A Sunless Sea (32 page)

“We’ll check Gadney for deaths around fifteen years ago,” Monk replied with a sudden lift of enthusiasm. It would be good to work with Runcorn again, as he knew they had at the beginning of their careers. Runcorn would remember it. He wished he could. Perhaps he would have flashes of recall, as he’d had at the beginning of his amnesia, sudden jolts when something was desperately familiar, and for an instant he could see it clearly.

“Then we’d better start now.” Runcorn picked up his jacket again. “It could take awhile. How many more days does Rathbone think we have?”

“A week, maybe,” Monk replied. “He’ll drag it out as long as he can.” Neither of them needed to say that once the verdict was in it would be all but impossible to get the case reopened. Evidence would no longer sway a jury. It would have to be an error in law, or some new fact so irrefutable that no one could deny it, before they would overturn the court’s decision. Time was their enemy, along with the vested interests of money and reputation.

Obligatory civil records of births, deaths, and marriages had begun in 1838, twenty-six years ago. But to begin with there had been omissions, and there was always the possibility that an event had not taken place in the county. People made mistakes, misread a name or a number, mistook a 5 for an 8, or even a 3, and that altered everything. And, of course, people lied, especially about their age.

They left Runcorn’s office in Blackheath and went back across the river. As they sat hunched up in the ferry, their faces were stung with fine pellets of ice as the sleet drove westward off the water.

At Wapping they went ashore and took a cab west again. They rode in an oddly comfortable silence. There was no need to make conversation. Each was quietly consumed in thoughts of the case, and how much might rest on it.

They were conducted into the vast, silent storerooms of the registry office, and Monk began looking for a death in the name of Gadney, although neither of them had any idea what the man’s Christian name might be, or even the year of the death. He started fifteen years earlier and moved forward.

Runcorn began at that time and worked back.

They searched until both were bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, then stopped for something to take away the taste of dust and paper in the air.

“Nothing,” Runcorn said, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“We need to think again,” Monk admitted, returning the last heavy book to its place on the shelf. “Let’s do it in a pub with a decent lunch. I feel as if I can taste that ink.”

“Maybe Gadney’s her maiden name, not her husband’s,” Monk said a quarter of an hour later as they ate thick slices of fresh bread with crumbling Caerphilly cheese and pickles. They were both thirsty enough to get through a pint of cider and ask for a second. “They called her Mrs. Gadney, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the title was accurate.”

“Then his name could be anything.” Runcorn wiped crumbs off his mouth. “Did anyone mention an accent? Please don’t tell me she was Irish! We haven’t time to start looking for anything that far away.”

“No one mentioned it.” Monk reached for a piece of sharp-flavored apple pie, cooked till the slices of fruit were tender but still whole. “And I think they would have. Anyway, her birth would be before they kept general records. We’d have to go to the parish for the church register. What good would it do anyway? It doesn’t help to know where she was born.”

“It might,” Runcorn argued. “Women often get married wherever they grew up rather than where the husband lives.”

He was right. Once Monk would have argued, and then pointed out that it didn’t help anyway. Now he took it in its value simply as a word of encouragement to continue. He finished his cider. “You go on looking for anything with Gadney, a marriage with either bride or groom of that name. I’ll start tracing Lambourn’s career. See if anyone can remember who his friends were fifteen years ago. Someone might remember the name Gadney.”

Runcorn frowned heavily. “They’ll hear about it,” he warned. “How long do you think you have before it’s reported to Bawtry, or someone below him?” There was anxiety in his face. “I’ll come with you. Two of us’ll get there faster than one.”

Monk shook his head. “Look for the marriage. If Bawtry, or anyone else, questions what I’m doing, I’ve got a reason. Or I can think of one.”

“Like what?” Runcorn asked. His face reflected he knew the risk they were taking, and Monk was trying to protect him from it.

Monk thought for a moment. “Like I want to make sure the case against Dinah Lambourn is perfect.” He smiled with a little twist of irony. “I don’t mind lying to them.”

“Don’t get caught!” There was no answering humor in Runcorn’s eyes, only concern.

“I’ll meet you back here at six o’clock.” Monk stood up.

“What if I find something?” Runcorn asked quickly.

“Nothing I can do about it because I don’t know where I’ll be,” Monk answered. “Wait for me.”

Runcorn did not argue but rose as well and they went out together into the blustery afternoon.

M
ONK SPENT SEVERAL EXHAUSTING
and completely fruitless hours. As discreetly as he could he asked questions of people Lambourn had studied with, and stifled his impatience with difficulty. They were hard to track down, claiming to be too busy to spare him time. Perhaps they were embarrassed to discuss someone whose life had ended in such tragedy, but Monk could not help being crowded by the suspicion that
they had been warned they would find great disfavor with their superiors if they were to be indiscreet. Doors that had been open before might inexplicably become closed to them in the future.

He found professors who had taught Lambourn, others who had graduated in medicine at the same time, one man who had changed his studies to chemistry. They remembered Lambourn but could offer nothing of use beyond the facts Monk already knew.

He could go on for many more hours without exhausting the possibilities, and each time increasing the chances of attracting more attention to his inquiries. Also he did not wish to keep Runcorn waiting. He had a dim recollection that he had done so rather often in the past.

He found Runcorn sitting at the same small table in the corner of the public house, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wood.

Monk knew he was not late, but all the same he took out his watch and glanced at it to make doubly certain. He sat down opposite Runcorn.

Runcorn was frowning, his face troubled. “You’re not going to like it,” he said quietly.

Monk felt his muscles tighten and his breath catch in his throat. “You found something?”

Runcorn did not stretch out the tension. “Marriage, no death.”

Monk was stunned. “So the husband is still alive?”

“Not now.” Runcorn took a deep breath. “Zenia Gadney was married all right—to Joel Lambourn.”

“What?” Monk froze. He must have misheard. It was not a bitter or ill-conceived joke; there was not a shred of humor in Runcorn’s eyes.

“It gets worse,” Runcorn said grimly. “It was about five years before he appeared to have married Dinah.”

“Why is that worse?” Monk did not want to hear the answer.

“I looked hard, believe me. I searched everything twice,” Runcorn said miserably. “There was no divorce.”

“Then … then the marriage to Dinah wasn’t legal. Damn!” Monk buried his head in his hands. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Do you think Dinah found out?” he asked, raising his eyes slowly and meeting Runcorn’s.

“There’s no record of a marriage between Joel Lambourn and Dinah,” Runcorn told him. “I should think she always knew.”

“That’s it,” Monk said quietly. “That’s the lie Rathbone sensed. He knew she wasn’t telling him the complete truth. Lambourn was providing for his wife, not visiting a prostitute at all. Dinah knew that, too. She had no cause to be jealous.”

Runcorn looked wretched. “But she had every cause to wish Zenia Gadney dead,” he said, biting his lip.

Monk realized the truth of this the moment he spoke. “So Zenia Gadney was the legal heir to whatever he possessed. She was still his wife. Dinah is the mistress, and the children are illegitimate. What a bloody mess!”

“It is,” agreed Runcorn soberly.

“Maybe Dinah went to Copenhagen Place to keep up the payments?” Monk suggested, grabbing desperately for any straw at all.

“A bit late, wasn’t she?” Runcorn said drily. “Zenia’d already taken to the streets.”

“Had she?” Monk questioned him. “We only assumed that because she was killed in the street, and other people hadn’t seen Lambourn in the area. They assumed she was out of money because she was later than usual with a few bills, and because she had taken in bits of sewing and mending. But she’d always done that.

“Dinah was devastated by Lambourn’s death,” he went on. “She must have had a lot of other things on her mind more urgent than seeing that Zenia was all right. And she would not have had much money to spare, until the estate was probated—maybe no more than she needed to feed herself and her children. Her children would come first, long before Zenia.”

“We need to find out how much estate there is,” Runcorn said unhappily. “You’ll have the right to ask that.”

Monk nodded. “I’m going to ask quite a lot of things—including how much did Amity Herne actually know about her brother, and she lied on the stand saying that he told her Zenia was a prostitute he went to because Dinah refused to meet his needs.”

“Maybe she knows a great deal,” Runcorn said with disgust. “Like the fact that Dinah won’t inherit and Zenia would, if she were still alive. But since she isn’t, Amity Herne herself is the next of kin!”

Monk stared at him. “I don’t even know if this makes it better or worse!” he said hoarsely.

“Depends on the estate.” Runcorn stared at him, his face bleak. “Both what it really is, and what either Dinah or Amity Herne thought it was.”

“Herne is already wealthy enough,” Monk pointed out.

“What’s wealthy enough?” Runcorn asked. “For some people there’s no such thing. You don’t always kill because you’re desperate—sometimes you kill because you want more than you have.” He stood up slowly. “I’ll get you a pint. You should have something to eat. They have really good pork pies.”

“Thank you,” Monk said with profound gratitude. “Thank you very much.”

Runcorn gave him a sudden smile—there and then gone again—before he turned to make his way over to the bar with its gleaming tankards and the well-polished handles for pumping up the ale from the barrels.

“Y
ES, SIR,
”
THE SOLICITOR
said grimly to Monk’s inquiry the following day. “A very considerable amount. Can’t tell you exactly, but very wise, very prudent, Dr. Lambourn was. Always lived within his means.”

“To whom did he leave his estate, Mr. Bredenstoke?” Monk asked.

Bredenstoke’s face did not change in the slightest, nor did his blue eyes blink. “To his natural daughters, sir. Marianne and Adah.”

“All of it?”

“Less a few small bequests, yes, sir.”

“Not to his wife?”

“No, sir. She has only sufficient to care for her children.”

Monk felt an unexpected glow of warmth. “Thank you.”

I
T WAS A
S
ATURDAY
morning and the court was not sitting, a fact that gave Rathbone a most welcome respite. He wrote several letters with good wishes for Christmas, now only days away, and put them in the hall for Ardmore to post.

The silence of the house did not trouble him as much as usual. He was not even conscious of the thought that it was not the peace of hopeful waiting, temporary before the return of one he loved. It was an emptiness that stretched before him endlessly, and now that disillusion had bitten so deep, in some way it stretched behind also.

Had he and Margaret ever been as happy as he had imagined? Or had he loved only who he believed she was—as it turned out, so terribly wrongly? Did she feel the same: that she had given her life and herself to a man who was so much less than she thought, and whom she had trusted blindly—and mistakenly also?

Surely neither of them had intended deception, just made assumptions? Had they seen what they wanted and expected to see? If he had really loved her, would he have acted the same way or not? He had thought so at the time, but with hindsight, and the reality of loss, he questioned it now. Did love require more generosity than he had? Did it forgive regardless?

If it had been Hester, would he have forgiven her for acting the same way? For what? Weakness because she could not face the truth about her father? The sheer inability to see the truth in the first place? Or simply that she was not what he had believed her to be, had needed her to be for his own happiness?

But Hester would not have placed anyone before what she knew was right. It would have bruised her emotions, even broken her heart, but she would have expected people to answer for their mistakes, whatever they were, whoever made them. She would not have withdrawn her love, but she would have been honest with herself and to the best she knew and believed.