to the witness stand and was sworn in again. Rathbone knew that Coniston’s patience and Pendock’s strength were both wearing out. He must hold the jury’s attention. They must begin to believe him soon and see a totally different pattern emerging. All he had asked of Pendock, all he could or would ask, was a fair hearing.

“Mr. Monk,” he began, his voice hard and clear, “I know you have already testified to finding the body of Zenia Gadney, horribly mutilated, but I must ask again details I did not ask before, because new explanations have become highly possible. Mrs. Gadney’s body was found early in the morning, as was Dr. Lambourn’s. Can you tell us again exactly where that was?”

“On Limehouse Pier.”

“On the pier itself?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a place where a prostitute might conduct her business?”

“No. It would be very easily seen from the river. Any boat going by, unless a certain distance from the shore, would observe you.”

“Yet the body was not found until you came by at roughly sunrise?”

“Because it was lying down and motionless.” Monk’s face tightened. “She could easily have been mistaken for a heap of rags, or an old tarpaulin, the way she had been left there.”

Rathbone felt a slight sickness clench in his stomach. “And your attention was drawn by a woman screaming?”

“Yes.”

“Briefly, what did you then, Mr. Monk?”

“Mr. Orme and I took the boat in to the woman who had attracted our attention. She was screaming because she had discovered the dead and grossly mutilated body of a woman who proved to be Zenia Gadney, a resident of Copenhagen Place, nearly half a mile away.”

“Mrs. Gadney, she had been murdered?” Rathbone asked.

“Yes.”

“In the course of your investigations did you learn why she was out at night, alone, in such a place as Limehouse Pier?”

“Apparently she liked to walk in that area, in daylight.” Monk hesitated a moment. Was he as aware of the gamble they were taking as Rathbone was?

“And was she alone then?” Rathbone prompted. He could not afford to slip now.

“She was seen with another woman at about sunset,” Monk answered quietly.

“Another woman?” Rathbone repeated it, his voice raised to make sure no one failed to hear.

“Yes. I have several witnesses who say it was a woman. They did not know who it was, nor were they able to give any detailed description, except that she was a few inches taller than Mrs. Gadney,” Monk answered him.

“Did they appear to know each other?” Rathbone asked. “According to your witnesses.”

“That was their impression,” Monk conceded. He looked tense, worried. Rathbone wondered how hard he had had to push for the testimony, but he was convinced it was the truth.

“So Mrs. Gadney was also out around dusk, with a person she appeared to trust, and was found murdered by morning?” he said aloud. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would it surprise you to know that Dr. Lambourn also went out alone, just after dark, and seems to have met someone he trusted, possibly a woman, and gone up One Tree Hill where he was dosed with opium and his wrists cut? He also was found alone, the following morning.”

“It would have surprised me at the time,” Monk replied. “It does not surprise me now.”

“Had you seen this pattern initially, might you have investigated differently?”

Coniston stood up. “That is a hypothetical question, my lord, and the answer is meaningless.”

“I agree. Mr. Monk, you will not answer that question,” Pendock directed.

Rathbone smiled. The comment was for the jury, not for Monk to answer, and they all knew it, especially Pendock.

“Thank you,” Rathbone said to Monk. “I have no more to ask you.”

“I have nothing, my lord,” Coniston said. “We have heard it all before.”

Rathbone asked for a brief adjournment and was granted it.

He met Monk out in the hall.

“Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Monk asked anxiously, falling in step with him as they made their way toward Rathbone’s chambers.

“No, I’m not sure,” Rathbone answered. “I told you that yesterday evening.” They reached the door and went in, closing it after them. “I’ve got Bawtry coming in a moment. Are you ready?”

“Before he comes,” Monk said quickly, “I saw him in the hall just before I came into court.” Briefly he described the quarrel between Amity and Herne, and then the total change he had seen in her manner toward Bawtry.

“Interesting,” Rathbone said thoughtfully. “Very interesting. Perhaps I shall have to amend some of my ideas. Thank you.”

Before Monk could reply there was a knock on the door and the court usher told Rathbone that Mr. Sinden Bawtry was here to see him.

Rathbone glanced at Monk, then at the usher. “Ask Mr. Bawtry to come in, please. Then see that we are not interrupted.”

Bawtry came in looking only slightly concerned. He shook hands with both of them, then accepted the seat Rathbone offered.

“What can I do for you, Sir Oliver?” he asked.

Rathbone had been awake half the night thinking of exactly this moment. He had everything to win, or to lose, resting on what he said in the next few minutes.

“Your advice, Mr. Bawtry,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’m sure you would like this case ended as soon as possible, as we all would-but with justice completely served.”

“Of course,” Bawtry agreed. “What can I advise you regarding? I knew Lambourn, of course, but not his wife.” He made a slight grimace. “I’m sorry, perhaps that is technically incorrect. I mean Dinah Lambourn, whom I took to be his wife. Zenia Gadney I had never even heard of until her tragic death. What is it you wish to know from me?”

“So much I had surmised,” Rathbone replied with the ghost of a smile. He must judge this perfectly. Bawtry was a brilliant man, a star very much in the ascendant, even considered a possible future prime minister by some. He had the background, as well as what appeared to be a blemishless record, and he was fast gaining a formidable political reputation. No doubt within the next few years he would make a fortunate marriage. He had no need to seek money, so he could afford to marry a woman who would be a grace to his social ambitions, and of personal pleasure to him, with wit and charm, perhaps beauty. Rathbone would be a fool to underestimate him. Facing the clever, unflinching eyes he was acutely aware of that.

“Then how can I help you?” Bawtry prompted him.

“Did you see this report of Lambourn’s personally, sir?” Rathbone asked, keeping his voice light, stopping the trembling of it with an effort. “Or did you perhaps take Herne’s word that it was unacceptable?”

Bawtry looked slightly taken aback, as if this were something he had not even considered. “Actually I saw very little of it,” he replied. “He showed me a few pages, and they did seem a bit … haphazard, conclusions drawn without sufficient evidence. He told me the rest was even worse. Since the man was his brother-in-law, he quite naturally wished to protect him from being publicly made a fool of. He wanted to destroy the report without having any more of its weaknesses being known. I could understand that, and frankly I admired it in him. Whether it was for his wife’s sake, or for Lambourn’s was irrelevant to me.”

“But you never saw the rest of it?” Rathbone pressed.

“No. No, I didn’t.” Bawtry stared at him. “What are you suggesting? You wouldn’t be asking me this now unless you believed that it had some relevance to this trial.” The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Herne didn’t kill Lambourn, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was unquestionably at the dinner in the Atheneum. Aside from personally seeing him there, I could name at least twenty members who were there also and will swear to it.”

Rathbone smiled sadly. “I know that, Mr. Bawtry. Mr. Monk already made absolutely certain of it.”

Bawtry glanced at Monk, then back at Rathbone. “Then I don’t understand what it is you are asking me. I did not read more than a few pages of Lambourn’s report. Incidentally, I believe he was factually right. The use of opium has to be labeled, and its sale in patent medicines restricted to people who have some medical or pharmaceutical knowledge at the least. It was never his conclusions that were in doubt, only the quality of his research, and the way he presented it. He allowed his own anger and pity to destroy his objectivity. To use it in argument for a bill could only have allowed the opponents of it-and they are many and powerful-to have fuel against us.”

“We don’t think the labeling of patent medicines was the issue for which Dr. Lambourn was murdered.” Rathbone cleared his throat. He realized with surprise that his hands-which he was keeping carefully at his sides, out of sight-were clenched so hard that they ached.

Bawtry frowned. “Then what was? And if not that report, then why are you so interested in Herne?”

“If we can be certain that it was not the report on patent medicines for which Lambourn died,” Rathbone replied, and was forced to clear his throat again before he could go on, “that proves that the explanation about the report being a failure and destroying Lambourn was an excuse, a reason to misdirect the investigation. We believe that during the course of his research Lambourn learned something else, something he could not let go of, concerning the sale of pure opium for use in syringes and needles that inject it directly into the blood. The addiction to opium given this way is agonizing and lethal. It was for attempting to have that particular practice made illegal that he was murdered, and Zenia Gadney also.”

Bawtry was pale-faced, his eyes wide. “That’s dreadful! Appalling!” He moved a little in his chair, a slight leaning forward as if he could no longer relax. “Are you suggesting that Herne had something to do with it? How? And for God’s sake …” He trailed off, his eyes filled with dawning horror.

“What is it?” Rathbone demanded urgently.

Bawtry licked his lips, hesitating. He looked profoundly unhappy.

“What is it?” Rathbone repeated, his voice sharpening.

Bawtry looked up and met his eyes. “I’ve noticed rather erratic behavior in Herne,” he said quietly. “One day he’s full of energy and ideas, the next time I see him he looks nervous, can’t concentrate, skin clammy. Is it … is it possible …?” He did not finish the question, but it was not necessary. The idea was already fully understood between them.

Rathbone met his gaze and held it. “You think he may be addicted to opium himself, and either he is the one who is selling it, or else he is the tool of the man who is?”

Bawtry looked wretched. “I hate even to think it of a man I know, but I suppose anyone can fall victim to such a drug, commonly used as it is. Is it possible?” His face already showed that he knew it was.

“That he paid someone to kill Lambourn?” Rathbone asked. “Someone who could do it quietly, easily, making it look like suicide, and who would never be suspected? Yes, of course it is.”

Bawtry was now as tense as Rathbone. Rathbone was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that Monk was in the room. He had wanted him here as a witness to the conversation, but now he also needed him here for his physical safety.

“Paid someone?” Bawtry affected confusion, but not total disbelief. “Who? Have you discovered something totally new that might attest to this? I have only just arrived in court.”

“A woman,” Rathbone said. “The obvious person who makes complete sense would be Zenia Gadney.”

“Gadney?” Now Bawtry was completely incredulous. “From all accounts I’ve heard, she was a slight, very ordinary middle-aged woman, unremarkable in every way. Indeed, she appears totally a victim, a pawn in the game.” He frowned. “Are you saying she was actually greedy, desperate, and passionate enough to have murdered her husband, the man who had supported her financially, and with some kindness, over the last fifteen years? You must have compelling evidence! It’s frankly preposterous.”

“There is evidence.” Rathbone again chose his words delicately. “It is not compelling, but the more I weigh it, the more it seems to make sense. Consider the possibility that Herne needed desperately to silence Lambourn, indeed, to discredit him so that no whispers of what he found would ever be believed, in case he spoke of it to others. He dare not kill Lambourn himself. Lambourn may even have been aware of the danger and would have taken care not to be alone with Herne. And of course Herne had to have a way of protecting himself from suspicion.”

“I see,” Bawtry said cautiously.

“So he promises to pay Zenia Gadney what would be a moderate sum to him, but a fortune to her, in exchange for this favor.”

“But … murder? Of her husband?” Bawtry was still far from convinced.

“A gentle murder,” Rathbone explained. “She asks Lambourn to meet her alone, when Dinah will not know. There are many ways she could justify such a request. She takes a knife, or a blade of some sort, possibly an open razor. And of course she also takes a strong opium solution, possibly mixed in something palatable, to disguise it. Or it is conceivable Herne gave her a syringe with a solution in it.”

Bawtry nodded, as if he were beginning to believe.

“She arranges a suitable place to meet, possibly in the park,” Rathbone continued. “They walk together up One Tree Hill. On the top the view over the river is worth seeing. She offers him a drink. They have climbed a bit, and he is glad of it. Quite soon he is drowsy and they sit down. He passes out. She then slits his wrists and leaves him to bleed to death. She takes the knife or razor with her, because possibly it can be traced to her. Similarly she takes the container in which she brought the opium. It may well have been quite large. She will have pretended to drink from it herself, in case he found it odd that she didn’t, when she too had walked up the hill.”

Bawtry gave a slight shiver. “You paint a terrible picture, Sir Oliver. However, it is believable. But surely you cannot possibly find any way whatsoever to suggest that she then killed herself? Whatever her remorse afterward, to have inflicted those mutilations upon herself would surely have been impossible? And in that case, how do you explain her death?”

“Of course,” Rathbone agreed. “Anyway, the surgeon is of the opinion that the mutilation happened after she was already dead, thank God. No, I think she may have tried to blackmail Herne for more money, and he realized that he had to kill her, not only for financial reasons, but because if he did not, he would never be safe from her. Possibly he always intended to finish her off.”

Bawtry’s lips were tight, but he nodded his head very slightly. “It is hideous, but I admit I can see how it might be true. What is it that you wish from me?”

“Do you know anything at all that would disprove the outline I have just given?” Rathbone asked. “Anything about Lambourn, or more probably, about Barclay Herne?”

Bawtry sat silently for some time, concentrating intently. Finally he looked up at Monk, then at Rathbone.

“No, Sir Oliver, I know of nothing. I don’t know whether your theory is true or not, but there is nothing within my knowledge that makes it impossible. You have created more than reasonable doubt as to Dinah Lambourn’s guilt. I think both judge and jury will be obliged to grant as much.”

Rathbone felt the ease come through him at last.

“Thank you, Mr. Bawtry. I am most grateful for your time, sir.”

Bawtry inclined his head in acknowledgment, then rose to his feet and left the room.

Monk looked across at Rathbone. “Ready for the next step?” he said softly.

Rathbone took a deep breath. “Yes.”

When the court resumed in the early afternoon, Rathbone called his final witness, Amity Herne. She took the stand with dignity and remarkable composure. She was wearing a very elegant dark dress, which was not quite black, the color of wine in shadow. It became her, a dramatic contrast with her fair hair and skin. She gave her name, as before, and was reminded that she was still under oath.

Rathbone apologized for recalling her. Coniston objected and Pendock overruled him, directing Rathbone to proceed.

“Thank you, my lord.” He turned to Amity. “Mrs. Herne, you testified earlier that you and your brother, Joel Lambourn, did not know each other well in your early adulthood, because you lived some distance apart. Is that correct?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she said calmly.

“But in the last ten years or so you both lived in London, and therefore were able to visit far more frequently?”

“Yes. Perhaps once a month or so,” she agreed.

“And of course you were aware of his marriage to Zenia Gadney?”

“Yes. But I have been forced to be discreet about it, for reasons that must be obvious to you.”

“Of course. But you knew, and you were aware that Dinah Lambourn also knew?” he asked, forcing himself to be polite, even gentle.

“Yes. I have said as much.”

“And your brother, he knew where Zenia lived once they were no longer … together?”

“Yes.” She looked puzzled and a trifle irritated.

Rathbone smiled. “Had he ever mentioned the address to you?”

She hesitated. “Not … not specifically, that I recall.”

“Generally? For example, that it was in the Limehouse area?”

“I …” She gave a slight shrug. “I am not certain.”

“I ask because it appears that Dinah knew Zenia’s whereabouts closely enough to ask for her in Copenhagen Place. She did not wander around searching half London for her; she went almost immediately to the right street.”

“Then Joel must have mentioned it,” Amity replied. “You appear to have answered your own question, sir.”

“It appears that he made no secret of Zenia’s whereabouts,” Rathbone agreed. “Are you certain you were not aware? Or your husband, perhaps? Might your brother have confided in your husband, possibly in case something should happen to him, and he would need someone he could rely on to take care of Zenia if he were not able to?”

Amity drew in her breath sharply, as if some terrible thought had suddenly come into her mind. She gazed at Rathbone in horror.

“He … he might’ve.” She licked her lips to moisten them. Her hands tightened on the railing in front of her.

The tension in the courtroom crackled like the air before a thunderstorm. Every single one of the jurors was staring at Amity.

“But he was dining at the Atheneum on the night your brother was killed,” Rathbone went on.

“Yes. Yes, any number of gentlemen will testify to that,” she agreed, her voice a little husky.

“Just so. And on the night Zenia Gadney was killed?” he asked.

“I …” She bit her lip. Now she was trembling, but her eyes did not waver from his even for an instant. “I have no idea. He was not at home, that’s all I can say.”

Now there was rustle and movement everywhere. In the gallery people coughed and shifted position, each straining to move left or right so their view of the witness was uninterrupted. The jurors fidgeted.

Coniston was staring at Rathbone as if he had suddenly changed shape in front of his eyes.

“You don’t know where he was, Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone repeated.

“No …” Her voice wavered. She put her hand up to her mouth. She gulped, staring almost helplessly at Rathbone.

“Mrs. Herne-”

“No!” Her voice rose and she was shaking her head violently. “No. You cannot make me tell you any more. He is my husband.” She swiveled around in the witness box and pleaded with Pendock. “My lord, surely he cannot force me to speak against my husband, can he?”

It was the desperate cry of a wife in defense of the man to whom she had given her life and her loyalty, and it utterly condemned him.

Rathbone looked at the jurors. They were frozen in horror and sudden, appalling understanding. There was no doubt left anymore, only shock.

Then he swung round to the gallery and saw Barclay Herne, ashen-faced, eyes like black sockets in his head, trying to speak. But no words came.

On either side of him people moved away, grasping at coats and shawls, pulling them closer in case even a touch should contaminate them.

Pendock demanded order, his voice cracking a little.

Herne was on his feet, staring wildly as if seeking some rescue. “Bawtry!” he shouted desperately. “For God’s sake!”

Behind him, facing the judge and witness stand, Bawtry also rose to his feet, shaking his head as if in awful realization.

“I can’t help you,” he said in perfectly normal tones, but the sudden silence from the gallery made his voice audible.

Everyone was now staring at these two men, but no one could have missed seeing the doors swing open. Hester Monk came in, the gaunt figure of Alvar Doulting a step behind her.

Sinden Bawtry turned toward them as the sound of their entry caught his attention.

Doulting stared at Bawtry. Hester seemed to be half supporting him as he lifted one arm awkwardly to point at Bawtry.

“That’s him!” he said, gasping for breath. His body was shaking so badly he looked in danger of collapse. “That is the man who sold the opium and syringes to me, and to God knows how many others. I’ve watched too many of them die. Buried some of them in paupers’ graves. I’ll find one myself soon.”

The crowd erupted as pent-up terror and fury at last found release, people rising to their feet, crying out.

“Order!” Pendock shouted, also rising to his feet, his face scarlet.

But no one took any notice of him. The ushers tried to push their way through the crowds to help Bawtry, or at the very least to make sure he was not trampled.

Amity Herne, still in the witness stand, could do nothing. Her anguish was naked in her face. She cried out Bawtry’s name in a howl of despair, but it was hardly audible above the din, and no one listened to her or cared.

Coniston looked like a lost child, searching this way and that for something familiar to hold on to.

Pendock was still shouting for order. Gradually the noise subsided. Ushers had helped Bawtry out and stood guarding the doors. Hester eased Doulting into a seat at the back where people made ample room for him, sitting apart, as if his private hell were contagious.

At last Pendock had restored some kind of sanity and was able to continue.

“Sir Oliver!” Pendock said savagely. “Was that outburst contrived by you? Did you arrange for that … that appalling scene to take place?”

“No, my lord. I had no idea that Dr. Doulting would know by sight the man who has dug his grave, so to speak.” That was something less than the truth. At the time he had arranged it with Hester, he had expected Doulting to reveal Barclay Herne as both the seller and an addict.

Pendock started to speak again, and then changed his mind.

“Have you anything further to ask of Mrs. Herne?” he said instead.

“Yes, my lord, if you please,” Rathbone said humbly.

“Proceed.” Pendock barely lifted his hand, but the gesture was unmistakable.

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone turned to Amity, who was now looking as if she had heard the news of her own death. Her eyes were unfocused, her entire body sagging.

It was all up to him now. He must make it plain to the jury. Reasonable doubt was no longer the verdict he sought; it was a clear and ringing “not guilty.” What happened to Bawtry was up to a different jurisdiction, and would perhaps only happen on the stage of public opinion. Dinah Lambourn’s life, and Joel Lambourn’s reputation, were Rathbone’s responsibility. And maybe he would also achieve some measure of justice for Zenia Gadney.

“Mrs. Herne,” he began. The silence in court was absolute. “Mrs. Herne, you have heard the evidence making it seem highly likely that your brother, Joel Lambourn, was murdered by a woman he trusted, who arranged to meet with him on the night of his death? Together they walked up into Greenwich Park, he totally unsuspecting of any violence. On One Tree Hill they stopped. It is possible she somehow managed to inject him with a needle, but more likely she offered him a drink that was extremely heavily laced with opium. He became dizzy, then unconscious within a very short space of time. She then slit his wrists with a blade she had brought with her, leaving him to bleed to death alone in the dark.”

Amity swayed in the witness box, gripping the rail to stop herself from falling.

“It was suggested that this woman he trusted was his first wife, in law his only wife, known as Zenia Gadney,” Rathbone went on. “And that she did it because she was paid to by your husband.”

“I know,” Amity whispered.

Coniston half rose, then sat back again, his face pale, eyes wide in fascination.

“Why would your husband do such a thing?” Rathbone asked.

Amity did not answer.

“To protect his superior, Sinden Bawtry?” Rathbone answered for her. “And of course his own supply of opium. He is addicted, isn’t he?”

She did not speak, but nodded her head slightly.

“Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “I can well believe that Bawtry asked this of him. Your husband is a weak and ambitious man, but he is not a murderer, either of your brother, or of Zenia Gadney.”

Again there were cries from the gallery and Pendock restored order only with difficulty.

“It was a woman who killed Dr. Lambourn,” Rathbone continued as soon as the noise had subsided. “But it was not poor Zenia. It was you, Mrs. Herne, because Bawtry asked your husband to do it, and he had not the nerve. But you had. In fact you would have the nerve to do anything at all for your lover, Sinden Bawtry!”

Again the noise, the screams, catcalls, and gasps drowned him out.

“Order!” Pendock shouted. “One more outburst and I shall clear the court!”

This time silence returned within seconds.

“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone said politely. He turned to Amity again. “But Dinah would not let people believe Joel had killed himself. She would not let it rest, and you could not allow that. If she persisted, and cleared his name, then the opium bill would have to include making the sale of it in injectable form illegal-a crime, punishable very seriously. The prime minister would never ignore what Joel Lambourn had told him of the evil that opium in such a form caused. Your husband, addicted as he was, would sink into despair, and perhaps death. I don’t know whether that mattered to you-perhaps not. It might even have been convenient. But Sinden Bawtry would be finished by such a bill. The wealth he so lavishly spends on his career, and his philanthropy, would dry up. If he continued to sell the opium, then he would become a criminal before the law, ending his days in prison. And you would’ve done anything to prevent that.”

He stopped to draw breath.

“I don’t know whether Dinah guessed at any of this.” He plunged on. “I think not. She believed in her husband, believed that he would not have killed himself. And she knew that she had not killed Zenia. I think it was you, Mrs. Herne, who posed as Dinah in the shops in Copenhagen Place, already knowing perfectly well where Zenia lived, but creating a scene in order to be remembered. You knew Zenia, as she knew you. She trusted you, and quite willingly met you on the evening of her death, just as Joel had met you on the evening of his.”

The court was motionless; no one interrupted him now, even by sigh or gasp.

“You walked with her to the river,” he went on. “Perhaps you even stood together on the pier and watched the light fade over the water, as she loved to do. Then you struck her so hard she collapsed. Perhaps she was dead even as she fell to the ground.

“Then in the darkness you cut her open, possibly with the same blade as you had used to slit your brother’s wrists. You tore out her entrails and laid them across her and onto the ground, to make as hideous a crime as you could, knowing that the newspapers would write headlines about it.

“Public opinion would never allow the police to leave such a murder unsolved. They would eventually find the clues you had laid leading to Dinah, and she would at last be silenced. No one would believe her protests of innocence. She was half mad with grief; and you had reason and sanity, and an unblemished reputation on your side. Who was she? The mistress of a bigamist with a wife he still kept on the side, or so it appeared.”

He looked up at her now with both awe and disgust.

“You very nearly got away with it. Joel would be dead and dishonored. Zenia had served her purpose and would be remembered only as the victim of a terrible crime of revenge. Dinah would be hanged as one of the most gruesome female murderers of our time. And you would be free to continue your love affair with a rich, famous, and very handsome man, possibly even marry him when your husband’s addiction ended his life. And Sinden Bawtry would forever owe you his freedom from dishonor and disgrace.”

He took a deep breath. “Except, of course, that he does not love you. He used you, just as you used Zenia Gadney, and God knows who else. Surely in time he would also kill you. You have a hold on him that he cannot afford to leave at loose ends, and he will grow tired of your adoration when it is no longer useful to him. It becomes boring to be adored. We do not value that which is given to us for nothing.”

She tried to speak, but no words came to her lips.

“No defense?” Rathbone said quickly. “No more lies? I could pity you, but I cannot afford to. You had no pity for anyone else.” He looked up at Pendock. “Thank you, my lord. I have no more witnesses. The defense rests.”

Coniston said nothing, like a man robbed of speech.

The jury retired and came back within minutes.

“Not guilty,” the foreman said with perfect confidence. He even looked up at Dinah in the dock and smiled, a gentle look of both pity and relief, and something that could have been admiration.

Rathbone asked permission to speak to Pendock in chambers, privately, and he walked out of the court before anyone else could catch his attention. He did not even look at Hester, Monk, or Runcorn, all waiting.

He found Pendock alone in his chambers, white-faced.

“What now?” the judge asked, his voice hoarse and shaking in spite of his attempt to remain calm.

“I have something that should belong to you,” Rathbone answered. “I don’t wish to carry it around, but if you come to my house at some time of your convenience, you may do with it, and all copies of it, whatever you please. I would suggest acid for the original, and a fire for the copies, which are merely paper. I … I regret having used them to obtain justice.”

“I regret that you had to,” Pendock replied. “You did not create the truth; you merely used it. I shall be retiring from the bench. I imagine after this victory, you may well be offered it. For reasons that must be obvious, I shall not mention our arrangement. You may believe me, or not, but I truly thought I was serving my country in attempting to prevent you from frightening the general public from using the only medicine easily available to them. I thought Lambourn was a foolish man wishing to curtail the freedom of ordinary people seeking some respite from the worst of their afflictions, perhaps even a man attempting to keep the sale of opium in the hands of a very few, of whom I was told he might be one. God forgive me.”

“I know,” Rathbone answered softly. “It was very believable. Our record of the use and abuse of opium, the smuggling and the crime already attached to it, are damnable. Alvar Doulting is only one of its victims, Joel Lambourn another, Zenia Gadney a third. We must become far wiser in the treatment of pain, of every sort. This is a warning we ignore at our peril.”

“You will make a good judge,” Pendock said, biting his lip, his face pale and tight with regret.

“Maybe,” Rathbone answered. “I imagine it is a great deal more difficult than it looks from the floor of the courtroom, where your loyalties are defined for you.”

“Indeed,” Pendock answered. “I have found nothing harder in life than to be certain of my loyalties. I am sure in my head; it is my heart that ruins it all.”

Rathbone thought of Margaret. “It always does. It would be easier not to love,” he agreed.

“And become the walking dead? Is that what you want?” Pendock asked.

“No.” Rathbone had no hesitation. “No, it isn’t. Good luck, sir.” He went out without looking backward, leaving Pendock to his thoughts.

Outside in the hall he almost bumped into Monk.

Monk looked at him with intense concern.

Rathbone wanted to affect indifference, but the warmth in Monk’s eyes made it impossible. He stood still, waiting for Monk to speak first.

“You used them, didn’t you?” Monk asked. “Ballinger’s photographs.”

Rathbone thought of lying, but discarded the idea. “Yes. This was too big, too monstrous to think only of my own peace of mind.” He searched Monk’s face now, afraid of what he would see.

Monk smiled. “So would I … I think,” he said quietly. “The burden is heavy either way.”