A Sunless Sea

CHAPTER 9

Oliver Rathbone arrived home after an ambivalent conclusion to the trial he had been fighting. It was a partial victory. His client had been convicted of a lesser charge, thus carrying a considerably lighter sentence. It was what he believed was warranted. The man was guilty of more, even though there were mitigating circumstances. Rathbone might have achieved a better result for him, but it would not have been just.

He ate dinner alone, and without enjoyment. He had at last faced the fact that he did not want Margaret back, and that was a bitter knowledge. There was no ease between them, and now, not even any kindness. What he wished was that it could all have been different.

Had he been lacking in tenderness or understanding? He had not seen it that way. He had sincerely defended Arthur Ballinger to the utmost of his ability. The man had been found guilty because he was guilty. At the end Ballinger himself had admitted it.

That memory took his mind back to the photographs again. His stomach knotted and he felt as if a shadow had passed over him. Perhaps the evening was colder than he had thought. The fire burned in the grate but its warmth did not reach him.

He was sitting wondering if there was any purpose in asking one of the servants to fill the coal box so he could stoke the fire high, when a much larger thought occurred to him. Should he remain in this house at all? It was a home for two people at least. And he felt another strangely sharp stab inside him. Had he wanted children? Had he assumed that naturally, eventually, there would be?

Thank God there had not been any. That loss would have been far more difficult to bear. Or perhaps Margaret would have stayed, for the child, and they would have lived in icy civility with each other. What death of all happiness!

Or would Margaret have been different with a child? Would it at last have separated her from the previous generation and turned her fierce protectiveness toward her family of the present and future?

Rathbone was still contemplating this when Ardmore came in and told him that Monk was in the hall.

Rathbone was surprisingly pleased to hear that, in spite of the fact that it was after ten o’clock.

“Send him in, Ardmore. And fetch the port, will you? I don’t think he’ll want brandy. Maybe a little cheese?”

“Yes, Sir Oliver.” Ardmore went out with a half-concealed smile.

Monk came in a moment later and closed the door. He looked tired and unusually grim. His hair was wet from the rain outside and, from the way he looked at the fire, he was cold.

Rathbone felt his momentary happiness evaporate. He indicated the chair on the other side of the fireplace and sat down himself.

“Something is wrong?” he asked.

Monk eased himself into a comfortable position. “I arrested a woman today. She asked me to help her get a good lawyer to represent her. Specifically, she asked me to get you.”

Rathbone’s interest was piqued. “If you arrested her then I assume you believe her guilty? Of what, exactly?”

Monk’s face tightened. “Killing then eviscerating the woman whose corpse we found on Limehouse Pier a couple of weeks ago.”

Rathbone froze. He stared at Monk to see if he could possibly be serious. Nothing in his face suggested levity of any sort. Rathbone sat up a little straighter, his hands laced in front of him. “I think you’d better tell me in rather more detail, and from the beginning, please.”

Monk related the discovery of the body near the pier, describing it only briefly. Even though he had seen the headlines, Rathbone still found his stomach churning. He was glad when Ardmore brought in the port, and Monk too was happy to take a glass. The rich warmth of it was comforting, even if nothing could wipe the images of that morning out of his mind, the winter sunrise over the river and the hideous discovery of Zenia’s body.

“You identified her?” he asked, watching Monk’s face.

“A small-time prostitute in her forties, with one client,” Monk replied. “It seems he kept her with sufficient generosity that she could survive on that money alone. She lived very quietly, very modestly, in Copenhagen Place, which is in Limehouse just beyond the Britannia Bridge.”

“Sounds more like a mistress than a prostitute,” Rathbone commented. “Is it the wife you’ve arrested?” It seemed like the obvious conclusion.

“Widow,” Monk corrected him.

Rathbone was startled. “Did the dead woman kill the husband?”

“Why on earth would she do that? His death left her destitute,” Monk pointed out.

“A quarrel?” Rathbone suggested. “Someone giving her a better offer, but he wouldn’t let her go? Who knows? Did he die of natural causes?”

“No. Suicide-apparently.”

Rathbone leaned forward a little farther, more interested now. “Apparently? You doubt it? His wife killed him, do you think?”

“No, she adored him, and now she is without means as well, except what he left. Not quite sure what that is yet, but probably not inconsiderable.” He stopped. “Actually it’s far more complicated than that. I have no idea what lay ahead for him. He had suffered a degree of professional disgrace. His prospects may not have been as good as before. On the other hand, he was determined to fight his way back, according to his wife.”

Rathbone was intrigued. The story was full of passion, violence, and total inconsistency.

“Monk, there’s something missing in this, something crucial that you are not telling me. Stop playacting and give me all of it,” he demanded.

“The man was Dr. Joel Lambourn,” Monk replied.

Rathbone was stunned. He knew the name. The man had been highly respected. More than once he had even been called as an expert witness in court regarding certain medical facts. Rathbone could picture him in his mind: grave, softly spoken, but with the kind of authority that would not be shaken by even the most stringent cross-examination.

“The Joel Lambourn?” he said with a sudden and deep sadness.

“I don’t think there are two,” Monk answered. “It is his wife, Dinah, who appears to have killed Zenia Gadney in revenge for her part in Lambourn’s suicide. Dinah is convinced that the research that was touted as a failure was actually totally correct, and that Lambourn was innocent of professional error. She also-” He stopped abruptly, his face tight with anxiety. “It would be better if you went to see her yourself rather than my telling you secondhand what she said, and its inconsistencies.”

Rathbone sat back in his chair, turning the matter over in his mind, very aware of Monk watching him, and the urgency of his emotions.

“Why are you so anxious about this, that you come to me at this time in the evening, rather than waiting to visit my chambers tomorrow?” he asked thoughtfully. “What is it that intrigues you so much? Is it pity for a widow who has been betrayed, bereaved, and now awaits trial and almost certainly the hangman? Is she handsome? Brave? And these are not idle questions, so give me the truth!”

“Yes, she’s handsome,” Monk said with a wry smile. “But I suppose the truth is that I’m not sure she’s guilty. The evidence is strong against her, and so far we’ve found no one else at all to suspect, not even a suggestion. There’s no other crime on the records like it, solved or unsolved. Limehouse is certainly a rough area, but Zenia Gadney had lived there for years without coming to any harm.”

“Years?”

“Fifteen or sixteen at least.”

“Supported by Joel Lambourn the entire time?” Rathbone said sharply. “That’s a lot of money going from his household to her. Did the wife know about this? I mean, clearly you think she did at the end, but when did she discover it?” Perhaps the case was not as commonplace, or as sordid, as it first appeared?

“Her story’s inconsistent,” Monk answered. “At first she denied her husband’s affair, then said she knew of it, but not the woman’s name or where she lived.”

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “And she didn’t want to find out? A remarkably incurious woman! Most women would want, at the very least, to see the competition.”

“It is hardly competition in the ordinary sense,” Monk told him. “Dinah Lambourn is, in her own way, beautiful. But what is far more attractive than that, she is unusual, full of character, emotion, and a remarkable dignity. Zenia Gadney was pleasant, but as ordinary as a boiled potato.”

“Staple diet for most,” Rathbone observed drily. “Does the wife have children?”

“Two daughters. At present still at home with the housekeeper.”

Rathbone sighed. More victims of the tragedy. “I suppose I can go and speak to this woman, see what her account is. What does she say?”

Monk bit his lip. “I think I’ll leave her to tell you that.”

“So bad?” Rathbone asked.

“Worse.” Monk drank the last of his port. “Worse as to what she thinks happened to Lambourn, and who killed Zenia Gadney and why. But at least listen to her, Oliver. Make your own judgments. Don’t go on mine.”

Rathbone stood up also. “I would welcome a challenge, as long as it’s not absurd.”

“It might be absurd,” Monk answered him. “It certainly might be.”

The next morning was cold. Winter was closing in.

Rathbone heard the prison door clang shut, steel on stone, and looked at the woman who stood alone in the cell in front of him. There was a table in the center of the floor with a chair on either side; apart from that, nothing at all.

“I am Oliver Rathbone,” he said. “Mr. Monk said you would like to see me.” He looked at her with curiosity. Monk had said she was handsome, but that hardly conveyed the degree of individuality in her face or her bearing. She was tall, within an inch or two of Rathbone’s own height, and the way she carried herself, even here in this wretched place, gave her a dignity that was remarkable, as Monk had claimed. She was not truly beautiful in a classical sense-maybe there was too much character in her face, the mouth too generous-but there was charm, a power, even a rare kind of balance that was unusually pleasing.

“Dinah Lambourn,” she replied. “Thank you for coming so soon. I am afraid I am in very deep trouble and I need someone to speak for me.”

He gestured for her to be seated, and when she was, he sat in the hard-backed wooden chair opposite her.

“Monk told me some of what has happened,” he began. “Before I look further into it myself, or hear what the police have to say, I would like you to tell me yourself. I have heard your husband’s name, and know his reputation for professional skill. I even heard him testify once, and could not shake him.” He smiled very slightly to assure her that the memory was a pleasant one. “You do not need to fill in that background for me. Begin with what you know of Zenia Gadney, and how you learned it, and perhaps also with the last few weeks of your husband’s life, as you think it may be relevant.”

She nodded slowly, as if absorbing the information and deciding how to tell her story. “It is very relevant,” she said in a low voice. “In fact it is the heart of all this. The government is planning to pass an act to regulate the labeling and the sale of opium, which is presently available just about anywhere. You can buy it at dozens of small shops on any high street. It is in scores of patent medicines, in whatever amount the manufacturer cares to use. There is no label on it to tell the user the strength, what it is mixed with, or what would be an appropriate dose, or a dangerous one.” She stopped, searching his face to make certain he was following her.

“Your husband’s part in this?” he prompted.

“Gathering research to make sure the bill passes. There is very heavy opposition to it, backed by those who make a fortune from selling opium as it is presently permitted,” she replied.

“I see. Please go on.”

She drew in a deep breath. “Joel worked very hard indeed to gather facts and figures, to verify them by checking and rechecking, visiting individual people and hearing stories. The more he learned, the worse the picture seemed to be. He came home almost in tears sometimes, having heard stories of babies dying. He was not a sentimental man, but so many unnecessary deaths distressed him profoundly.” Her face reflected her grief of the memory. “None of it was malice; it was all complete ignorance of what they were using. Just ordinary people: frightened, hurting, perhaps exhausted and at their wits’ end, desperate for anything to ease the pain-their own, or that of someone they loved.”

Rathbone began to see the outline of something far larger than he had imagined, and he suddenly felt absurdly privileged by his own physical well-being.

“Dr. Lambourn presented a report to the government?” he deduced. It was obvious, apart from what Monk had told him, but he must be careful not to leap to conclusions, or to put words in her mouth.

“Yes. And they rejected it.” Clearly she still found it difficult to acknowledge. Monk had been right in his estimate of her loyalty to her husband.

“On what grounds?”

“They said incompetence, extreme bias toward his own opinions.” Her voice caught and she had trouble repeating the words. “They refused to accept his facts. He said it was because his facts disagreed with their financial interests.”

“The financial interests of those in the government?” he clarified. He could see that she believed absolutely what she was saying, but it did sound as if it could well have been bias.

She heard the inflection in his voice. Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “The interests of the government commission, of which Sinden Bawtry is the head and my brother-in-law, Barclay Herne, is a member.” Now her bitterness was undisguised. “There is a strong faction in the government who believe that the bill would make opium inaccessible to much of the poorer part of the general public, and as such be highly discriminatory. And of course to measure and label accurately would cost a lot. It would reduce profit on each bottle or packet sold. Fortunes rest on that. All part of the legacy of the Opium Wars.”

She leaned forward earnestly, her hands on the scarred table between them. “There is a great deal we don’t speak of, Sir Oliver, painful things that many people are desperate to conceal. No one likes to have to admit that things their country has done are shameful. Joel was as patriotic as the next person but he did not deny the truth, however horrible it is.”

Rathbone was growing impatient. “What has this to do with the murder of Zenia Gadney, Mrs. Lambourn?”

She flinched. “Joel was found dead two months … two months before Mrs. Gadney was killed.” She swallowed as if there were something in her throat close to choking her. “He was sitting alone on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park. He had taken quite a heavy dose of opium, and …” Again she found it difficult to force the words through her lips. “His wrists were cut so he had bled to death. They said it was suicide, because of his professional failure regarding the report, and the government’s rejection of it. They were very damning of his ability.”

Now she was speaking more rapidly, as if to say it all and get it finished. “They said he was overemotional and incompetent. That he confused personal tragedies with genuine assessment of facts. They … they made him sound silly … amateurish.” She blinked away tears but they spilled over her cheeks. “It hurt him badly, but he was not suicidal! I know you will think I am saying that, believing it, because I loved him, but it is true. He had every intention of fighting them and proving that he was right. He cared about the issue so much he would never have given up.

“In the last few days before his death I found him working in his study at three and four in the morning, white-faced with exhaustion. I told him to come to bed, I begged him, but he said that after what he had heard, his nightmares were worse than any weariness he could feel. Sir Oliver, he would never have killed himself. He would see it as a betrayal of those he was entrusted to help.”

Rathbone hated having to ask her, but he could not defend her without knowing the truth-and, whatever the past, whatever the truth of the opium issue, defending her was what he was entrusted with. It would be better to hurt her now than in court, where the damage would be public and almost certainly irrecoverable.

“If that is so, then I agree,” he said gently. “The whole issue of the report’s rejection was no reason for him to have taken his own life. Which forces me to ask: What was the reason? The prosecution is possibly going to agree with you that he was willing to fight the government, but that his affair with Zenia Gadney came to the surface in some way. Perhaps she threatened to expose him-”

“That’s absurd,” she said sharply. “She hadn’t done so in fifteen years. Why on earth would she have suddenly chosen that time? If he were dead, she would have no income and be driven to seek money on the streets, which is both difficult for a woman her age, and-as has been made tragically clear-dangerous!”

“They will argue that she did not realize that,” he said, watching her face.

Her response was instant. “She was an ordinary woman, not a fool! She lived in Limehouse. She knew people there, shopped there, walked the streets to get wherever she was going,” she said derisively. “Do you think she had no idea how dangerous it was?”

“Then she did not realize that Dr. Lambourn might later take his own life rather than pay her more money,” he responded.

Dinah looked at him with contempt. “She had known him for over fifteen years, and she did not know that?” Before he could point out the inconsistency of her argument she hurried on. “Of course she didn’t know that-because it isn’t true. Joel never would have killed himself over money, and I don’t believe she was so greedy or so stupid as to have threatened him. She was in her mid-forties! Where on earth was she going to find another man to support her and ask nothing in return?”

“Nothing?” he questioned, a little surprised at the assertion. Did she really believe that? Could she possibly?

She flushed and lowered her eyes. “A visit once a month,” she said quietly. “I know the prosecution may not believe that but even if they don’t, the logic still holds. Whatever he asked, or she gave, it would still be easier than walking the streets of Limehouse looking for casual customers.”

Rathbone thought for several moments. “They might suggest it was you who were blackmailing him to stop seeing Zenia?”

“Or I would do what?” she said with a rare spark of humor. “Humiliate myself by making his affair public? Don’t be ridiculous.”

He smiled back, reluctantly. He admired her courage. “Then why did he kill himself, Mrs. Lambourn?”

“He didn’t.” All the light vanished from her face again and grief washed through it. “They killed him, because he was going to fight for his report to be accepted by the people, if not by the government. They made it look like suicide, to discredit him once and for all.”

It sounded hysterical, a wild fiction to save herself from the shame and the rejection of her husband’s suicide, and yet he could not dismiss the idea out of hand.

“You truly think it was murder?”

“How many people have already drowned in the dark sea of the opium trade?” she asked. “Killed in the Opium Wars, murdered in its aftermath of trade and piracy, dead of overdoses? How many fortunes made or lost?”

“And who killed Zenia Gadney?” Rathbone asked, suddenly more serious. “Was her death really only coincidence?”

“That seems so unlikely as to be impossible.” She shook her head. The fear in her was palpable. He looked at her with intense sorrow. He knew exactly why Monk had asked him to see her and to take the case.

“I wanted to do all I could to clear Joel’s name,” she continued. “But his papers are all gone. Someone took everything and destroyed it. I was still trying to see if there were any other doctors who had the courage and resources to take up the issue.”

“Even believing that he was murdered to silence him?”

“He was right,” she said simply.

Rathbone returned to the earlier question. “Who killed Zenia?” he said again.

“They did,” she answered. “Whoever killed Joel.”

“Why? What did she know? Did she have copies of his report?” Copenhagen Place would not have been an unreasonable place to hide such a thing, if it existed.

“Maybe.” She said it as if it had not occurred to her until then.

He could not let her get by with an answer the prosecution would tear to pieces. “Then why not simply burgle her house? That would draw much less attention. Or if she had hidden it and would not tell them where, why not beat her? And if they did have to kill her, why would they do it so grotesquely? This murder is so appalling that it has shaken all London into fear. It is in every newspaper and on everyone’s lips. It makes no sense, in conjunction with your theory.”

Dinah Lambourn put her hands up to her face in a gesture of weariness. “It makes excellent sense, Sir Oliver. As you have observed, all London is drawn into the horror of it. When the evidence ties it back to me, and to Joel, and if I cannot prove my innocence, then I will be hanged and Joel will be completely disgraced, once and for all. His report will be forgotten, and the bill will die quietly. What is Zenia’s life, or mine, worth in comparison to the millions of pounds made from opium, and the continued burial of the secrets and sins of the Opium Wars?”

Rathbone did not know how much he believed her. The more he listened to her, the more credible the possibility seemed that, at the very least, Lambourn’s report had been suppressed because it did not say what those who commissioned it had wished it to.

But could such a failure have led to first Lambourn’s murder, and then Zenia’s, in order to silence Dinah? Unquestionably the wealth at stake was enough to provoke murder. But could there really be such a hideous conspiracy at play?

Or was he being made a complete fool of because she was a beautiful woman, and her loyalty to her husband had caught him in the uniquely vulnerable place of his own wound? Was he losing his sense of perspective?

Was Dinah Lambourn risking her own life to save her husband’s reputation? Or was she insanely jealous, had killed Zenia out of uncontrollable resentment, and was now lying desperately in order to try to save herself from the rope?

He honestly had no idea.

He wanted to believe her. Or, more truthfully, he wanted to believe that a woman would have that kind of loyalty to her husband. That even after his death, and his fifteen-year attachment to another woman, she would fight for him, for her memories of him, and all that they had shared.

Her own wounded feelings meant nothing. Not once had she spoken against him, or for that matter against Zenia Gadney.

She was obviously laboring in the grip of extreme emotion. She faced hanging if she was found guilty. After the manner of Zenia’s death, and the public furor, there could be no question of mercy.

“I will take your case, Mrs. Lambourn. I cannot promise success; all I can commit to is that I will do everything I can to defend you,” he said gravely.

She smiled at him and the tears of relief spilled down her cheeks.

Rathbone shook her hand and then turned for the door. What on earth had he done?