by Anne Perry
To begin with, the court seemed less tense, not knowing what to expect from him. They thought the worst horror was past. Nevertheless the jurors watched him gravely, faces pale, several of them fidgeting with discomfort. They knew the people in the gallery were looking at them, trying to guess what they thought. Rathbone did not see a single one of them look toward Dinah Lambourn sitting high up in the dock, with burly woman jailers on either side of her.
Coniston seemed aware this time that he was dealing with a potentially hostile witness, in spite of the fact that it was Monk who had arrested Dinah. Rathbone’s long friendship with Monk must be widely known. Coniston was far too clever not to have made certain he was aware of such things and the effect it might have on his case.
“Mr. Monk,” he began softly. The gallery was silent, to be sure they missed nothing. “You were with Sergeant Orme when you first discovered the body of this poor woman, that dawn at Limehouse Pier. You and he heard the screams of the woman who found her. Orme remained with her to guard the body, and you went to call the local police, in case they could identify her, and appropriate authorities to take care of the corpse?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed, his face carefully expressionless.
“Did the local police know who she was?” Coniston asked casually, as if he did not know the answer.
“No,” Monk replied.
Coniston looked a little startled. He stood motionless, stopped in mid-stride. “They had never had occasion to arrest her, or at least caution her regarding her activities as a prostitute?”
“That is what they said,” Monk agreed again.
“If she was indeed a prostitute, do you not find that remarkable?” Coniston asked with a lift of surprise in his voice.
Monk’s face was expressionless. “People often don’t recognize someone when they have died violently, especially if there is a lot of blood involved. People can look smaller than you remember them when they were alive. And if they are not dressed as you know them, or in a place where you expect to see them, you do not always realize who they are.”
Coniston looked as if that was not the answer he had wanted. He moved on. “Did you then make inquiries to find out who she was?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you inquire?” Coniston spread his hands, encompassing an infinity of possibilities.
“We spoke to local residents, shopkeepers, other women who lived in the area and with whom she might have been acquainted,” Monk answered, still hardly any emotion in his voice.
“When you say ‘women,’ do you mean prostitutes?” Coniston pressed.
Monk’s face was bland. Probably only Rathbone could see the tiny muscle ticking in his cheek.
“I mean laundresses, factory workers, peddlers, anyone who might have known her,” he said.
“Were you successful?” Coniston inquired courteously.
“Yes,” Monk told him. “She was identified as Zenia Gadney, a middle-aged woman who lived quietly, by herself, at Fourteen Copenhagen Place, just beyond Limehouse Cut. She was known to several other people in the street.”
“How did she support herself?” Coniston was still calm and polite, but the tension in him was not missed by the jury. Watching them, Rathbone could feel it himself.
“She didn’t,” Monk answered. “There was a man who called on her once a month, and gave her sufficient funds for her needs, which appeared to be modest. We found no evidence of her having earned any money other than that, except for the very occasional small sewing job, which might have been as much for goodwill and companionship as for money.” Monk’s face was somber, his voice quiet, as if he too mourned not only her terrible death, but the seeming futility of her life.
Knowing him as he did, Rathbone had no difficulty reading the emotions in his face and his choice of words. He wondered if Coniston read it also. Would he judge him with any accuracy?
Coniston hesitated a moment, then went on. “I assume that, as a matter of course, you attempted to identify this man, and the kind of relationship he had with her?”
“Of course,” Monk answered. “He was Dr. Joel Lambourn, of Lower Park Street, Greenwich.”
“I see,” Coniston said quickly. “That would be the late husband of the accused, Mrs. Dinah Lambourn?”
Monk’s face was a blank slate. “Yes.”
“Did you go to see Mrs. Lambourn? Ask her about her husband’s connection with Mrs. Gadney?” Coniston said innocently. “It must have been unpleasant for you to have to inform her of her husband’s connection with the dead woman.” There was a touch of pity in his voice now.
“Yes, of course I did,” Monk answered him. His own expression was ironed clear of compassion as much as he could, and yet it still shone through.
The jury watched intently. Even Pendock in the judge’s seat leaned forward a little. There was a sigh of breath in the gallery, as if the tension had become too great.
“And her reaction?” Coniston prompted a little sharply, as if he was annoyed at having to ask.
“At first she said she did not know Mrs. Gadney,” Monk replied. “Then she admitted that she was aware that her husband had supported her until his death two months earlier.”
“She knew!” Coniston said loudly and clearly, even half turning toward the gallery so no one in the whole courtroom could have missed it. He swung back toward Monk. “Mrs. Lambourn knew that her husband had been visiting and paying Zenia Gadney for years?”
“She said so,” Monk agreed.
Rathbone made a small note on his paper in front of him.
“But first she denied it?” Coniston pressed. “Was she embarrassed? Angry? Humiliated? Afraid, even?”
Rathbone considered objecting on the grounds that such a judgment was not in Monk’s expertise, then changed his mind. It would be futile, merely drawing attention to his own desperation.
The shadow of a smile crossed Monk’s face, and then disappeared. “I don’t know. She was in the grip of some powerful emotion, but I have no way of knowing what it was. It could easily have been shock and horror at the manner of Zenia Gadney’s death.”
“Or remorse?” Coniston added.
Rathbone started to rise to his feet.
Pendock saw him. “Mr. Coniston, you are speculating inappropriately. Please restrict yourself to questions the witness can answer.”
“I apologize, my lord,” Coniston said contritely. He looked up at Monk again. “But it would be accurate to say that Mrs. Lambourn was in a state of extreme emotion, Mr. Monk?”
“Yes.”
“Considering what you had learned of Dr. Lambourn’s connection with the victim, and that Mrs. Lambourn at some point or other had become aware of it, did you take steps to find out if Mrs. Lambourn had ever visited Zenia Gadney herself?”
“Yes.” Monk’s face was tight with unhappiness, but he did not evade the answer. “Several witnesses saw someone answering her description in Copenhagen Place the day before Zenia Gadney’s corpse was found on the pier. They say she was making inquiries to find Mrs. Gadney, specifically in the shops.”
Coniston nodded slowly. “She was searching to find the victim. Did anyone mention her state of mind? Please be exact, Mr. Monk.”
“She was in great distress,” Monk replied. “Two or three people described her as behaving wildly. That was why they remembered her.”
“Did you ask Mrs. Lambourn about this?”
“Of course.”
“And her answer?”
“At first she told me that she had been at a soirée with a friend. I visited the friend, who told me otherwise.”
“Is it possible that this friend was mistaken-or worse, that she lied?” Coniston pressed.
“No,” Monk said flatly. “I merely asked her where she had been at that day and time, and she told me. She was in company with many other people, and we have since verified her whereabouts. There was no such soirée as Mrs. Lambourn said she attended.”
“So she lied?” Conis
ton said, again loudly and clearly.
“Yes.”
Coniston smiled very slightly.
“To sum up, Commander Monk, your evidence is that the accused, Mrs. Dinah Lambourn, knew that her husband had visited the victim for many years, and paid her money on a regular basis. On the day before the murder she went to the street on which the victim lived, searching for her, asking people where she could find her. Several people told you that she was in a state of great distress, almost hysterical. When you asked her about this, she lied to you and said she was somewhere else, which you have proved to be untrue. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Monk said miserably.
“At that point, did you arrest her and charge her with the murder of Zenia Gadney?”
“Yes. She said she had not killed her, and insisted that she had not been to Copenhagen Place,” Monk replied.
“Thank you, Commander Monk,” Coniston said with visible satisfaction. He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone walked out slowly into the center of the open space and looked up at Monk. He was aware that every person in the courtroom was watching him, waiting to see what he could possibly do. He had a sudden vision in his mind of a Christian entering an arena full of lions. He was hoping for a miracle, and not at all sure that he believed in them.
“Mr. Monk, you said that Mrs. Lambourn admitted to knowing that her husband had been visiting Mrs. Gadney for many years. By the way, was she married, or are we using the title as a courtesy?”
“Neighbors said that she claimed to have been married,” Monk answered. “But we found no trace of anyone called Gadney, nor any record of him.”
“And Dr. Lambourn had been supporting her financially all the time she had been there?” Rathbone continued.
“Approximately fifteen years,” Monk agreed.
“I see.” Rathbone frowned. “And you say that apparently Mrs. Lambourn knew of this all that time, or at least most of it? Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Because she admitted it? And of course you believed her?” Rathbone allowed a small lift of incredulity into his voice.
Monk looked at him with a flash of humor, there an instant and then gone again. “Because another witness also told me,” he corrected him.
“Ah. So you have no doubt that she did indeed know of Mrs. Gadney for some considerable time, probably years?”
“That’s right.”
“And Dr. Lambourn had been dead how long when Mrs. Gadney was murdered?”
“Nearly two months.”
Rathbone could see in Monk’s face that he knew exactly what the next question was going to be. Their eyes met. “And what reason did you find that caused Mrs. Lambourn, two months into her widowhood, suddenly to go to Copenhagen Place searching for Zenia Gadney, hysterical with emotion, allowing even shopkeepers and their customers to see her in such a state? What did she want with Zenia Gadney then, and so urgently, after years of knowing all about her? There was no more money going to her, was there?”
Several jurors leaned forward as if to be certain of catching every word of the answer. One frowned and shook his head.
There was a rustle of movement in the gallery and a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.
Pendock was staring at Rathbone, his face furrowed with apprehension.
Monk did not seem perturbed. Rathbone wondered for a moment if perhaps he had walked into a trap. He calmed himself by remembering that while it was Monk who had arrested Dinah, it was also Monk who had sought out Rathbone to defend her, and worked in his own time to find new evidence about the case.
“She claimed that she did not go to Copenhagen Place,” Monk said slowly and distinctly. “She believes that her husband, Dr. Joel Lambourn, was murdered because of his work to prove that opium is sold in this country-”
Coniston shot to his feet. “My lord!” he said loudly. “This is absolutely irrelevant and misleading. Opium is a common medicine prescribed by doctors and available in every apothecary in England, and thousands of ordinary shops. If Mrs. Lambourn took it, for pain or any other reason, it does not excuse what she did. Millions of people take opium. It relieves distress and sleeplessness; it does not drive to insanity or give any excuse for murder.”
“Taken too heavily, too often, it can cause addiction, especially if smoked,” Rathbone said tartly. “And taken in overdose, it kills.”
Coniston turned to him. “Zenia Gadney was not addicted and she did not die of an overdose of opium, Sir Oliver! She was beaten over the head with an iron pipe and then obscenely mutilated. Her intestines were torn out and-”
“Order,” Pendock barked furiously. “We are aware of how she died, Mr. Coniston! Sir Oliver! Are you suggesting that Mrs. Lambourn took opium, and that it in any way excuses this terrible crime?”
“No, my lord, I-”
“Good,” Pendock snapped. “Then please proceed with your questions to Mr. Monk, if you have any more. Otherwise we are adjourned for luncheon.”
“Only a few more, my lord.” Without waiting for Pendock to grant him permission, Rathbone turned to Monk again. “You believe that her sudden decision to look for Zenia Gadney had something to do with her husband’s death?” he demanded.
“Not his death so much as the ruin of his reputation,” Monk replied. “And she did not believe he had taken his own life.”
Again Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, the tragic suicide of Joel Lambourn-”
Pendock raised his hand. “I am quite aware of it, Mr. Coniston.” He turned sharply to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, Dr. Lambourn had already been dead for two months by the time Mrs. Lambourn began to look for Zenia Gadney. If she believed Mrs. Gadney in some way responsible for Dr. Lambourn’s suicide, then you must show some evidence to that effect. Have you any?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then please move on.” It was an order.
Rathbone drew in his breath to find some other question. He hated to retreat now; it looked as if in some way he were surrendering. And that was also how it felt. He had nothing else to ask Monk. Clearly, whatever he said that raised the issue of Joel Lambourn’s death, or any area of his work related to the report on opium, was going to be disallowed, unless he could make it so clearly relevant that to refuse it would be grounds for appeal.
“Nothing further, thank you, my lord,” he said with as good grace as he could manage, and retired to his seat.
After the luncheon adjournment, Coniston called evidence regarding the death of Joel Lambourn and its effect on his widow. Rathbone’s interest sharpened. Perhaps he would have an opportunity to open up the subject in such a way that Lambourn’s suicide could be questioned after all. Monk had certainly given him sufficient evidence to debate, if he could get a toe in the door. It would need only the smallest error of judgment on Coniston’s part, one slip by his witnesses, and the subject could be raised.
Rathbone glanced behind him and noted how many journalists were sitting attentively, pencils in hand. They would not miss the slightest inflection, even if the jury did.
Then, as Rathbone was turning back to face the judge and the witness box, his eye caught sight of a face he knew. He had even met him half a dozen times at one function or another. It was Sinden Bawtry, an ambitious man in the government with a reputation for philanthropy. His fortune was built on the manufacture of patent medicines, particularly one known as Doctor’s Home Remedy for Pain.
Rathbone avoided catching his eye, without being certain as to why. He did not want Bawtry to know that he had seen him, at least not yet, although he was a handsome man, and would not go unnoticed by the press. By tomorrow every newspaper reader would know he had been here.
Now Rathbone’s attention was needle sharp. Bawtry’s interest in Lambourn’s connection to the case was obvious. Was he here privately, or as a representative of the government’s interest?
Rathbone watched carefully as a policeman he did not know climbed the steps to the witness
box. Monk had told him that Runcorn had been in charge of the investigation into Lambourn’s death. So who was this man, Appleford, and why had Coniston chosen him?
“Commissioner Appleford,” Coniston began smoothly, “I believe the tragic death of Joel Lambourn was referred from regular police inquiry, up to your command. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.” Appleford was of average height, slim although running very slightly to fat around the waist. His light brown hair was thinning drastically, but he was smart and appeared very confident, as if he were here only to be helpful and clear up difficulties lesser men might find beyond them.
“Why was it not left to the superintendent of the nearest police station? That would be Mr. Runcorn, at Blackheath, would it not?” Coniston said with every appearance of being casual.
“Mr. Runcorn did deal with the first evidence,” Appleford replied with a slight smile. “When it was realized that the dead man was Joel Lambourn, a fine man, an excellent scientist, who had had some recent …” He hesitated, as if looking for a suitably delicate word. “Emotional distress,” he continued. “Her Majesty’s Government wished to be discreet about as much of his personal affairs as was possible, without any perversion of the law. There was no way to avoid admitting that his death was suicide, but the more immediate facts were not made public. There was no purpose to be served, and his family could be protected. It seemed a merciful thing to do for a man who had served his country so well.”
“Indeed.” Coniston bowed his head, then looked up again. “Was anything pertinent concealed from the law? I mean was there any possible question whatever that his death might not have been self-inflicted?”
“None at all,” Appleford replied. “He took opium, quite a heavy dose, presumably to deaden the pain, and then slit his wrists.”
“Thank you, Commissioner.” Coniston turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver?”
Rathbone knew even before he began that he would achieve nothing with Appleford. But he refused to be cowed into not trying.
“Is it particularly painful, slitting one’s wrists?” he asked. “I mean sufficiently so that one requires opium to bear it?”
