A Sunless Sea (43 page)

“Sir Oliver,” Pendock said with evident relief, “you are risking becoming absurd. This is all a rather desperate attempt to waste time, I don’t know for what purpose. Who are you imagining will ride to your rescue? You have provided absolutely nothing to support this fantasy of conspiracy that you are asking us to believe in. Either produce it, sir, or provide us with some credible defense. If you have none, then save this fruitless distress to your client and allow her to plead guilty.”

Rathbone felt the blood burn up his face. “My client has told me she is not guilty, my lord,” he said, the bitterness harsh in his voice. “I cannot ask her to say that she beat to death and then eviscerated a woman, in order to save the court’s time!”

“Be very careful, Sir Oliver,” Pendock warned, “or I shall hold you in contempt.”

“That would only delay the trial even longer, my lord,” Rathbone retorted, then the instant after regretted it, and knew it was too late. He had made an irrevocable enemy of Pendock.

There was a ripple of excitement in the gallery. Even the jurors were suddenly intensely alive, their eyes moving from Rathbone to Pendock, then to Coniston, lastly to Runcorn, still waiting for further questions.

Dinah Lambourn was not the only one on trial. Perhaps in one way or another, everyone in the court was. They each had a part to play in finding justice.

Rathbone now chose his words with meticulous care. Dinah Lambourn’s life might hang on his skill, and his ability to forget his own
vanity or temper and think only of her, and whatever truth he could force the jury to hear.

He had no idea what else Runcorn knew. Staring at his face now, he wondered what on earth the man wanted him to ask. What could it concern that he could not raise without Pendock stopping him again? What tied Zenia Lambourn to the sale of opium and needles, except Lambourn and his research?

“Mr. Runcorn, did you have occasion to consider the possibility that Zenia Gadney might have known something of Dr. Lambourn’s research into crimes involving, or following from, the sale of opium pure enough to inject into the blood, and the degeneration into madness or death that can result from it?”

Now the jurors were craning forward to listen, faces tense, fascinated and frightened.

Runcorn seized the chance. “Yes, sir. We thought it possible that Dr. Lambourn made more than one copy, at least of the most controversial parts of his report. Since it was not found in his own home, we thought he might well have left it with his first wife, Zenia Gadney. He may have believed that no one else, apart from Dinah Lambourn, knew of her existence.”

Coniston stood. “Then the poor woman cannot have been murdered for it, except by Dinah Lambourn, which is our contention. All Sir Oliver has done is provide the accused with a second motive, my lord.”

Pendock looked at Rathbone with a faint smile on his face.

“You appear to have shot yourself in the foot, Sir Oliver,” he observed.

Runcorn drew in a sharp breath, looked at Rathbone, and then beyond him into the body of the gallery.

Rathbone understood instantly what Runcorn meant. He gave him the slightest of nods, then smiled back at Pendock.

“If Dinah Lambourn were the only one to have known the truth, that would be so, my lord. Perhaps you are unaware that both Barclay Herne and his wife, Amity Herne, Joel Lambourn’s sister, both knew of his first marriage.” Rathbone allowed his voice to take on a slightly
sarcastic tone. “I believe they … forgot to mention this in their earlier testimony, though they have both confessed as much to me in the privacy of their own home.”

Again the color drained from Pendock’s face and he sat rigid, his hand in front of him, a closed fist on his great carved bench.

“Are you suggesting that one of them murdered this unfortunate woman, Sir Oliver?” he said very slowly. “I assume you have ascertained their whereabouts at the time in question?”

Rathbone felt as if he had been physically struck. In a matter of seconds victory had turned to defeat.

“No, my lord,” he said quietly. “I was pointing out that Dinah Lambourn was not the only person aware of the fact that Joel Lambourn was married to Zenia Gadney, and visited her once a month, that we know of. It is always possible that either Barclay or Mrs. Herne may have told other people, perhaps their acquaintances from that earlier time when Dr. Lambourn was still together with Zenia Gadney, or should I say Zenia Lambourn?”

“Why on earth would either of them do such a thing?” Pendock asked incredulously. “Surely it is something no one would wish to make public? It would be most embarrassing. Your suggestion is eccentric, to put it at its kindest.”

Rathbone made one last attempt.

“My lord, we are uncertain whether Dr. Lambourn’s report contained references to the sale of opium and these needles, with details of the horror of the addiction such methods cause. Whether the stories are entirely true or not we do not know. But it remains likely that people’s names are mentioned, either as dealers of this poison or addicts to it. Finding every copy of these papers and making certain they do not fall into the wrong hands could be regarded as a service to anyone mentioned in them—and perhaps the country in general. Opium, used properly, and under medical supervision, remains the only ease we have for mortal pain.”

Pendock was silent for a long time.

The court waited. Every face in the gallery and in the jury box was turned toward the judge. Even Runcorn in the witness box turned to watch and wait.

Seconds ticked by. No one moved.

Finally Pendock reached a decision.

“Do you have any evidence of this, Mr. Runcorn?” he said quietly. “Evidence, not supposition and scandal?”

“Yes, my lord,” Runcorn answered. “But it is all in bits and pieces, scattered among the accounts of tragic infant deaths that Dr. Lambourn was looking for. He came across this other evidence by accident and we think he only pieced together who was behind it in the last few days of his life.”

Rathbone took a step forward.

“My lord, if we might have the rest of the day to assemble it sensibly, and make certain that no innocent person is unintentionally slandered, we might be able to present it to the court, or to your lordship in chambers, and see what the value of it may be.”

Pendock sighed heavily. “Very well. The court is adjourned until Tuesday morning.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone inclined his head, suddenly almost sick with relief.

Runcorn came down from the stand and walked toward him.

“Sir Oliver, Mr. Monk would like to see you, as soon as possible,” he said quietly. “We have more.”

W
HILE
R
ATHBONE WAS IN
court questioning Runcorn, and Monk was endeavoring to learn more about Barclay Herne and Sinden Bawtry, Hester quietly returned to see Dr. Winfarthing.

As always, Winfarthing was pleased to see her, but after he had greeted her with his usual warmth, he sat back in his chair and the heaviness of apprehension was too clear for her to miss.

“I assume you are here about that poor woman Dinah Lambourn,” he said bleakly.

“Yes. We haven’t long before they’ll bring in a verdict,” she replied. “You knew Joel Lambourn—you worked with him.”

He grunted. “So what do you want of me, girl? If I had any proof he didn’t kill himself, don’t you think I’d have said so at the time?”

“Of course. But things are different now. What do you know about opium and syringes?”

His eyes opened very wide and he let his breath out slowly.

“Is that what you’re thinking about? That he stumbled onto someone selling needles, and opium pure enough to put directly into the blood? Can kill people with that, if you don’t get it exactly right. At best, you’re likely to get them addicted unless you keep it to just a few days.”

“I know,” she agreed. “Some of the doctors in the American Civil War have used morphine to help the badly injured. Thought it wouldn’t be so addictive. They were wrong. But they were doing it for the best of reasons. What if someone was doing it for money, and worse, for power?”

Winfarthing nodded very slowly. “God Almighty, girl! Are you sure? What a monstrous evil. Have you ever seen what opium addiction does to a man? Have you seen the withdrawal, if he doesn’t get his supply?” His face was pinched with misery at the memory of it in his mind.

“No, I haven’t.”

“There’s pain,” he told her. “And nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, panic, depression, anxiety, sleeplessness, muscle twitching, cramps, chills, tremors, headaches, gooseflesh, lack of appetite—and other things as well, if you’re really unlucky.”

She felt her body clenching, as if she were threatened herself. “For how long?” she asked huskily.

“Depends,” he said, watching her with his face squashed up in pity. “As little as two days—as long as two months.”

She rubbed her hand over her face. “And it isn’t even illegal, what this person is doing! Getting people addicted. Taking away their free will.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said wearily. “There’s a big profit in it for the seller. Once you’re on the opium you’ll pay anything you have or do anything you’re told to in order to keep on getting your supply. It’s the doing anything that’s the bigger problem. If you’re right, and that’s what Lambourn found, then you’re dealing with a very wicked man.”

She frowned. “But why did they kill Lambourn?” she asked. “What could he do to them?”

Winfarthing sat totally still, staring at her as if seeing her more clearly than ever before.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Did he see anyone in withdrawal?” he demanded.

“I don’t know …” Then she saw what he was thinking. “You mean that was what was in his report? A description of addiction to opium through the syringe, and then the severity of the withdrawal process—and the request that that be dealt with in the bill? Made illegal?”

“Exactly! It has to be possible to draft a bill to allow the use of a restricted and labeled amount in medicines to be swallowed, as it is now,” he agreed. “But against the law to give it or take it by needle, except when given by a doctor, and even then carefully watched. That would make our mystery man a criminal of the worst kind. Changes everything.”

“Then how can we get that into court to clear Dinah Lambourn?” she said urgently. “We have only days! Will you testify?”

“Of course I will, but we’ll need more than me, girl. We’ll need the man your nurse Agatha spoke of. Who is he? Do you know?”

“No … although I have a guess. But I don’t know how to make him come to court. He might … if …” She stopped, too uncertain to make it sound like a real hope.

“Do it,” he insisted. “I’ll come with you. God in heaven, I’ll do any damn thing I can to stop this. If you’d seen a man in withdrawal, heard him scream and retch as the cramps all but tore him apart, so would you.”

“To see Dinah hanged for a crime she didn’t commit is enough for me,” Hester answered. “But nobody believes that. We must make sense of it … and this will. I’ll see that Oliver Rathbone calls you to testify. Now I must go and see Agatha Nisbet.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” he offered anxiously.

She considered for a moment. It would be safer, more comfortable if he did, and yet she knew that it would also make Agatha far less likely to agree.

“No, thank you. But I’m grateful.”

He scowled at her. “You’re a fool. I should insist.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You know as well as I do that this must be done, and she’ll refuse if you go.”

Winfarthing grimaced and eased his weight back into his chair. “Be careful,” he warned. “If she agrees, give me your word that you’ll take her with you? Otherwise I’m coming, regardless.”

“I give you my word,” she promised.

He gave her a sudden, beaming smile. “I’ll see you in court!”

————

T
WO HOURS LATER
H
ESTER
stood in Agony Nisbet’s cramped office.

“No,” Agatha said flatly. “I’ll not do that to him.”

Hester stared at her, ignoring the fury in her eyes. “What gives you the right to make that decision for him? You said he was a good man once, and it was the opium seller with the syringe that changed him. Give him the chance to be that good man again. If he won’t take it, then there’s nothing we can do. Lambourn will go down as a suicide, Dinah will hang, and nobody will stop the opium sellers, or even punish the ones we catch.”

Agatha did not answer.

Hester waited.

“I won’t try to make ’im,” Agatha said at last. “You ’aven’t seen what the withdrawal’s like, or you wouldn’t ask. You wouldn’t put anyone through it, let alone someone you cared about … a friend.”

“Maybe not,” Hester conceded, “but I wouldn’t make the decision for them, either.”

“It’d be the man who gives ’im the opium ’e needs,” Agatha pointed out. “Without it ’e’ll be in withdrawal for months—maybe on an’ off forever.”

“Can’t you get it for him?”

“I’ve ’ardly got enough for the injured. You want me to give ’im yours? D’yer know ’ow much it takes ter keep an addict going?”