A Sunless Sea

CHAPTER 8

The newspapers were still writing black headlines about the murder of Zenia Gadney and the police failure to solve the crime. Monk walked briskly past one paperboy after another, ignoring them as much as it was possible. But he could not close his ears to the singsong voices calling out the headlines in an attempt to lure people into buying the whole paper.

“ ‘Terrible murder in Limehouse still unsolved,’ ” one gap-toothed boy cried out, thrusting the paper at Monk. “ ‘Police doing nothing!’ ”

Monk shook his head and walked on, increasing his pace. He and his men were doing everything he could think of. Orme was busy in the Limehouse area. Others were questioning lightermen and dockworkers, anyone regularly on the water, asking if they had noticed anything strange, or someone acting in an unusual manner. Nothing had been revealed so far. No one else in Copenhagen Place or its surrounding streets admitted knowing Zenia Gadney. To them she was an interloper, someone who disturbed the safe ordinariness of their lives and brought police questioning them. Worse than that, by being so viciously murdered, she had frightened away prospective customers. Who wanted to look for a prostitute with the police hanging around? If there were a madman on the loose, it was wiser to curb your appetites, or satisfy them elsewhere. It was only a ferry crossing to Deptford and Rotherhithe, or there was always the possibility of going west to Wapping, or east to the Isle of Dogs.

For the prostitutes there was nowhere else. Every street corner or stretch of pavement already belonged to someone. Interlopers were run off, as a strange dog is driven from the territory of another pack.

The only people everyone agreed to blame for the inconvenience were the police. It was their job to catch such lunatics and hang them. No one, decent or indecent, was safe until they did.

Monk had just that day received a summons from Barclay Herne, junior government minister and brother-in-law of the late Joel Lambourn. He wished to speak to Monk on the matter of Zenia Gadney’s death, and requested that Monk be good enough to call upon him in his offices so that they might speak discreetly. Monk was curious to know what Barclay Herne might have to say. Surely it could only concern Joel Lambourn. What other connection could Herne possibly have with Zenia Gadney?

Monk caught a hansom. After half an hour’s slow progress through the wet, busy streets of government buildings, he alighted outside Herne’s offices in Northumberland Avenue. He was shown into a comfortably furnished waiting room, then spent fifteen minutes standing impatiently, wondering what Herne wanted.

When he eventually appeared, Monk was surprised. He had expected someone more impressive, less genial-at least superficially. Herne was barely average height, stocky in build, and with a face that was, at first glance, very ordinary. Only when he closed the door behind himself and stepped forward, hand held out, did that impression alter. His smile changed his whole aspect. His teeth were strong and very white, and there was a bright intelligence in his eyes.

He shook Monk’s hand with a grasp so firm it bordered on being painful. It was a tangible intimation of the man’s power.

“Thank you,” he said with every aspect of sincerity. “I appreciate your time. A little early for whisky.” He shrugged. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.” Monk would have loved a hot drink after the long, cold ride, but he did not want to waste time with formalities. “What can I do for you, Mr. Herne?”

Herne gestured to Monk to sit down in front of a good, brisk fire, and immediately placed himself in the green leather armchair opposite.

“Rather a disturbing situation,” he said ruefully. “It has come to my notice that you are looking into the death of my late brother-in-law, somewhat further than has already been done. Is that really necessary? My wife puts on a very brave attitude, but as you may imagine, it is most unpleasant for her. Are you married, Mr. Monk?”

“Yes.” Monk pictured Amity Herne’s cool, totally composed face, and agreed with her husband that if she was indeed distressed, she hid it remarkably well. But he chose his words carefully. “And if my wife were to sustain such a loss, I would be proud of her if she could keep so dignified a composure.”

Herne nodded. “I am, I am indeed. But I still would greatly prefer it if we might offer whatever assistance we can now, and have the matter settled as soon as possible. Poor Joel was …” He gave the slightest shrug and lowered his voice a little before continuing. “… less settled in his mind than others seem to believe. One does not tell every Tom, Dick, and Harry of one’s family difficulties. It is natural to try to protect … you understand?”

“Of course.” Monk was curious to know what it really was that Herne wanted. He found it hard to believe that it was merely to avoid Monk distressing his wife with further questions. Monk hadn’t even considered returning to speak to Amity; he doubted she would say anything different from her original statement: that Dinah was naïve as to Lambourn’s weaknesses, and perhaps the pressure of her idealistic view of him had been difficult for him to uphold.

Herne seemed to be finding it hard to choose the right words himself. When he finally looked up at Monk he had an expression of candor.

“Some of our relationships were a little difficult,” he confided. “When my wife and I were first married we lived in Scotland. To be honest we hardly ever saw Joel and Dinah. My wife was not close to Lambourn. There were several years between them so they grew up separately.”

Monk waited.

Herne was tense. His hands were rigid so that his knuckles shone white. “It is only recently that I myself began to appreciate that Joel was a far more complicated person than he appeared to be to his friends and admirers. Oh, he was certainly charming, in a very quiet way. He had a phenomenal memory and could be most entertaining with bits and pieces of unusual information.” He smiled uncomfortably, as if it were some kind of apology. “And of course jokes. Not the sort you laugh loudly at, more quiet jests in amusement at the absurdity of life.” He stopped again. “He was very easy to like.”

Monk drew in a breath to ask him what this had to do with either Joel’s or Zenia’s deaths, but then changed his mind. He might learn more if he allowed Herne simply to ramble a little longer.

Then suddenly Herne looked very directly at Monk. “But he was not the man poor Dinah chose to see him as.” He lowered his voice. “He had a lonely, much darker side,” he confided. “I knew he had this woman he kept in Limehouse. He visited her frequently. I don’t know exactly when, or how often. I’m sure you will understand that I preferred not to. That was some ugly corner of his nature I would honestly have been happier not to know about.” He made a slight gesture of distaste, perhaps for what he imagined of Lambourn, or possibly only for the fact that he had unintentionally learned more of another man’s private life than he wished to.

“How did you find out, Mr. Herne?” Monk asked.

Herne looked rueful. “It was something Dinah said, actually. I only realized the implication afterward. It was really rather embarrassing.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Joel always seemed so … unimaginative-rather staid, in fact. I couldn’t even picture him with a middle-aged whore in the backstreets of a place like West India Dock Road.” He frowned. “But since the poor man died before this unfortunate creature was killed, he couldn’t possibly have been implicated in the horror. I can only presume she became desperate for money, and because he had looked after her for so long, she had lost her sense of self-preservation and become careless.”

Monk was inclined to think the same thing, but he waited for Herne to complete what he wanted to say.

“My family …” Herne seemed to be finding it difficult to ask. “I would appreciate it very much if you did not publicly make any connection between Joel and this woman. It is hard enough for Dinah that she has to be aware of his … weakness, and, God help us, deal with his professional failure and his suicide. And of course for my wife; they were not close, but he was still her brother. Please … don’t make his connection with this woman public. It can have no bearing on her murder.”

Monk did not have to weigh it in his mind. “If it has nothing to do with convicting her killer, then we would have no reason to mention Dr. Lambourn,” he answered.

Herne smiled and appeared at last to relax. “Thank you. I … we are greatly obliged to you. It’s been hard for all of us, but most especially Dinah. She is a … a very emotional woman.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Thank you,” he repeated.

It was only after Monk had left the office and was in a hansom on his way back to the River Police Station at Wapping, stuck in heavy traffic where the Strand becomes Fleet Street, that he realized exactly what Barclay Herne had told him. Dinah Lambourn had admitted that she was aware that her husband had an interest in another woman, but she had deliberately chosen to know no more of it than that. She had told him that she did not know where he went, or the woman’s name.

Herne had told Monk that he had learned of the affair from Dinah, and then gone on to speak not just of Limehouse in general, but quite specifically of the West India Dock Road, which was a matter of yards from where Zenia Gadney had lived. Unintentionally, he had betrayed that Dinah knew exactly where Zenia Gadney lived, and thus he had exposed Dinah’s lie.

The thought was repulsive. He tried to shut it out of his mind, but his imagination raced, painting picture after picture. Dinah had loved Lambourn almost obsessively. She had thought too well of him, set him on a pedestal that perhaps no man could remain on. Everyone has weaknesses, things over which they stumble. To ignore that, or deny it, places a burden too heavy to carry from day to day.

Love accepts the scars and the blemishes as well as the beautiful. Sooner or later the weight of impossible expectation produces evasions: perhaps only small ones to begin with, then larger ones, as the burden grows heavier The hansom was barely moving in the traffic. It was raining harder now. Monk could see the drops bouncing up from the road, and the water swirling in the gutters. Women’s skirts were sodden. Men jostled one another, umbrellas held high.

Had Dinah felt as if Joel had betrayed her? She had made an idol of him, only to discover he had feet of material even less pure than clay. Had the murder of Zenia Gadney been her revenge on a fallen god?

Or maybe that was complete nonsense? He hoped so. He wanted profoundly to be wrong. He had liked Dinah, even admired her. But it was inescapable that he must now find out.

He leaned forward and redirected the driver to take him to the Britannia Bridge, where Commercial Road East crossed the Limehouse Cut and became West India Dock Road. He must visit the shops again: the general hardware store, the grocer, the baker, and all the houses along Copenhagen Place.

By the time he got there the rain had stopped. There were a dozen or more children playing hopscotch on the pavement when he turned the corner from Salmon Lane into Copenhagen Place. A couple of washerwomen were standing with huge bundles of laundry on their hips, talking to each other. A dog was rooting hopefully in a pile of rubbish. Two young women haggled with a man beside a barrow of vegetables. A youth with a cap on sideways strolled along the edge of the pavement, whistling. It was a music hall song, cheerful and well in tune.

Monk hated what he was about to do, but if he did not test the idea, the possibility of it would haunt him. He began with the washerwomen. How would Dinah have dressed, if she had come here looking for Zenia Gadney? Not fashionably. She might even have borrowed a maid’s shawl to conceal the cut and quality of her own clothes. Who would she have approached, and what questions would she have asked?

“Excuse me,” Monk said to the washerwomen.

“Yer found ’oo done ’er in yet, then?” one of them said aggressively. She had fair hair, bright where the pale winter sun shone on it, and a heavy but still handsome face.

He was startled that they knew who he was. He wore no kind of uniform. But perhaps he should have expected it. He had learned that he was memorable. His lean face, the cut of his clothes, the upright stance, and the manner of his walk marked him as unusual.

“Not yet,” he answered. “But we’re closer to knowing who might have seen something.” That was an evasion of the truth, but it did not trouble him at all. “Did either of you observe a woman around this area, looking for Mrs. Gadney, maybe asking questions? She would be tall, dark hair, maybe dressed quite ordinarily, but with the air of a lady.”

They both looked at him narrowly, then at each other.

“Ye’re soused as an’ ’erring,” the older of the two replied. “An’ ’oo like that’d be lookin’ fer the likes of ’er, then?”

“Someone whose husband she had been taking money from,” Monk replied without hesitation.

“There y’are, Lil!” the fair-haired woman said jubilantly. “Told yer, din’t I? She weren’t up ter no good. I knew that, an’ all!”

Monk felt his throat tighten. He would so much rather have been wrong.

“You saw her then?” he asked. “A woman looking for Mrs. Gadney? Are you certain?”

“Nah! But I ’eard about ’er from Madge up the street.” The woman jerked her head to indicate the direction. “She were in ol’ Jenkins’s shop when it ’appened.”

“When what happened?” Monk said quickly.

“When that woman were ’ere askin’ questions about ’er that got ’erself killed, o’ course. In’t that wot ye’re asking? Tight as a newt, she were, so they say. Poor cow.” She looked at Monk narrowly. “Yer sayin’ as it were ’er wot cut that other poor mare ter pieces an’ left ’er on the pier? Listen, she might ’a bin off ’er ’ead, but one woman don’t do that ter another, I’m tellin’ yer.”

“ ’E din’t say as she did it!” her friend responded. “Yer got bleedin’ cloth ears, an’ all? ’E said as she might know ’oo did.”

“Thank you,” Monk cut in, holding his hand up to stop her continuing. “I’ll go and ask at the grocer’s shop.” He turned and walked briskly across the street and up Copenhagen Place. It was drier here than in the center of the city, but the wind off the river was cold. He pulled his coat a little closer around him.

He stopped at the grocer’s and went in. There were three people ahead of him in the queue at the counter, a man and two women. He waited patiently, listening to their conversation, but learned little from it except that they were angry and frightened, because a crime had happened that they did not understand, and no one had solved it.

“She were ’armless,” one of the women said with rising outrage. Her white hair was pulled back so tight into its pins that the strain of it all but obliterated the lines around her eyes. “Kept ’erself to ’erself all the years she were ’ere. Dunno wot the world’s comin’ ter when a poor creature like that gets cut open like a side o’ meat.”

“A pity they done away wi’ drawin’ an’ quarterin’, I say,” the old man nodded sagely. “Course, they gotter get the bastard first.”

“Yer’ll be wanting oatmeal, sugar, and a couple o’ eggs as usual, Mr. Waters?” Jenkins interrupted from behind the counter.

“Don’t act like yer don’t care!” Mr. Waters was offended. “She got all ’er groceries right ’ere in this store!”

“It must be very distressing for you all.” Monk intruded into the conversation before it got any more heated.

All three of them swung around to stare at him. “An’ ’oo are you, then?” Jenkins asked suspiciously.

“ ’E’s the police,” the other woman said with contempt. “You’d forget yer own name next, you would.” She faced Monk. “Well, wot yer ’ere for this time, then? Ter tell us yer give up?”

Monk smiled at her. “If I had given up, I’d be ashamed to come and tell you so,” he answered. Then before she could think of a suitable response to that, he went on. “The day Zenia Gadney was killed, or possibly the day before, was there a tall, dark woman in here asking about her?”

Both women shook their heads, but Jenkins looked at Monk with a frown. “So what about it? Sad ter see an ’andsome woman crazed like that.”

“Oh, but it’s all right if it’s some ugly ol’ bitch like us, eh?” the women said furiously. “Well, if that’s wot yer think, don’ expect me ter come back ’ere fer me tea an’ ’taters.” She slammed a shilling and two pennies down on the counter. She swung a large bag in one hand, knocking it against the door on her way out and swearing savagely.

“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized to Jenkins. “I didn’t mean to lose you your customers.”

“Don’t worry about it, sir,” Jenkins replied, wiping his hands on his apron. “She’s always losin’ ’er ’ead about something or another. She’ll be back. Can’t walk farther than this an’ carry ’er potaters anyway. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Tell me about this woman who was so upset in here, the day before Zenia Gadney was killed.”

“You don’t want ter take any notice of ’er, sir. She weren’t from round ’ere. She were beside ’erself, poor thing. Raving an’ mumbling, she were. Talking to ’erself somethin’ rotten. Reckon she were lost.”

“Can you tell me what she looked like, and as much as you can remember of what she said?”

“Didn’t make no sense,” Jenkins said dubiously.

“That doesn’t matter. First, what did she look like, please?”

Jenkins concentrated, clearly seeing her again in his mind’s eye. “Tall, fer a woman,” he began. “Dark ’air, what I could see of it. Not black, like. She ’ad this old shawl ’alf over ’er ’ead. Proper ’andsome face. Told yer, she didn’t come from ’ere, nor sound like she did neither. But the poor soul were ’alf out of ’er head. Too much o’ that opium, I’d say. Now an’ again it don’t do no ’arm. Fact, it ’elps when mebbe nothing else does. But get too much of it an’ it addles yer brain. It’s smokin’ the stuff that really does yer in. I reckon as mebbe that’s what she’d bin doing. Lot of it, down by the docks, there is. It’s mostly them Chinese. Got it something wicked out east, so they say.”

Monk clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. “What was she mumbling about? Do you remember?”

Jenkins was oblivious to his impatience.

“Sort of,” he said thoughtfully. “Couldn’t make a lot of sense of it, but mostly about suicide an’ whores an’ things like that. But like I said, she were out of ’er ’ead. She weren’t no whore. I’d lay money on that.” He shook his head. “She was quality, even if she were ’alf daft. She went on about lyin’, an’ betrayal an’ all sorts. I dare say if she were come to ’er senses, she’d be a different person. Yer shouldn’t take ’er word for nothin’, sir. An’ I don’t reckon as she knew Mrs. Gadney anyway. Yer couldn’t think o’ two women less like each other.”

“Did she ask for Mrs. Gadney? Ask where she lived, or if you knew her?”

“Not as I recall. Just came in for penny twists, raved on about people killin’ theirselves, and then went out again.”

“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.” Monk bought a tin of treacle, in the hope that Hester might make a treacle sponge pudding for him and Scuff, and then went back out into the street again.

He asked the same questions in the other shops along Copenhagen Place. It was the tobacconist who finally told him that a tall woman with dark hair had been in looking for Zenia Gadney; apparently when she had been in his shop, she had been more or less composed, and he had told her that Mrs. Gadney lived farther along, toward the middle of the lane.

Monk spoke to others as well. Two more people had seen the woman, but they could add nothing further. Monk had all he needed to oblige him to go and face Dinah Lambourn.

He was loath to do so, so he delayed the task and went back to the station at Wapping and checked that everything was under control there. Then he put on his coat and went out onto the dockside. The quickest way to Greenwich would be along the north bank of the river, where he was, and then a boat from Horse Ferry across to Greenwich Pier. It would take some time. Hopefully, the chill late afternoon breeze in his face and the familiar sounds of the river would help him compose in his mind what he would say.

He stood on the dockside and looked across the busy water, which was getting a little choppy on the turning tide. The sky was darkening already, the light fading. In a little over a fortnight it would be the winter solstice, and, shortly after, Christmas. He could put it off; go home now, leave Dinah one more evening unchallenged, in her own home with her daughters. Poor girls, they had already lost so much. He wondered if they had anyone else-apart from Amity Herne. He could not imagine Amity giving them any warmth or comfort in the desperate time that might so easily be ahead.

That was an uncharitable thought! Amity might be quite a decent woman. People sometimes stretched to meet a challenge and were braver and kinder than even they themselves thought possible.

There was a ferry coming in toward the Wapping Steps. It would drop off its passengers, and he could take it home. He would be there in half an hour, in his own kitchen, and-far more than that-amid the emotional safety that his home offered to him. He and Hester could talk about what to get Scuff for Christmas: what he would want, and what might overwhelm or embarrass him. Monk had thought of getting him a pocket watch. Scuff had just learned to tell the time instead of guessing it. Hester wanted to get him books. Would both be too much? Would Scuff feel as if he had to get them each something?

He walked over to the top step, ready to go down to the boat.

Then he changed his mind and walked briskly across the dock and back toward the road. He would do it now, face it and get it over.

It seemed too short an hour before he was sitting in the withdrawing room and Dinah, grave and tense, was upright in the chair opposite him. Her face was almost bloodless, and her hands were knotted in her lap, clutching each other uneasily, knuckles white.

Monk began straightaway, because he knew there was no good way to ask her the questions he needed to ask anyway.

“Mrs. Lambourn, when I was here before, you told me that you knew your husband had an affair with another woman, but that you knew nothing about her, including where she lived. Did I understand you correctly?”

“Of course, I know now,” she replied.

“But did you know before she was killed?” he persisted.

“No. Joel and I didn’t discuss it.”

“How did you know of her?”

Her eyes flashed up at him, and then down again at her hands. “One does know such things, Mr. Monk,” she said quietly. “Small matters of behavior, distractions, explanations that you had not asked for, evasion of certain subjects. Finally I asked him outright. He admitted it but gave me no details. I didn’t want details. Surely you can understand that?”

He nodded gravely. “But you didn’t have any idea where she lived?”

She shook her head very slightly. “That was one of the things I didn’t wish to know.”

“Or her name?”

Her chin jerked up a little.

“Of course not. I preferred her to be … gray, without form.” Her voice was tight. She was trembling very slightly.

Monk was certain she was lying. “On the day before she was killed, where were you, Mrs. Lambourn?”

Her eyes wandered. “Where was I?”

“Yes, please.”

She was silent for several seconds, breathing in and out slowly as if composing herself for some major decision whose consequences terrified her. There was a nerve twitching in her temple, close to the line of her dark hair.

He waited.

“I … I went to a soirée with a friend. We spent most of the day together,” she said at last.

“Your friend’s name?”

“Helena Moulton. Mrs. Wallace Moulton, I suppose. She …” Again the deep breath. “She lives on the Glebe, in Blackheath. Number four. Why does this matter, Mr. Monk?” Her hands were clenched so tight her knuckles shone when the skin was stretched. If she was not careful, her nails would leave bruises in the flesh.

“Thank you.”

“Why?” she said again. Her voice was so dry it rasped in her throat. “Joel couldn’t have had anything to do with her death.”

“Could she have had anything to do with his?” he asked.

“You mean …?” Suddenly her eyes were wide, filled with anger, glaring at him. “You mean did she threaten to tell someone of their affair? Was she that kind of woman? Was she greedy, conniving, and destructive? Joel wasn’t a very good judge of character. He often thought better of people than they deserved.”

Monk recalled their earlier conversation vividly. “But you said that you believed he was murdered, because his report on the opium use was correct,” he pointed out. “That would have had nothing to do with Zenia Gadney, right?”

She leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. She remained frozen for several moments. The seconds ticked by on the clock above the fireplace. Her shoulders did not shake, nor did she make any sound.

He waited, acutely unhappy. He would have to go to Blackheath and find Helena Moulton. He hoped intensely that she would agree that Dinah had spent the day with her-and that there would be others who would substantiate it. But he did not expect there to be.

At last Dinah straightened up. “I don’t know, Mr. Monk. All that matters to me is that Joel is dead, and now this woman is dead also. You will have to find out how these things happened, and who is answerable.” She looked exhausted, too tired to even be frightened anymore.

He rose to his feet. “Thank you. I’m sorry to have had to trouble you again.”

Now she met his eyes fully, without flinching. “You have to do your job, Mr. Monk, whatever it entails. We must know the truth.”

Monk walked some distance before he found a hansom and rode the rest of the way to the Glebe, on the edge between the town and the open country toward the Health itself. It was not a long road, and he soon found the home of Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Moulton.

He had to wait a half an hour before Mrs. Moulton returned from visiting a friend and he was able to speak with her.

“Mrs. Lambourn?” she said with some surprise. She was a pleasant-looking woman, carefully dressed. Her expression now showed complete puzzlement.

“Yes. Did you see her on the twenty-third of November?”

“For goodness’ sake, why? I shall have to look at my diary. Did something important happen?”

“I’m not certain.” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Your help would possibly answer that question for me.”

She was very grave. “I’m not certain that I am willing to discuss my movements with you, Mr. Monk, or more particularly, Mrs. Lambourn’s movements. She is a friend of mine, and she has been through a great deal of tragedy lately. If something unpleasant has happened, something even further than the terrible loss of her husband, I am not prepared to add to it.”

“I will find out either way, Mrs. Moulton,” he told her gravely. “It will take me a great deal longer than if you simply tell me, and of course it will involve questioning a number of other people. However, if that is what I am obliged to do, then I will. I find it distasteful as well. I have some regard, and a great deal of sympathy for Mrs. Lambourn, but circumstances leave me no choice. Will you tell me, or must I ask as many other people as it requires in order to find out?”

She was clearly distressed, and angry. Her eyes were sharp and bright, and the color a high pink in her cheeks. “Wherever Mrs. Lambourn said she was, then I have no doubt that it is the truth,” she answered icily.

Monk’s mind raced for a moment.

“She said you were at an art exhibition in Lewisham all afternoon, then had tea and discussed the work until early evening,” he lied. He felt terrible doing it, but he didn’t see another way to discern the truth.

“Then you know where she was,” Helena Moulton said with a tight smile. “Why are you bothering to question me about it?”

“So she was telling the truth?” he said very quietly, feeling a coldness creep up inside himself.

“Of course.” Helena was pale.

“Would you be prepared to testify to that in court, before a judge, if it should be necessary?” He felt brutal.

She gulped, and remained silent.

He rose to his feet. “Of course you won’t, because you were not with Mrs. Lambourn.”

“Yes, I was,” she whispered, but she was trembling.

“She said you were at a soirée, not an art exhibition, and not in Lewisham.” He shook his head. “You are a good friend, Mrs. Moulton, but this is beyond your ability to help.”

“I … I …” She clearly did not know what to say, and she was now also afraid for herself, and embarrassed.

“May I assume that you have no idea where Mrs. Lambourn was on that day?” he said more gently.

“Yes …” The word was almost inaudible, but she gave a tiny nod of her head.

“Thank you. There is no need to rise. The maid will show me out.”

She remained where she was, shivering and huddled into herself.

He returned to Lower Park Street. He now had no alternative but to arrest Dinah Lambourn. He could not imagine her attacking Zenia Gadney with such ferocity, to have hit her hard enough to kill her, and then disemboweled her there on the pier; but Dinah was quite a tall woman, and statuesquely built. She could have had a strength born of rage and despair. Zenia Gadney was several inches shorter and perhaps fifteen pounds lighter. It was possible.

The thought of it made him feel sick, and yet he could not deny the evidence. She had been seen in the area looking for Zenia, in a state of mounting anger. She had lied about where she had been. She, like anyone else, would have carving knives in her kitchen. Perhaps in irony she had even used one of Joel’s old open razors.

Above and beyond all else, she had a passionate and compulsive nature. Zenia Gadney had robbed her of what she held dearest, the center of her life financially and socially, but-far beyond that-emotionally. Lambourn’s love for her, and her belief in him, was the foundation of her own identity. Zenia Gadney had taken that from her. It appeared her need for revenge had obliterated everything else.

As he stood at the front door of the house in Lower Park Street, Monk tried to imagine what his own life would be if Hester had turned to someone else, made love with another man, lain in his arms and talked with him, laughed with him, shared her thoughts and her dreams and the intimateness of physical love. Would he want to kill that man? Even to eviscerate him?

He might.

The maid answered his knock and showed him to the withdrawing room. He stood, waiting for Dinah to come. He thought of her daughters, Marianne and Adah. Who would look after them now? What future would lie ahead for them, their father a suicide, their mother hanged for the terrible murder of his mistress?

He never got used to tragedies. The edges were never blunted. They cut to the bone always.

Dinah came into the room, walking very upright, her head high, and her face ashen white, as if she knew why he had returned.

“You weren’t with Mrs. Moulton,” Monk said quietly. “She was willing to lie for you. When I told her you had said you were together at the art exhibition in Lewisham, she agreed.” He shook his head slightly. “You were seen in Limehouse, specifically in Copenhagen Place, where Zenia Gadney lived, asking about her, and in a state close to hysteria.” He stopped because of the look of amazement in her face, almost stunned disbelief. For an instant he doubted his own knowledge. Could it be she was insane and had no idea what she had done?

“I didn’t kill her,” she said hoarsely. “I never even met her! If … if I can’t prove that, will they hang me?”

Should he lie? He wanted to. But the truth would be hideously clear soon enough. “Probably,” he replied. “Unless there is some extraordinary mitigating circumstance. I’m … sorry. I have no choice but to arrest you.”

She gulped, choked for breath, then swayed as if she might faint.

“I know …,” she whispered.

“Have you resident staff to care for your daughters until someone else can be informed? Perhaps Mrs. Herne?”

She gave a bitter little laugh, which ended in a sob. It was a moment before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak again.

“I have resident staff. You won’t need to call Mrs. Herne. I am ready to come with you. I would be obliged if we might go now. I do not like good-byes.”

“Then please call whoever you wish to pack nightclothes and toiletries for you,” he instructed. “It will be better than having me follow you upstairs.”

She colored faintly, then almost immediately was as ashen as before.

The woman who came in answer to the summons was elderly, gray-haired, and plump. She looked at Monk with loathing but accepted Dinah’s instructions to pack a small case for her, and to look after Adah and Marianne for as long as should prove necessary. The boot boy was sent to fetch a hansom cab and bring it to the front door.

Monk and Dinah rode down to Greenwich Pier for the ferry crossing in the dark. Then at the other side they took another hansom for the long chilly ride, cramped together as they jolted over the cobbles.

It was only then that she spoke.

“There is one way in which you can help me, Mr. Monk, and I think perhaps you will not refuse,” she said quietly.

“If I can.” He wished profoundly that he could, but he feared she was beyond anything he could do.

“I shall require the best possible lawyer to fight for me,” she said with surprising calm. “I did not kill Zenia Gadney, or anyone else. If there is someone who can help me to prove that, I believe it would be Sir Oliver Rathbone. I have heard that you know him. Is that true?”

He was startled. “Yes. I’ve known him for years. Do you wish me to ask him to see you?”

“Yes, please. I will pay anything I have-everything-if he will defend me. Will you please tell him so?”

“Yes, of course I will.” He had no idea whether Rathbone would take the case or not. It seemed hopeless. One thing he was certain of, money would not be the issue. “I will ask him this evening, if he is at home.”

She sighed very softly. “Thank you.” She seemed at last to relax a little against the back of the seat, exhausted of all strength, physical and emotional.