A Sunless Sea

by Anne Perry

  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.

  CHAPTER

  19

  AT 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.

  Inside they went to Monk’s office, and a moment later a constable brought them tea. Monk thanked him, and he and Runcorn faced each other across the desk. There had been a short note from Rathbone, delivered by messenger. Monk passed it to Runcorn to read. It brought them up to date with both the trial and Rathbone’s own thoughts, and his visit to Barclay Herne.

  Runcorn looked up, his face even grimmer than before.

  “The more I think of it, the less certain I am that Lambourn killed himself,” he said unhappily. “It looked clear at the time, and the government people were absolutely certain.” He shook his head. “I believed them. All I could think of was the widow and the daughters, and trying not to make it any worse for them than it had to be. I used not to be so … sentimental!” He said the word with disgust.

  Words of denial, even comfort, came to Monk’s mind, but he knew they would sound patronizing.

  “I’m not any better,” Monk said wryly. “If Dinah had been plain and timid, I might not have gone to Rathbone for her, and for that matter, I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t have taken the case.”

  Runcorn gave a quick, bleak smile. “I’ve been supposing Lambourn told the truth about the opium and the damage it does without proper labels. Suppose they’ll have to be pretty clear, too. Lots of people don’t read. They’ll need figures. It will cost. But I don’t see any of the people who import the stuff killing him for that.”

  His face took on a vulnerable, almost bruised look. “And I have to accept that what we did in China was horrible, a betrayal of all that most of us think we stand for. We think we’re civilized, even Christian, for that matter. Seems like when we’re out of sight of home, some of us at least are bloody savages. But is anyone going to murder Lambourn because he knew that? We all know at least part of it.” He sighed. “And whoever killed that poor woman qualifies as a savage, in my mind.”

  Monk had been thinking many of the same things. But there was the additional element that Hester had mentioned—the desperate dependence upon opium among those captured first by pain, then by addiction. “I’d like to know in more detail what Lambourn did in his last week alive.”

  Runcorn saw the point instantly. “You mean what did he learn that provoked someone to kill him? Who did he speak to? How did this person know that he learned whatever it was?”

  “Yes. And what the devil was it? What could be a danger to anyone here in London? What could Lambourn have discovered, and been able to prove? Proof is the point. It has to be something personal, something very precious to lose or it wouldn’t provoke a murder like that.”

  “There was plenty of barbarity,” Runcorn said, his mouth drawn down, lips tight together. “I’ve heard that as many as twelve million Chinese people are addicted to opium.” He looked at Monk more closely. “Have you ever seen them here, in parts of Limehouse? Opium dens, I mean? Filthy houses in back alleys where people lie on beds smoking the stuff, tiers of them packed like cargo in a ship’s hold. Place is so full of smoke you can hardly see the walls. Like walking through a pea-soup fog. They just lie there. Don’t even know where they are, half the time. Like the living dead.” He shivered in spite of himself.

  “I know,” Monk agreed quietly. He had seen it, too, although not often. “I could understand if some Chinamen had come over here and killed scores of us, especially the families that made their fortunes on it. But why Lambourn?”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Runcorn agreed. “He found out something else. But what?” He rubbed his hand across his face. There was a faint rasping sound, as if he had shaved badly, missed a bit where the stubble was gray, and in the cold morning light he had not noticed it.

  “We should follow his path, as well as we can. I should have done that earlier. They told me it was all to do with the report being rejected, and I believed them.”

  “Nothing on the report from Gladstone yet,” Monk responded. “Who did Lambourn give it to?”

  “His brother-in-law, Barclay Herne,” Runcorn said. “He told me he passed it on before getting it back and destroying it.”

  “Which may or may not be true,” Monk observed.

  “He’d have to say that. If he didn’t, his own guilt in suppressing it would be obvious,” Runcorn pointed out.

  “Perhaps he edited out whatever was the problem for him.” Monk was reasoning to himself as much as to Runcorn. Even as he spoke he did not really believe what he was saying.

  Runcorn looked at him critically. “If it wasn’t to do with the labeling of opium and the damage it could do if that wasn’t correct, why would Lambourn even put it in the report? Even if Hester is right about these needles, and the addiction, it has nothing to do with the Pharmacy Act.”

  Monk did not reply. Runcorn was right and they both knew it.

  They finished their tea and sat in silence for several moments.

  Then a different idea flashed into Monk’s mind, sharp and bright.

  “Perhaps they destroyed the report because there was nothing wrong with it,” he said urgently.

  Runcorn looked totally blank.

  Monk leaned forward. “There was nothing in it that damaged anyone, nothing that didn’t make sense. Lambourn knew about the opium addiction and knew who was feeding it, but he didn’t include it in the report because it wasn’t relevant to it. It was Lambourn himself they needed to destroy, so he would never speak of it.”

  “Ah!” Comprehension lit Runcorn’s face. “They needed to discredit him sufficiently to make a suicide believable. God in heaven, what a bloody wicked thing to do! Ruin the man’s reputation so when they murder him it can be accepted as suicide?” He ran his hand over his brow, pushing back the short, thick hair. “No wonder Dinah felt so helpless. I suppose she has no idea who it was? He wouldn’t have told her, for her safety, apart from anything else.”

  “Exactly,” Monk agreed. “He found out who was involved while researching this paper, because …�
� He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Actually all we know for certain is that he found it out recently, too recently for him to have done anything about it before he was killed. So presumably it was during his research. And the people he gave his report to are connected to what Lambourn discovered somehow, because they suppressed his work.”

  “We need to know exactly what he did, where he went, who he spoke with in his last week alive,” Runcorn said decisively. “Have you got any men you can spare? We haven’t long, a few days at most. Can Rathbone hold out until after Christmas?”

  “He’ll have to!” Monk said desperately. “The trouble is that selling opium is not illegal, even with the syringe needles. Even if we find whoever it is, the law won’t touch him.”

  Runcorn frowned. “Depends what else he’s doing,” he said thoughtfully. “Isn’t an easy thing, distributing things people are desperate for, especially if they can’t always pay.” He looked across at Monk, his eyes shadowed, mouth pulled tight.

  Monk nodded slowly. “We need to know a lot more about it. Above all, we need to know if we’re right.”

  “Hester?” Runcorn asked, almost as if he dared not even make the suggestion.

  Monk met his gaze without flinching. “Maybe.”

  He stood up and went to the door. “I’ll get Orme,” he answered. “We’ll start immediately.”

  “I’ve got a couple I can trust,” Runcorn added, also standing. “Just for the details, anyway. Check with Lambourn’s household servants for times and dates. We may be able to get a ferryman who can help. Lambourn probably used the same ferries all the time. Most of us are creatures of habit.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, THEY had filled out several sheets of paper with what they already knew of Lambourn’s last week. The information came both from Runcorn’s original inquiry and from what Hester had told Monk about Lambourn’s visits with Agnes Nisbet and other sellers of opium-containing medicines. It was now a matter of honing it with more accurate details of times and places, in the hope of finding the one piece that did not fit, and which had been the cause of his murder.

  Monk pushed his chair back from the table and stretched. He had been concentrating so intensely he was stiff, and his back and neck ached.

  “Orme, can you check the ferrymen again? They’ll speak to you, even if you have to go back and forth across the water, or pay them to sit still.” He smiled grimly. “Should be an easy fare, no bending the back to earn a few pence, just rest on the oars and remember.” He turned to one of his other men. “Taylor, see if Lambourn spent any time in the opium dens in Limehouse. I doubt it. There’s probably nothing there we don’t already know about, but you’ve got sources. We need to be sure.”

  “Yes, sir. Want me to try the Isle of Dogs as well? There’s a fair few dens there, too,” Taylor asked.

  “Yes. Good idea. If Lambourn found something he’d have gone back to make certain. Look particularly for opium dealers out of the ordinary.” He looked at Runcorn questioningly. It was the moment when in the past he would have given orders. There would have been a brief struggle for authority, each guarding his own territory. This time he bit back the words and waited.

  He saw the flash of recognition in Runcorn’s eyes, and then the relaxing of his body. “I’m going back to Lambourn’s house to question the servants,” he said calmly. “The valet will know when he came and went, and, I dare say, the cook. Between them they’ll have a good idea. When I spoke to them before they were very loyal to him. If they know it’s to prove he was murdered, they’ll help. The difficulty’ll be not putting words into their mouths.” He opened his eyes wide and looked at Monk.

  Monk gave him a momentary smile, in an acknowledgment of the changed balance of power between them. “I’m going to find this Agatha Nisbet that Hester told me about, and speak to her again. I want to know what Lambourn said to her, and anything else she knows about him.”

  “Good. Where’ll we meet?” Runcorn asked.

  “Back here, nine o’clock tonight,” Monk replied.

  “My home, ten o’clock,” Runcorn argued. “You can walk from here. And we’ll need that long. Rathbone won’t be able to string the trial much more than a couple of days after Christmas. That gives us only a few more days to find whatever it is.”

  Monk nodded. “That’s sense. But make it my house. The kitchen. Hot tea and something to eat.” He looked at Orme.

  “Yes, sir,” Orme replied. “Taylor, too?”

  “Certainly,” Monk answered. “Paradise Place, Rotherhithe.”

  “Yes, sir, I know.” Taylor nodded, smiling as if he had been given some kind of accolade.

  IT TOOK MONK MORE than an hour to find the makeshift clinic that Hester had described to him, but far longer than that to oblige Agatha to make time for him and sit down in her tiny office, uninterrupted, and answer his questions.

  She was a huge woman, about his height but much larger boned. He could imagine very easily being intimidated by her. Only when he looked at her eyes did he see any of the compassion or intelligence Hester had spoken of.

  “Wot d’yer want, then?” she said bluntly. “I in’t got nothin’ to tell the River Police.”

  Whatever chance he had of her cooperation, it would die the moment she suspected he was lying. He decided to be as blunt with her as he imagined she would be with him.

  “I’m trying to solve the murder of a good man, before his wife is convicted and hanged for it. Or, more accurately, she’s convicted of another murder the same person also committed. I believe the good man, a doctor, was killed because he discovered something very bad about someone connected with the opium trade.”

  Suddenly Agatha’s boredom changed to interest.

  “That’d be Dr. Lambourn, an’ that poor creature they slit open over on Limehouse Pier. If it wasn’t the doctor’s wife ’oo killed ’er, then ’oo was it?” She looked at Monk with hard, bright eyes, and he noticed that her hands, bigger than his, were slowly clenching and unclenching among the scattered papers on top of the wooden table.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “When Dr. Lambourn was searching for information about opium he accidentally found out a few other things. One of those things was so dangerous to someone that they defamed Lambourn professionally and then killed him, trying to make it look like suicide. That way they would be certain that their own secret would stay buried.”

  She waited, still watching him, an unmoving mountain of a woman.

  “I think he discovered this in the last week of his life,” Monk went on. “So I’m following as closely as I can in his footsteps.”

  “Soft, like,” she said with bitter humor. “You don’t want ter end up in the river yerself, wi’ yer throat cut, or worse.”

  “I see you understand perfectly. What was Lambourn looking for from you, and what did you tell him?” He wondered if he should add anything about her safety, but to offer to protect her would be insulting. She would know as well as he did that it would be impossible.

  “Opium,” she said thoughtfully. “Lot o’ things to do with it in’t so nice.”

  “Such as what?” he asked. “Stealing? Cutting it with bad substitutes so it’s impure? There’s no smuggling; it comes in perfectly legally. What’s worth killing anyone for?”

  “Yer can kill to corner the trade in anything!” Agatha said with disgust. “Bakers an’ fishmongers do it! You try cutting inter the meat market, an’ see ’ow long yer last!”

  “Is that what Lambourn asked you about?” he said.

  Her face tightened. “I got me own ways o’ getting opium—pure. I give it for pain, not for some rich fool to escape ’is troubles. I told ’im that.”

  “Then why would anyone bother to murder Dr. Lambourn? Come on, Miss Nisbet!” he urged. “He was a good man, a doctor trying to get medicine labeled properly so people didn’t kill themselves accidentally. They murdered him to keep him quiet, and then butchered his first wife to hang his second wife for it. Whatever it was he found out it w
as a damn sight worse than a petty trade war that I could hear about in common speech on the dockside.”

  She nodded her head slowly. “There’s worse than thievin’,” she agreed. “There’s slow poison. There’s good men gone bad an’ a kind o’ living death that’s worse than a grave. Opium’s a powerful thing, like fire. Warm yer hearth, or burn yer ’ouse down.”

  Monk was aware of how closely she was watching him. The slightest flicker in his face, an instant’s movement of his eyes, and she would see it. For a brief second he wondered what this woman had seen and done; what life had denied her that she had chosen this path. Then his attention returned to the present, to Joel Lambourn dead in disgrace and Dinah waiting to face the hangman.

  “My horrors have all been commonplace,” he answered her, knowing that she would not continue until he had made some acknowledgment. “A woman raped and beaten to death, a man hacked up and left to rot, children tortured and starved. It’s all happened before, and it will happen again. The best I can do is try to prevent it as often as I can. What do you know that’s going to ruin anyone in London, now?”

  Something inside her closed up tight and hard. “Murder,” she answered quietly. “It all comes down ter murder in the end, don’t it? Murder for money. Murder for silence. Murder for dreams, for peace instead o’ screamin’ pain, murder for a needle an’ a packet o’ white powder.”

  He said nothing. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door, fast and light, someone hurrying, and beyond that the noises of pain. No creak of bedsprings, only the rustle of straw palliasses on the floor.

  “Who?” he said at last. “Who did Lambourn find out about?”

  “Dunno,” she answered without a second’s hesitation. “Don’t want ter, ’cos then I’d ’ave ter kill ’im.”