A Sunless Sea wm-18

by Anne Perry

  “I’ve been in the police for a long time,” Monk told him. “I can believe a lot of things that I wouldn’t have ten or fifteen years ago. Even so, I find it hard to believe it of Mrs. Lambourn. That is why I need to learn the details of the case for myself. Perhaps another explanation is possible.”

  “I can only say what I have already said.” Petherton looked as if he wished very much that he could find the imagination or the courage to lie.

  “Do you often walk your dog so early?” Monk asked him. “And is it usually to Greenwich Park that you go?”

  “Quite often in the park,” Petherton answered. “Far more often than not. But to answer your first question, no, not usually so early. I could not sleep and it was a fine morning. I went a good hour earlier than is my habit.”

  “And you usually go to One Tree Hill?”

  “Not often. I wanted to think that day. A certain personal matter had been causing me concern. I wasn’t really paying much attention to where I was. I only became aware of my surroundings when Paddy-my dog-started to bark, and I was afraid he was bothering someone. It was an unusual sort of sound, as if he were troubled by something. Which of course he was. I ran after him and found him bristling, hackles raised, staring at a man sitting with his legs out in front of him, his back against the tree. He had lolled a bit to one side, as if he were asleep. Except, of course, he was dead.”

  “Was that immediately clear?” Monk asked quickly.

  “I …” Petherton hesitated, clearly thinking back with some distress. “I rather think I did know it right away. His face was very pale indeed, almost bloodless. He looked dreadful. And of course his wrists were scarlet with blood, and there was blood on the ground. I didn’t touch him at first. I was rather … shaken. When I gathered my wits I bent down and touched his forearm, above the slashes-”

  “His sleeve was rolled up?” Monk interrupted.

  “Yes. Yes, his shirtsleeve was quite high.”

  “Jacket?”

  “I … as I recall he had no jacket on. No, he definitely was in a shirt only. I touched his arm and the flesh was cold. His eyes were sunken. I could find no pulse at his neck. I didn’t try his wrists-the blood.” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t want to … to leave a mark where I … I admit, I didn’t want to put my fingers in his blood. It seemed not only repellent, but intrusive. The poor man had already reached the lowest hell a living person can. His despair should be treated with … with some decency.”

  Monk nodded. “Certainly that was the right decision. And where was the knife?”

  Petherton blinked. “I didn’t see it.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been close to his hand?” Monk continued almost casually.

  “It wasn’t.” Petherton shook his head. “Perhaps he had moved, and it was half under him?”

  “Hidden by his jacket?”

  “I told you, he didn’t have a jacket, just a shirt,” Petherton repeated.

  “Were you wearing a jacket?”

  “Yes, of course I was. It was October and early in the morning. Barely light. It was cold.” Petherton was now frowning and clearly troubled. “It doesn’t make complete sense, does it? Would a man intent on committing suicide walk half a mile, or more, in the cold, before dawn? I never thought of that before.” He chewed on his lip. “He must have been half out of his mind with despair over something … and yet he looked so peaceful, as if he had just sat down there against the tree and let it happen.” He stopped there and looked at Monk.

  “He had taken a lot of opium,” Monk said, watching Petherton’s face. “That was probably why he looked so calm. He was probably all but insensible from it.”

  “Then how did he climb that hill?” Petherton said immediately. “Or is that what you are saying-he took it once he got up there? Then he’d still want a jacket while he was walking. I wonder what happened to it.”

  “Did you see the footprints of anyone else there?” Monk asked.

  Petherton looked surprised. “I didn’t look. It was very early daylight. Only just enough to see by. You think someone was with him?”

  “Well, as you point out, he surely would have worn a jacket, unless he went out early the previous evening, and didn’t intend to go so far,” Monk replied.

  Petherton saw what he was leading to. “Or meant only to go for a short walk, and return home? As I remember, it was actually a very mild evening the previous day. It turned cold overnight. I was outside myself. Pottering in the garden until quite late.”

  Monk changed his direction of approach.

  “Did you see anything that could have had opium in it, or water to take a powder with?”

  “No. I didn’t search his pockets!” Again the faint revulsion showed in his face.

  “But could he have had a bottle or a vial in them?” Monk persisted.

  “Not a bottle. A small vial in a trouser pocket, I suppose. What are you saying happened?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Petherton. That is what I need to find out. But for your own sake as well as that of the investigation, please do not discuss this with anyone. God knows, we have had sufficient tragedy already.” He said the words easily, but he felt a weight in his mind as he struggled to think of any answer but suicide, and failed to find one, in spite of the small anomalies they had just discussed. Was it even conceivable that Dinah had gone out after him, followed him up a path that perhaps he often took? Was it she who had found him and removed the knife and the vial to make the death seem more suspicious than it was?

  Monk thanked Petherton again, and left him looking just as confused as he himself felt. He walked out into the fresh air and turned west toward the police station to look for Constable Watkins.

  That proved to be far more difficult than he had expected. First he was mistakenly directed to Deptford, an awkward journey that took him over an hour, only to discover that Constable Watkins had already left and gone back to Greenwich.

  In Greenwich, Watkins was involved in an investigation and Monk was told to wait. After an hour he asked again. With profuse apologies, the sergeant told him that Watkins had been called away and would not return until the following day. And no, he did not know where Watkins lived.

  It was too late to find Dr. Wembley again, and until Monk had confirmed Petherton’s story with Watkins, there was no purpose anyway. He had wasted a whole day, and he went home angry and more sure than ever that he was being intentionally misled, although whether to protect Lambourn or to hide some secret, he did not know.

  He was at the police station in Greenwich the next morning by half-past seven, much to the dismay of the sergeant at the desk. He waited there until Constable Watkins came in. The sergeant attempted to block Monk, but there was an old woman in a drab cotton dress and torn shawl who was distracting his attention, complaining about a stray dog.

  “Constable Watkins?” Monk said loudly and clearly.

  The young man turned around to face him. “Yes, sir. Morning, sir. Do I know you?” There was absolutely no guile in his wide blue eyes.

  “No, Constable, you don’t,” Monk replied with a smile. “I’m Commander Monk of the Thames River Police at Wapping. I need to ask you very briefly about an incident that was reported to you, just to verify certain facts. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea to start the day? And a sandwich?”

  “Not necessary, sir, but … yes, thank you, sir,” Watkins accepted, trying to hide his relish at the thought of a fresh sandwich, and not making much of a success of it.

  The sergeant shifted his weight from one foot to the other, drawing in his breath sharply. Monk knew in that moment that he had had orders not to let this happen.

  “Constable!” he said sharply. “Mr. Monk-Constable Watkins has duties, sir. He can’t just …” He looked at Monk’s face and his voice wavered.

  “Have you received orders from your senior officers that you are not to permit Constable Watkins to cooperate with the River Police in any investigation, Sergeant?” Monk asked very clearly
. “Or with one investigation in particular?” He said it with an edge to his voice that would have cut glass.

  The sergeant stammered a denial, but it was obvious to Monk, at least, that that was exactly what he had been told to do.

  Monk went with Watkins to the peddler at the next street corner from the station and bought hot tea and sandwiches from him. It was a cold morning, the light only just broadening. A stiff wind blew up from the river, cutting through the wool of coats and scarves.

  Watkins was uncomfortable after the exchange between Monk and the sergeant, but he recognized that he had no choice but to cooperate. Monk knew he would have to do what he could to protect the man from the ire of his senior officers.

  “Constable, you were first on the scene of Dr. Joel Lambourn’s death, up on One Tree Hill, about two and a half months ago.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I spoke to Mr. Petherton, the man who had found Dr. Lambourn. He was most helpful. But you understand I also need a more trained eye to tell me if his observations were correct.”

  “Yes, sir.” Constable Watkins sipped his tea but his eyes never left Monk’s.

  Monk repeated precisely what Petherton had told him, including the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the blood on Lambourn’s wrists, and the ground, both in shape and degree.

  “Was there anything else?” he asked. “Please think carefully, Constable. It would not do to have to add anything later. It would look gravely incompetent, at the very best. At the worst it would seem like deliberate dishonesty. We can’t have that. A man’s death is very serious, any man’s. Dr. Lambourn’s importance to the government makes his even more so. Have I just described it as you witnessed it? Bring it to your mind, your recollection as a police officer, and then answer me.”

  Watkins closed his eyes, was silent for several moments, then opened them and looked at Monk. “Yes, sir, that’s perfectly correct.”

  “So Mr. Petherton is both accurate and honest?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He didn’t leave anything out? Nothing else to see at all? Footprints? Marks of a scuffle? Anything?”

  “No, sir, nothing at all.”

  “Thank you, Constable. That’s all. I must not hold you from your duties any longer. You may tell your sergeant I am obliged to him, and that all you did was confirm your own recollection, as you gave it before. You never added anything or changed anything. You can swear to that in court, if need be.”

  Watkins gave a sigh of relief and the color flooded up his face. “Thank you, sir.”

  Monk saw Dr. Wembley again, but the doctor could not recall or add anything significant; he simply repeated the evidence he had given before.

  Later that evening, in fine, cold rain, Monk went to Runcorn’s house and told him the results of his day.

  They were in the small, comfortable parlor with the fire burning well and fresh tea and slices of cold chicken pie on the table between them. This time Melisande was also there. She had initially come in simply to bring the food, but Runcorn had signaled her to stay. Considering the firmness with which he did so, Monk did not raise any objection. He did not want to distress her. He had little knowledge of her personality, except for the courage with which she had insisted on giving evidence during the case they were investigating when they had first met her. He glanced at her face once or twice, and saw only pity and intense concentration.

  “That’s the same as they told me,” Runcorn said when Monk had finished his account. “I went back over the instructions I was given.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “I thought at the time they were to protect Lambourn’s reputation, and his widow’s feelings. Now they look a good deal more as if they were to conceal the truth. And if someone went to that much trouble to conceal the truth, we have to wonder why.”

  “He walked up there in his shirtsleeves,” Monk reasoned aloud. “Or else he had a jacket and someone removed it. But Petherton said that the evening before was mild. He was out in his own garden. The night turned cold and by morning it was definitely chill. It looks as if Lambourn might not have intended to go so far, and definitely not to stay there.”

  Runcorn nodded but did not interrupt.

  “Petherton was certain there was no knife, and nothing with which to carry liquid-unless it was very small indeed, and in his trouser pocket. Watkins agreed, except he was also certain there was nothing in Lambourn’s pocket. I don’t think they are both lying. And you can’t swallow those things dry.”

  “Someone else was there, then, and at best took away the knife and whatever Lambourn drank the opium with after Lambourn had committed suicide,” Runcorn concluded. “Or at worst, Mrs. Lambourn was right, and he was murdered.” He looked at Monk, his brow furrowed.

  “And they expected to be able to conceal it,” Monk thought aloud. “But they were careless. No knife. Nothing to take the opium with. No jacket to walk that distance on an October evening. Was that because they were caught by surprise and had to act quickly, without preparation? Or was it just arrogance?”

  Melisande spoke for the first time. “It seems very stupid,” she said slowly. “The knife should have been there beside him. He should’ve been wearing a jacket. Why didn’t they leave those items there, even if it was murder?” She looked from one to the other of them. “Was there something in the knife or the vial that would have made it obvious who the killer was?”

  No one needed to answer her. Runcorn looked at Monk intently. “Is it really possible someone killed him to silence him, and bury his report? But why?”

  Monk answered, his voice a little hoarse. “Yes, I am beginning to think it is possible. And there has to be a reason, something deeper than just wanting to delay his report, and thus the bill.”

  They sat without speaking for several moments. The fire burned gently in the hearth, creating a warm light and a soft, whispering sound.

  “What are you going to do?” Melisande said at last, looking at Runcorn. There was fear both in her voice and in her face.

  Runcorn looked back at her. Monk had never before seen emotion so naked or so intensely readable in his face. It was as if he and Melisande were alone in the room. He cared intensely what she thought of him, yet he knew he must make the decision alone.

  Monk barely drew breath, willing Runcorn to give the right answer.

  Ash collapsed in the fireplace and the coals settled.

  “If we do nothing, we become part of this … conspiracy, if there is one,” Runcorn said at last. “I’m sorry, but we must learn the truth. If Lambourn was murdered then we must find out and prove who did it, and who concealed it, and why.” He put out his hand gently and touched hers. “It may be very dangerous.”

  She smiled at him, her eyes bright with fear and pride. “I know.”

  Monk had no need to answer her question for himself. He had come to Runcorn in the first place because this was precisely what he feared. He admitted to himself now that if he had truly believed Dinah Lambourn was guilty, he would not have taken the case to Rathbone, let alone pursue the evidence himself.

  Runcorn stood up and stoked the fire.

  They talked a little more, making further plans to report to Rathbone. Then Monk said good night and went outside into the dark street. The rain had stopped, but it was colder. At this late hour, it might be difficult to get a cab. He would have a better chance if he went toward the lamplit streets in the center of the town, where there were clubs and theaters with other people looking for transport, perhaps even a place where cabbies ate, or waited for fares.

  He was walking briskly along the footpath, seeing clearly enough in the light from a few lamps at front doors, when he was aware of someone behind him. His first thought was that it might be another person hoping to find a hansom. Their steps were quiet and they seemed to be moving very rapidly. He stepped aside to let them pass. It was at that instant that he felt the blow on his shoulder, so hard it numbed his whole left arm. Had it landed on his head it would have knocked him senseless
.

  His assailant regained his balance and swung again, but this time Monk lashed out with his foot hard and high. He caught the man in the groin and the attacker pitched forward. Monk raised his knee under the man’s jaw as he collapsed, snapping his head back so hard Monk was afraid he might have broken his neck. The cudgel clattered away across the pavement and into the gutter.

  Monk’s own left arm was still paralyzed.

  The man rolled over, gasping, struggling to get up onto his hands and knees.

  Relieved that he was alive, Monk kicked him again, hard, in the lower chest where it would knock the wind out of him.

  The man coughed and retched.

  Monk straightened up. There was another figure on the far side of the street, not running toward him, as someone might do if he meant to help, but moving easily, carrying something in his right hand.

  Monk swung round. There was a dense shadow ahead of him also, maybe the bulk of someone half concealed in a doorway. He turned on his heel, his left arm still leaden and throbbing with pain. He ran as fast as he could back the way he had come.

  He was less than a mile from Runcorn’s house. He did not know how many more attackers there might be. He was in an area he did not know, and it was close to midnight. His left arm was useless.

  He did not go directly back to Runcorn’s house. Whoever was after him would expect that. He kept to the broader streets, going as fast as he could, around the back, through other people’s gardens, and eventually arrived at Runcorn’s kitchen door, searching desperately for a sign someone was still up.

  He saw nothing. He crouched in the back garden, trying to be invisible among rows of vegetables and a potting shed. He could not imagine Runcorn doing anything as domestic as gardening. He smiled to himself, in spite of the fact he was beginning to shiver. He could not stay out here. For one thing it was extremely cold and beginning to rain again, and he was hurt. More urgently, sooner or later they would think to look here for him. Very likely, it would be sooner!