A Sunless Sea (31 page)

It fitted together perfectly—almost!

“Mrs. Lambourn,” Rathbone said earnestly, “you have no more time left to keep secrets, no matter how painful. You are fighting for your life, and believe me, the fact that you are a woman will not save you. If you are found guilty, three Sundays after the verdict is passed, you will walk to the gallows.”

She was so white he thought she was going to faint. He felt brutal, and yet she left him no choice if he was to have any chance at all of saving her.

“For God’s sake, tell me the truth!” he said desperately.

“That is the truth!” Her voice was so strangled in her throat he could barely hear it. “Joel took money to her every month, so she could survive without resorting to prostitution.”

“Can you prove that? Any part of it?” he demanded.

“Of course not. How could I?”

“Did you know the money went regularly?” He was clutching at straws.

Her eyes widened a fraction. “Yes. It was paid on the twenty-first of every month. It was in the household ledger.”

“Entered as what?”

“Under her initials—Z.G. He did not lie to me, Sir Oliver.”

He could see that that was what she believed. But then how could she bear to believe differently? What woman in her place would?

“Unfortunately there is no proof of that which we could show the court,” he said quietly. “The fact that he told you he gave her the money as an act of friendship does not prove that that was the truth. What happened to Zenia’s husband? Why did he not provide for her?”

“He’s dead,” she said simply, an unexpected finality of grief in her face.

“What was his name?”

“I … I don’t know.”

This time he was sure she was lying; he just could not understand why.

He changed the subject. “Why did you tell the police that you were at a soirée with Mrs. Moulton when you knew she would not support that? It was not only a lie; it was one you were bound to be caught in.”

She looked down at her hands. “I know.”

“Did you panic?” he asked more gently.

“No,” she whispered.

“What on earth did you hope to gain by speaking to Zenia?” he persisted. “What did you think she would tell you about your husband? Did you think he left papers from his report with her? Or that somehow she had helped him? Did she know something about opium that would have validated his findings?”

She faced him again. “I didn’t go to Copenhagen Place. I don’t know who that woman was. Clearly she tried to look like me. There’s not much point in bringing the shopkeeper and other people in to testify, because they’ll say what everybody expects them to—and what they will now believe is the truth. But I did not go. That I know as well as I know I’m sitting here.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “And I will never believe that Joel killed himself. He knew his report was right and he was determined to fight his detractors. You have no idea of the evil and the shame of the opium trade, Sir Oliver, or of the people who are involved in it.” Her voice was trembling now. “Joel wept for what we have done in China. It is a very hard thing to acknowledge that your own country has committed atrocities. Many people cannot do that. They will go on to create more lies to cover the first.” There was a curious look in her eyes, almost a challenge.

Suddenly a new truth became shatteringly clear to him, bringing the sweat out on his body and choking the breath in his throat. She had lied about being with Helena Moulton quite deliberately, knowing it would be exposed, and that Monk would have no choice but to charge her with Zenia’s murder—and she would stand trial for her life. She had meant it to happen. She had asked Monk to have Rathbone to defend
her because she believed he would force the truth of Joel’s murder into the open, and clear his name. Perhaps his work would even be continued by someone else. That was the depth of her belief in him—and her love.

Ridiculously, he found his mouth dry and he had to swallow hard in order to speak. He looked away from her, blinking rapidly to stop the tears in his eyes.

“I’ll do everything I can.” It was a promise he would keep, but he had no idea if it would be enough to save her, let alone to restore Joel Lambourn’s reputation. She must have seen that Pendock was against them, just as he had. And yet she had not given in.

How different she was from Margaret! How brave, reckless, and loyal. Beautiful and a little frightening. What must Joel Lambourn have been like to be worthy of such a woman?

He stood up very slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said a little hoarsely. “I know somewhere I can at least try to get help.”

M
ONK HAD RECEIVED A
message from Rathbone late the previous evening requesting him to be at his chambers at eight o’clock so that they would have time to speak before Rathbone was due in court. Consequently Monk was up at six. He ate breakfast with Hester, both of them saying little in a silent understanding of the growing desperation of the case. He was on the river by seven, sitting in the ferry from Princes Stairs across to Wapping, still aware of a steady ache in his shoulder from his battle in the street. Since then he and Runcorn had both been more careful.

He was not looking forward to the meeting. A brawl on one of the docks, in which a man had been killed, had kept him busy during the previous day, and in the little time he had been able to spare in the evening he had achieved nothing. He knew Hester had already told Rathbone about the nurse, Agatha Nisbet, but all that did was to confirm that Joel Lambourn had been investigating opium in patent medicines, which they already knew.

Orme was still questioning people in Limehouse, especially the area near the pier, but no one had seen anything useful. One person admitted seeing three men, considerably the worse for drink, but he was
not certain if it was that evening or another. Someone else had seen two women walking to the pier at the right sort of time, and the right day, but definitely not a man.

The boat reached the steps at Wapping and he paid the ferryman and got out. The tide was low and the stones were wet. He had to be careful he did not slip. He reached the top and strode across the open stretch of the dock. The wind was rising as the tide started to flow again, coming in from the sea. It smelled of salt and fish, and now and again an unpleasant odor of effluent. Even so, it was better than the smell of the city streets, and there was a vitality in the air he had come to love. Here the sky was wide. No buildings closed in the vision and there was always light, no matter how dark the weather. Even at night the lamps’ yellow glow marked the ships.

He had no time to call in at the station first. He went straight toward the high street and the first hansom cab he could catch.

He found Rathbone tense but remarkably full of energy. He welcomed Monk into the familiar quiet sitting room. There was a small fire in the grate, in spite of the fact that Rathbone would be in court most of the day.

“Come in. Sit down.” Rathbone indicated one of the leather chairs. “Monk, I need your help. This has suddenly become urgent. Lambourn’s sister gave evidence yesterday, which is pretty damning against Dinah, and Lambourn also. I think she’s much more loyal to her husband than to her brother.”

“Her husband is still alive,” Monk pointed out a little cynically.

Rathbone’s face tightened but he made no comment on it. “Sinden Bawtry was in court for the second time.”

“Protecting the government’s interest in the Pharmacy Act?” Monk asked.

“Possibly. The judge is ruling against me every time he can, even stretching it a bit. I can’t help feeling he’s been instructed.” He continued pacing, too restless to sit himself. “Monk, I’ve suddenly realized what this is about. I don’t know how I can have been so blind! Well, I do. But that’s all irrelevant now.” He paced from Monk’s chair to the door, turned, and came back again.

“Dinah lied about being at the soirée precisely in order that you should arrest her, and she would beg you to have me to defend her!” He watched Monk’s face intently.

Monk was incredulous. Rathbone’s grief over Margaret had damaged his judgment even more than he had feared.

“Dinah Lambourn implicated herself in a particularly obscene murder simply in order to create the opportunity for you to defend her?” he said, unable to keep the disbelief out of his face. “Why, for God’s sake? Couldn’t she simply have contrived an introduction?”

“Not to meet me, you fool!” Rathbone said with a glimmer of bitter amusement. “To get the story of Joel’s death into open court. She saw the opportunity in Zenia Gadney’s murder, and took it. She is willing to risk being condemned to death in order to clear her husband’s name and restore the reputation he earned for diligence and honor.”

Monk’s understanding came when he saw the light in Rathbone’s face, the softness and the grief in his eyes. His body was stiff, and he was thinner than he had been only a few months ago, before the end of the Ballinger case. But this morning there was a vitality in him; he had a great cause to fight for.

Monk had no idea if Rathbone was right or not, but he did not want to crush the possibility.

“What is it you want me to do?” he asked, dreading the answer would be impossible to meet.

“Dinah said Lambourn supported Zenia because she was the widow of a friend of his,” Rathbone answered. “Dinah knew about it almost from the beginning. The money went from the household ledgers, under the initials Z.G. on the twenty-first of every month. If we can prove that’s true, then her principal motive is gone.”

Monk felt his heart sink. “Oliver, that’s what he told her—or else she’s just thought of a very clever excuse for his behavior. It’s—”

“Capable of proof!” Rathbone cut across him urgently. “Trace back where Zenia came from. Look at the records. We know her age—she must have been married within the last twenty-nine years. Find the husband.” He was lit with eagerness now, his voice low and keen. “Find his connection to Joel Lambourn. Perhaps they studied together, practiced medicine together. Somewhere their paths crossed and they became
such close friends that Lambourn supported his widow all his life. Even went to see her once a month, unfailingly. That’s a hell of a loyalty. There’ll be ways of tracing it.”

Monk said nothing.

“Find it!” Rathbone repeated more sharply.

“You believe it?” Monk asked, wishing he did not have to.

Rathbone hesitated, a split second too long. “
Basically
, yes,” he said with a faint smile of self-mockery. “She’s lying about something, I don’t know what. I do believe that she implicated herself deliberately by lying as to where she was, in order to stand trial, hoping that the whole issue of Joel’s suicide would have to be examined again, and somehow we would prove that it was murder, because his work was totally valid, and somebody wants it concealed.”

Monk pushed himself up onto his feet. “Then I’ll reopen my investigation,” he said quietly. “And I’ll get Runcorn to reopen his.”

Rathbone smiled, the ease relaxing his body, hope in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Monk went directly to Runcorn’s office. It was still a long journey eastward and back across the river in a rising wind with sleet on the edge of it. Maybe it would snow for Christmas.

He met Runcorn at the door, just as he was leaving.

Runcorn saw his face and, without speaking, he turned back and went up the stairs to his office, motioning Monk to follow him. As soon as he closed the door, Monk repeated the essence of what Rathbone had told him. Runcorn did not interrupt until he was finished.

Runcorn nodded. He did not ask if Monk believed it.

“We’d better see if anyone knows where Zenia came from,” he said practically. “Trouble is, asking too many people. Better it doesn’t get back to Lambourn’s enemies that we’re still looking.”

Monk assumed for a moment that Runcorn was thinking of his own safety. Then a glance at his face, a memory of him in the firelight looking at Melisande, made him ashamed of the thought.

“Has anyone said anything to you?” he asked. He should have expected it, after the attack in the street, especially given what Rathbone had said about Sinden Bawtry being in court, and his conviction that Pendock was deliberately blocking him at every turn.

Runcorn gave a slight shrug. “Obliquely,” he said, treating it lightly, although Monk heard the slight rasp in his voice. “Not only a warning, more a thank-you in advance, for acting with discretion.”

Monk wondered if he should tell Runcorn that he would understand if he did not wish to pursue the matter. His career might be jeopardized. He remembered how much that had mattered to him in the past, how all the times the next step upward had been the goal.

“We’ll have to be careful.” Runcorn’s voice cut across his thoughts. “Check Zenia, not Lambourn. It would have been easier to check Lambourn’s career and see who he might have been close to and who died about fifteen years ago, but they’d spot that. Zenia’s not a common name. Be a lot harder if she were Mary or Betty.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Wonder if Gadney’s her maiden name, or married. D’you know?”