A Sunless Sea (37 page)

She met his gaze unflinchingly. She showed no sign of being embarrassed by her lie, or surprised that Rathbone knew her brother’s secret. “I do. But I saw no reason to make that truth publicly known, for Dinah’s sake. Can you imagine how she would look in the jury’s eyes when they find out that she was nothing more than Joel’s mistress, mother of two illegitimate children? It is better for the world to see poor Zenia as the other woman. But I imagine if you have discovered the fact that Joel and Zenia were married, Coniston will be able to as well.”

“Amity …,” Herne protested.

She ignored him. “If Coniston brings the facts to light, you would have difficulty in presenting your theory to a jury in a sympathetic light, Sir Oliver. Killing for money, even to feed your children, is not justified. Most particularly with that insane degree of savagery. If I were Mr. Coniston, I would suggest to them that Joel had begun to grow tired of Dinah, and was considering asking Zenia to return to him, as his lawful wife, and that was what threw Dinah into such a frenzy of hatred.”

“For God’s sake, Amity!” Herne burst out. “Do you need to—”

“Please do not blaspheme, Barclay,” she said quietly. “Especially on the Sabbath, and in front of our guest. I am not advocating such a course, only warning Sir Oliver what may happen in the prosecutor’s summing up of the case. Surely it is better he be prepared for it?”

Rathbone felt the coldness increase inside him. He hated what she had said, and the calm, intelligent way in which she had framed it, but it was true. In Coniston’s place he might do the same.

“I had not considered such a thing,” he admitted aloud. “But of course you are right. While I do not believe what you suggest, neither can I offer any proof that it is untrue.”

“I’m sorry. I wish we could help you,” Amity said more gently. “But in the end only the truth will serve.”

Barclay leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Was he more deeply distressed than his wife? Or was he simply more overtly emotional? Lambourn had been Amity’s brother. Perhaps there was an element in her that could not forgive Dinah for the grief she had caused him.

“Did you know Zenia well?” Rathbone asked, looking at Amity. “I mean before whatever it was that caused her addiction, and her separation from Dr. Lambourn.”

A look of confusion crossed Amity’s face. Clearly she had not anticipated the question. She hesitated, searching for the right answer.

“No,” Herne put in for her. “We were not living in the same area then, and at that time my wife was not well enough to travel. Joel told us that Zenia was quiet, gentle, a very decent woman but somewhat ordinary.”

Amity turned to Rathbone, irritation marking two tiny lines between her fine brows. “What my husband means is that she was not eccentric, and she did not draw attention to herself.”

Unlike Dinah, Rathbone thought, but he did not say so. Against his will, he thought of Margaret, and then of Hester. There had been a time when he had found Margaret’s quiet dignity, her grace and composure, to be beautiful, and exactly what he most wished in a woman, particularly in a wife. The passion and energy of Hester had been too exhausting, far too unpredictable. But perhaps he had been in love with Hester in a way he never was with Margaret?

Then why had he not pursued Hester, before she married Monk? Had that been out of wisdom, knowing better than to imagine she would bring him happiness? Or had he just been a coward? Had Joel Lambourn left Zenia out of boredom, captured by the color and vitality of Dinah, and her obvious love for him? And had he grown to regret that?

Would Rathbone have grown tired of Hester? Would her fire and intelligence have demanded of him more than he was willing to give, perhaps more passion than he possessed?

He did not need to think about it. Monk had loved Hester when they were married—probably long before. Rathbone knew, merely by watching Monk’s face, that he loved her far more deeply now. Time, experiences—good and bad—had hollowed out a larger vessel of both of them, able to hold a more profound emotion. If he himself were worth anything at all, it would have done so of him as well.

He looked at Amity. “Did Dr. Lambourn confide his feelings to you, Mrs. Herne? I appreciate your sensitivity in protecting his privacy, especially
since he is no longer able to do so himself, but I am in great need of understanding the truth.”

Herne lifted his eyes to watch Amity, waiting for her answer.

Amity seemed to be struggling with herself.

“I can judge only by his actions,” she said at last. “He visited Zenia more and more often, possibly more frequently than he allowed Dinah to know. Perhaps she found that out. Joel was a very quiet man. He hated emotional scenes, as I believe most men do. Some women use them as a weapon—implicitly, of course, not openly. Dinah had a tendency to dramatize. She was self-centered and demanding. Some beautiful women are very spoiled, and never learn that good looks are as much a burden as a gift. One can come to rely upon them.”

“And Zenia was … ordinary,” Rathbone put in softly.

Amity smiled. “Very. She was not plain, just—how can I say it without being cruel?—she was dull. But she was gentle and unselfish. Perhaps that is a different kind of beauty, one that improves with time, whereas superb coloring and fine features can do the opposite. Constant drama can become very wearing, after a while. One longs for an ordinariness, honesty without effort.”

Herne was staring at her, his face creased in distress. However, there was nothing in his expression to indicate what it was that hurt him.

“I see.” Rathbone heard his own voice sounding flat. “This would be before he became so distressed over the rejection of his report on the use of opium, and his recommendation for control of its sales?”

“We have already covered that,” Herne interrupted sharply. “The report was full of anecdotes, which was totally inappropriate. Joel allowed himself to become sentimentally involved with the tragedies of the issue, which is understandable; it would be inhuman not to pity a woman who has quite accidentally killed her own child.” He winced, and his emotion showed naked in his face. He drew his breath in with a gasp and continued hoarsely, “But such feelings have no place in a scientific study. I tried to explain that to him, to point out that the whole thing should be reduced to facts and figures, material details that could be measured, so we might calmly take the necessary measures to reduce the risks, without at the same time being overrestrictive and
denying legitimate use of medicines. But he was … hysterical about it. He refused to listen.” He looked across at Amity, as if for her confirmation of what he said.

She gave it immediately, turning to Rathbone. “Joel was completely unreasonable. He seemed to have lost his balance. I respected him for his compassion for those who suffer, of course—we all do—but to allow yourself to become emotionally overwrought is of no help to the cause. We both tried …” She looked at Herne, who nodded quickly. “But we could not persuade him to take the hearsay out of his paper and keep it strictly to the numbers. He should have provided in each case the proper details and dates of all his witnesses, and of course the places where they lived, and the records of the products used, and such doctors’ or coroners’ reports as were reliable.”

Rathbone was surprised. What he had heard from others of Lambourn’s professional conduct was very different.

“I see,” he said grimly. “No court of law would accept only anecdotal evidence. I can quite see why Parliament would not, either. Do you think his health was affected by this time?” He asked this of Amity.

She weighed her answer for several moments. In the silence Rathbone could hear footsteps across the hall, and then voices.

Amity froze, upright and absolutely motionless in her seat.

Herne rose very slowly to his feet, his face stiff with apprehension. He turned to Rathbone.

“Mr. Bawtry is joining us for luncheon,” he said a little breathlessly. “He said he would if he was able. I’m sorry. I appreciate that this is a family matter, but he is my superior, and I cannot refuse him.”

Rathbone made a small, gracious gesture to dismiss the matter. “Of course not. And we have already discussed the more personal side of the subject. Should there be anything more that concerns the report, or Dr. Lambourn’s reactions to its rejection, Mr. Bawtry will be as much involved with it as you are. I shall be as brief as I can.”

He looked at Amity, expecting to see ice in her eyes, and saw instead a vitality that completely took him aback. Then she blinked and stood up, turning toward the door as the footman opened it. An instant later Sinden Bawtry came in. Clearly he had been warned of Rathbone’s
presence. He came forward, smiling at Amity, then held out his hand to Rathbone.

“Good afternoon, Sir Oliver. Very agreeable to see you, but I imagine you are here to gain any last-minute knowledge you can in order to get this very wretched trial over with as decently as is possible, and if we may, before Christmas.”

Rathbone took his hand, which was firm and cool, his grip powerful but without any attempt to crush. He had no need to. This was not his house, but he dominated the room as naturally as if he had been the host and the other three of them friends.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Herne said with a rising note of desperation. “We’ve already explained that poor Joel was rather losing his grip, overemotional, and all that. Couldn’t accept the report. Not professional.”

Amity shot a glance of irritation at him but was prevented from saying anything by Bawtry’s intervention.

“I think the least said about poor Joel the better,” he observed, smiling at Rathbone. “It would be most unfortunate for your case to be trying to justify the murder of that woman by suggesting there was some kind of cause for it. Frankly the only hope I can see for Mrs. Lambourn is to raise some reasonable doubt that Mrs. Gadney was desperate for money and tried her somewhat unpracticed hand at prostitution.”

He smiled bleakly, almost as an apology. “You could do it easily enough without soiling her name too badly. For heaven’s sake don’t suggest she deserved it, only that she was unlucky enough not to be able to defend herself because she was alone at the time of the attack. If she screamed, no one heard her. A woman who was accustomed to life in the streets might have been careful enough not to frequent such a place without a … whatever they are called … a pimp.”

Herne looked wretched. “She was once a decent woman!” he protested.

“So was Dinah!” Amity said sharply. “For heaven’s sake, Barclay, let us have it over with. There is only one way it can end. We are deluding no one by making all this pretense that it was some kind of mischance, and nothing to do with Dinah’s jealousy or her desperation to make
sure that she inherited Joel’s money. The fairy story that he didn’t take his own life but was killed by some mysterious conspiracy in Greenwich Park is absurd. No one believes it.” She turned to Rathbone. “If you have any—”

Bawtry put his hand on her arm, very gently, almost in a caress.

“Mrs. Herne, it is only natural, and speaks to both your honesty and your humanity, that you wish to see an end to the torture of the mind that this trial forces upon us, but we must wait it through to the end, in silence if necessary.”

He turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver will do the best he can for your sister-in-law, but it is a doomed effort, and he is as aware of that as we are. It is a matter of the law being seen to be done.” He gave Rathbone a brief smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

Amity seemed to relax and a kind of ease washed through her face. Her eyes became bright again. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Of course. I don’t mean to contest the inevitable. I suppose it would be unnatural not to find it distressing.”

“Indeed it would,” Bawtry agreed. He moved his gaze from her to her husband. “I know you were fond of him, Barclay, and therefore must find these revelations about his wife shocking. It is natural to wish to deny them, but I am sure you will find your strength in your own wife, and gratitude that you are not losing control of your skills or your professional reputation, as poor Lambourn was.”

Herne made a painful and quite visible effort to compose himself, to stand up straight with his shoulders back and his eyes forward.

“Of course,” he agreed. Then he turned to Rathbone. “I’m sorry we could not be of more help, Sir Oliver. I’m afraid the facts are beyond argument. Thank you for calling.”

Rathbone had no choice but to depart gracefully, his mind seething with impressions, none of them even remotely helpful.

A
T MID-AFTERNOON OF THE
following day, Monk stood by the dockside in the wind as the ferry drew near the steps and Runcorn climbed out. He looked tired and cold, but there was no hesitation as he came forward, his eyes meeting Monk’s.

Monk gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, then turned to walk with him toward the River Police Station. They knew each other too well to need the unnecessary niceties.