by Anne Perry
Rathbone began to see the outline of something far larger than he had imagined, and he suddenly felt absurdly privileged by his own physical well-being.
“Dr. Lambourn presented a report to the government?” he deduced. It was obvious, apart from what Monk had told him, but he must be careful not to leap to conclusions, or to put words in her mouth.
“Yes. And they rejected it.” Clearly she still found it difficult to acknowledge. Monk had been right in his estimate of her loyalty to her husband.
“On what grounds?”
“They said incompetence, extreme bias toward his own opinions.” Her voice caught and she had trouble repeating the words. “They refused to accept his facts. He said it was because his facts disagreed with their financial interests.”
“The financial interests of those in the government?” he clarified. He could see that she believed absolutely what she was saying, but it did sound as if it could well have been bias.
She heard the inflection in his voice. Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “The interests of the government commission, of which Sinden Bawtry is the head and my brother-in-law, Barclay Herne, is a member.” Now her bitterness was undisguised. “There is a strong faction in the government who believe that the bill would make opium inaccessible to much of the poorer part of the general public, and as such be highly discriminatory. And of course to measure and label accurately would cost a lot. It would reduce profit on each bottle or packet sold. Fortunes rest on that. All part of the legacy of the Opium Wars.”
She leaned forward earnestly, her hands on the scarred table between them. “There is a great deal we don’t speak of, Sir Oliver, painful things that many people are desperate to conceal. No one likes to have to admit that things their country has done are shameful. Joel was as patriotic as the next person but he did not deny the truth, however horrible it is.”
Rathbone was growing impatient. “What has this to do with the murder of Zenia Gadney, Mrs. Lambourn?”
She flinched. “Joel was found dead two months … two months before Mrs. Gadney was killed.” She swallowed as if there were something in her throat close to choking her. “He was sitting alone on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park. He had taken quite a heavy dose of opium, and …” Again she found it difficult to force the words through her lips. “His wrists were cut so he had bled to death. They said it was suicide, because of his professional failure regarding the report, and the government’s rejection of it. They were very damning of his ability.”
Now she was speaking more rapidly, as if to say it all and get it finished. “They said he was overemotional and incompetent. That he confused personal tragedies with genuine assessment of facts. They … they made him sound silly … amateurish.” She blinked away tears but they spilled over her cheeks. “It hurt him badly, but he was not suicidal! I know you will think I am saying that, believing it, because I loved him, but it is true. He had every intention of fighting them and proving that he was right. He cared about the issue so much he would never have given up.
“In the last few days before his death I found him working in his study at three and four in the morning, white-faced with exhaustion. I told him to come to bed, I begged him, but he said that after what he had heard, his nightmares were worse than any weariness he could feel. Sir Oliver, he would never have killed himself. He would see it as a betrayal of those he was entrusted to help.”
Rathbone hated having to ask her, but he could not defend her without knowing the truth—and, whatever the past, whatever the truth of the opium issue, defending her was what he was entrusted with. It would be better to hurt her now than in court, where the damage would be public and almost certainly irrecoverable.
“If that is so, then I agree,” he said gently. “The whole issue of the report’s rejection was no reason for him to have taken his own life. Which forces me to ask: What was the reason? The prosecution is possibly going to agree with you that he was willing to fight the government, but that his affair with Zenia Gadney came to the surface in some way. Perhaps she threatened to expose him—”
“That’s absurd,” she said sharply. “She hadn’t done so in fifteen years. Why on earth would she have suddenly chosen that time? If he were dead, she would have no income and be driven to seek money on the streets, which is both difficult for a woman her age, and—as has been made tragically clear—dangerous!”
“They will argue that she did not realize that,” he said, watching her face.
Her response was instant. “She was an ordinary woman, not a fool! She lived in Limehouse. She knew people there, shopped there, walked the streets to get wherever she was going,” she said derisively. “Do you think she had no idea how dangerous it was?”
“Then she did not realize that Dr. Lambourn might later take his own life rather than pay her more money,” he responded.
Dinah looked at him with contempt. “She had known him for over fifteen years, and she did not know that?” Before he could point out the inconsistency of her argument she hurried on. “Of course she didn’t know that—because it isn’t true. Joel never would have killed himself over money, and I don’t believe she was so greedy or so stupid as to have threatened him. She was in her mid-forties! Where on earth was she going to find another man to support her and ask nothing in return?”
“Nothing?” he questioned, a little surprised at the assertion. Did she really believe that? Could she possibly?
She flushed and lowered her eyes. “A visit once a month,” she said quietly. “I know the prosecution may not believe that but even if they don’t, the logic still holds. Whatever he asked, or she gave, it would still be easier than walking the streets of Limehouse looking for casual customers.”
Rathbone thought for several moments. “They might suggest it was you who were blackmailing him to stop seeing Zenia?”
“Or I would do what?” she said with a rare spark of humor. “Humiliate myself by making his affair public? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He smiled back, reluctantly. He admired her courage. “Then why did he kill himself, Mrs. Lambourn?”
“He didn’t.” All the light vanished from her face again and grief washed through it. “They killed him, because he was going to fight for his report to be accepted by the people, if not by the government. They made it look like suicide, to discredit him once and for all.”
It sounded hysterical, a wild fiction to save herself from the shame and the rejection of her husband’s suicide, and yet he could not dismiss the idea out of hand.
“You truly think it was murder?”
“How many people have already drowned in the dark sea of the opium trade?” she asked. “Killed in the Opium Wars, murdered in its aftermath of trade and piracy, dead of overdoses? How many fortunes made or lost?”
“And who killed Zenia Gadney?” Rathbone asked, suddenly more serious. “Was her death really only coincidence?”
“That seems so unlikely as to be impossible.” She shook her head. The fear in her was palpable. He looked at her with intense sorrow. He knew exactly why Monk had asked him to see her and to take the case.
“I wanted to do all I could to clear Joel’s name,” she continued. “But his papers are all gone. Someone took everything and destroyed it. I was still trying to see if there were any other doctors who had the courage and resources to take up the issue.”
“Even believing that he was murdered to silence him?”
“He was right,” she said simply.
Rathbone returned to the earlier question. “Who killed Zenia?” he said again.
“They did,” she answered. “Whoever killed Joel.”
“Why? What did she know? Did she have copies of his report?” Copenhagen Place would not have been an unreasonable place to hide such a thing, if it existed.
“Maybe.” She said it as if it had not occurred to her until then.
He could not let her get by with an answer the prosecution would tear to pieces. “Then why not simply burgle
her house? That would draw much less attention. Or if she had hidden it and would not tell them where, why not beat her? And if they did have to kill her, why would they do it so grotesquely? This murder is so appalling that it has shaken all London into fear. It is in every newspaper and on everyone’s lips. It makes no sense, in conjunction with your theory.”
Dinah Lambourn put her hands up to her face in a gesture of weariness. “It makes excellent sense, Sir Oliver. As you have observed, all London is drawn into the horror of it. When the evidence ties it back to me, and to Joel, and if I cannot prove my innocence, then I will be hanged and Joel will be completely disgraced, once and for all. His report will be forgotten, and the bill will die quietly. What is Zenia’s life, or mine, worth in comparison to the millions of pounds made from opium, and the continued burial of the secrets and sins of the Opium Wars?”
Rathbone did not know how much he believed her. The more he listened to her, the more credible the possibility seemed that, at the very least, Lambourn’s report had been suppressed because it did not say what those who commissioned it had wished it to.
But could such a failure have led to first Lambourn’s murder, and then Zenia’s, in order to silence Dinah? Unquestionably the wealth at stake was enough to provoke murder. But could there really be such a hideous conspiracy at play?
Or was he being made a complete fool of because she was a beautiful woman, and her loyalty to her husband had caught him in the uniquely vulnerable place of his own wound? Was he losing his sense of perspective?
Was Dinah Lambourn risking her own life to save her husband’s reputation? Or was she insanely jealous, had killed Zenia out of uncontrollable resentment, and was now lying desperately in order to try to save herself from the rope?
He honestly had no idea.
He wanted to believe her. Or, more truthfully, he wanted to believe that a woman would have that kind of loyalty to her husband. That even after his death, and his fifteen-year attachment to another woman, she would fight for him, for her memories of him, and all that they had shared.
Her own wounded feelings meant nothing. Not once had she spoken against him, or for that matter against Zenia Gadney.
She was obviously laboring in the grip of extreme emotion. She faced hanging if she was found guilty. After the manner of Zenia’s death, and the public furor, there could be no question of mercy.
“I will take your case, Mrs. Lambourn. I cannot promise success; all I can commit to is that I will do everything I can to defend you,” he said gravely.
She smiled at him and the tears of relief spilled down her cheeks.
Rathbone shook her hand and then turned for the door. What on earth had he done?
CHAPTER
10
OUTSIDE THE PRISON, RATHBONE stood on the icy pavement in the rising wind, astonished at his own rashness. He was stepping out into quicksand, and already it was too late to retreat. He had given his word.
Then perhaps rather than going to his chambers this early, to think on what he had committed to, he should continue on eastward and cross the river at Wapping, so he could go on to Paradise Place and tell Monk that he had taken the case. He would need more information from him than the minimum he had been given yesterday. Monk had talked Rathbone into this. Now Rathbone needed to talk him into helping untangle the almighty mess.
He walked briskly out to the main thoroughfare and took a hansom, directing the driver to go all the way to Wapping Stairs. He sat back as they weaved through the morning traffic and he thought about what he needed to know. How on earth could he raise reasonable doubt in any jury’s minds without another suspect? In the sane light of a winter day, would he even have reasonable doubt himself?
Was Dinah Lambourn a woman who loved her husband in spite of all his weaknesses, the betrayal with another woman over fifteen long years, and finally his preposterous story about the government’s refusal to acknowledge the truth about the use and abuse of opium? Surely if Lambourn’s facts were even close to the truth, about opium or any other medicine, there would be no way for the government to ignore that truth indefinitely. All Lambourn’s death would’ve achieved was a delay; an act would be passed eventually. Was that delay worth anyone’s death, let alone an insane murder like that of poor Zenia Gadney?
Did Dinah simply refuse to believe in failure, her husband’s or her own? The most likely answer of all was that she was touched by insanity herself, a victim of the facts she refused to acknowledge. Perhaps to survive she needed any answer at all that left her make-believe world unbroken.
He rode all the way to the ferry deep in other people’s delusions, his own credulity swaying one way, then the other. He was glad to get out and pay the driver, then stand for a few minutes in the wind, listening to the sounds of the water until the ferry came.
He went down the stone steps, which were wet and a little slippery. He was very careful. The last thing he wanted was a drenching in the cold, dirty water. He climbed into the boat and sat down.
The river was running fast as the tide ebbed. Choppy little waves made it a rough passage, but he welcomed the sharper wind in his face and the smell of salt and mud, and the scream of the gulls above.
At the far side he enjoyed the walk up from Princes Stairs, across Rotherhithe Street and on up in a few hundred yards and several turnings to Paradise Place.
Hester welcomed him at the door. She looked well. He found himself smiling, although he had nothing to celebrate. He had nothing even to feel certain about, except their friendship.
“Oliver!” she said with pleasure. “Come in. How are you?” They were not empty words. Her eyes searched his face, probing for truth. Did she see the disillusion in him, the loneliness he would very much rather have kept hidden?
“I’m well, thank you,” he replied, stepping inside. “But Monk has given me a near-impossible case. I will need his help. Please don’t tell me he has gone already?”
“He’s here,” she assured him. “Would you like to sit in the parlor where you can be private? I’ll bring you tea, if you wish, or even breakfast. It must be cold on the river.”
“Don’t you know about the case already?” he said with surprise.
She allowed a tiny smile to touch her lips. “He said he had been obliged to arrest Dinah Lambourn. Is that the case you have taken? So soon? How … rash of you.” Now the smile was larger. Long ago, when she had first realized that he was in love with her, she had teased him about his caution, that he was too careful and well ordered to be happy with anyone as impulsive as she was. At the time he had thought she was right. Perhaps at that time it had been true. It was not true now.
“What man who was not rash would even contemplate it?” he said wryly.
“Then come into the kitchen,” she invited him, leading the way down the hall.
Inside, the room was warm, a little untidy, very much the center of the house. Clean linen lay on one of the benches; the kettle was simmering gently just off the top of the stove. Dried herbs hung from hooks on the ceiling, as well as a couple of strings of onions. Blue-rimmed china lay waiting to be put away on the dresser.
Monk was sitting at the kitchen table and rose as soon as he saw Rathbone. He was eating a bowl of porridge and milk, which was presumably why it had been Hester who had answered the door.
Rathbone suddenly realized he had not eaten this morning and was extremely hungry.
Hester saw him glance at Monk’s plate. Without asking, she ladled him a bowl of porridge as well and set a place for him at the other side of the table. She did not ask if he wanted tea, but simply poured it.
“Well?” Monk demanded, his own food forgotten until he knew if Rathbone had accepted the case.
Rathbone gave a tight little laugh and met Monk’s cool gray eyes. He sat down opposite him. “If I hadn’t taken it I would have sent you a message at Wapping, and perhaps one here as well,” he said ruefully. “But I’m going to need your help.”
“I’m not sure what I
can do.” In spite of his words, Monk looked pleased.
“Well, to begin with …” Rathbone paused and took a tiny sip of his tea. It was a little too hot to drink, but the fragrance of it soothed him. Hester was right; it had been cold on the river. He had not appreciated it at the time; He had been too eager to get to Monk. “Is there anything you can swear to that can help? What else could there be about Zenia that would mark her out as a victim?”
Monk thought for several moments before he replied. “I suppose the fact that she had never had any other clients but Lambourn, as far as anyone knows, would leave her in a very awkward position, in trying to seek out new business,” he said slowly.
“She was in her mid-forties, at least,” Rathbone added, pouring milk on his porridge and taking the first spoonful.
Monk looked surprised. “How do you know?”
“Dinah said so.”
Monk’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Did Lambourn tell her that?”
Rathbone felt a needle prick of anxiety. “Wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she was, but how did Dinah know? She claims never to have met her,” Monk pointed out.
“Then I suppose Lambourn did tell her. Seems an odd thing for them to have discussed.”
Hester was watching him. “You don’t know whether to believe her or not, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “I have a very strong feeling she’s lying about something, if not in fact then in omission. I just don’t think I believe she killed and gutted that poor woman.”
