by Anne Perry
“I’m damned sure of it,” Rathbone agreed. He turned to Hester. “Are you certain this Agatha Nisbet will turn up? And what about Doulting? He could be drugged out of his senses, or dead in an alley by then.”
They all looked at Hester, faces tense, bodies stiff.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We can only try.”
“We haven’t much to lose,” Rathbone said to all of them. “As it is now, they’re going to find Dinah guilty. I have no one else left to put on the stand. She’s lied to me before, and I’m not sure if she knew anything at all about what Lambourn found out. I don’t think her belief in him is going to be enough to change this outcome.”
He looked at Hester. “Do you believe this Agatha Nisbet?”
She did not hesitate. “Yes. But it won’t be so easy with Alvar Doulting. She’ll bring him if he’s all right, but she won’t force him. You may have to string it out at least another day. I’ll help her to get him as strong as we can.”
“I’ve no one else,” Rathbone told them.
“Then you must call Dinah,” Hester said, her voice uncertain, a little husky. “Immediately after Christmas.”
The more Rathbone heard of what Hester had learned, and the further disclosures it threatened, the more certain he was that both Coniston and Pendock knew at least of the existence of a scandal that they had been warned must be kept a secret, even at the cost of hanging a woman without exhausting the last possibility that she was innocent. Who else was addicted to the pervasive poison? Who else’s fortune relied on its sale?
He looked across at Monk. It was a gamble. They were all painfully aware of it.
“I’ll speak to Dinah,” he said. He had not had time to talk to her since the revelation that she had never actually been Lambourn’s wife. “But we’ve got to provide an alternative better than some shadowy form of an opium seller we also can’t name.”
Monk glanced at Hester, then back at Rathbone. “I know. We won’t stop trying to prove who’s behind it. But we need time. Can you stretch it out another day?”
Rathbone wanted to say yes, but he doubted it. If he could not, and the court could see that he was increasingly desperate, asking questions to which they all knew the answer, Coniston would object that he was wasting the court’s time, and Pendock would very justifiably uphold him. Most important, the jury would know he had no defense left, or else he would have used it.
They could very reasonably try to close the case on Tuesday to keep what was left of the Christmas season clear.
Hester was frowning. She had seen the indecision in his eyes.
“Call Dr. Winfarthing on Tuesday, after Dinah,” she suggested.
“Are you certain about him?” he asked.
She gave a very slight shrug. “Can you think of anything better?”
“I can’t think of anything at all,” he admitted. “Are you certain he won’t say anything damning, even unintentionally?”
“Almost,” she said.
“And this woman, Nisbet?” He realized when he heard the harshness in his voice how deeply afraid he was that in his own sense of loss and disillusion he would let Dinah Lambourn down, and she would pay with her life.
Hester smiled. “There are no certainties. We’ve been here before. We play the best hand we have. We’ve never been certain of winning. That’s not the way it is.”
He knew she was right; he was simply less brave than he used to be, less certain of the other things that mattered. Or maybe at the heart of it, he was less certain of himself.
RATHBONE WENT BACK ACROSS the river by ferry, perversely enjoying the hard, cold wind in his face, even the discomfort of the choppy water. There seemed to be a lot of traffic in the Pool of London today, big ships at anchor waiting to unload cargo from half the ports on earth, lighters carrying freight down from the waterways inland, up from the sea, ferryboats weaving in and out, even a River Police boat making its way over to St. Saviour’s Dock. Everyone seemed to be working twice as hard, hurrying along the streets, laden with parcels, calling out good wishes, making ready for Christmas.
On the northern side he alighted and paid his fare. Then he walked quickly to the Commercial Road and caught a hansom back toward the Old Bailey, and the prison where Dinah Lambourn was housed.
Before he faced her he stopped at a quiet inn and had a large luncheon of steak and kidney pudding, with oysters and a thick suet crust, and a half bottle of really good red wine. He was too worried for the richness or the flavor of it to please him, but afterward he felt warmer and had a renewed sense of determination. A great deal of this was fueled by anger within himself that he was so nearly beaten.
He had thought hard about what to say to Dinah, and as he walked the last couple of hundred yards he made his final decision. At the prison he gave the jailer all the necessary information, identifying himself for the umpteenth time, as if they did not know him.
He was escorted along to the familiar stone cell where he waited alone until they brought Dinah to him. She looked thinner and even paler than the last time he had seen her here, as if she knew the fight was over, and she had lost. He felt the guilt of failure like a wound deep in his gut.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Lambourn,” he said. Then, as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him, he sat down also. He realized, watching her awkwardness, that she was stiff with fear.
“I have just been speaking with Mr. Monk,” he told her. “He and Mr. Runcorn have discovered many things about Dr. Lambourn, all of them bearing out what you yourself have told me. However, I cannot raise your hopes more than a little, because we have no proof that will stand up in court. To call those people who might be of help will be a very great risk, and I need to be certain that you understand that.”
“You’ve found people?” There was a sudden, wild, infinitely painful leap of hope in her face, her eyes almost feverishly brilliant.
He swallowed hard. “People who may not be believed, Mrs. Lambourn. One is a doctor who is, I am told, something of a renegade. The other is a self-proclaimed nurse running an unofficial clinic for dockworkers in the Rotherhithe area. She says that Dr. Lambourn consulted her when he was gathering information about the uses and dangers of opium. So far we have nothing whatever to substantiate what she says, and she is hardly a reputable person. However, she did tell these things to Dr. Lambourn, and as a result he then sought out others, who said the same things.”
Dinah was confused. “To do with opium? I don’t understand.”
“No, not merely to do with opium. That is the point. What she says is to do with the new invention of a hollow needle, and a syringe that can deliver pure opium directly into the blood. It is very much more effective for dealing with pain, but also it can create an addiction to opium that is terrible in its effects.” He grimaced. “A brief heaven, bought at the price of a life of hell afterward.”
“What does that have to do with Joel?” she asked. “Or with poor Zenia’s death? All Joel was reporting on was the need to label the quantity and dosage of opium in patent medicines.”
“I know,” Rathbone said gently. “We think he found out about the syringe and its effects by accident, and included it in his report. If that were so, then it might well have made its way into the Pharmacy Act; then sale in that way would probably be made illegal.”
“If it is as terrible as you say, then it has to be made illegal,” she said slowly, understanding filling her eyes, and then horror.
He nodded. “They destroyed the report, but in case he had told anyone, such as you, for example, he had to be discredited as well.”
Her eyes widened. “They killed him, so he couldn’t repeat it,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes.”
“And poor Zenia?”
“That was probably as you said, to get rid of you, and anything you might have been told.”
“Who is the doctor you spoke of?”
“Dr. Winfarthing? I don’t know him. Mrs. Monk says Dr.
Lambourn consulted him. I want to question him mostly to hold the court’s attention until Monk can persuade Agnes Nisbet, the woman who runs the clinic, to come forward and testify. That might take a whole day. In fact I need to call someone on Tuesday morning immediately after Christmas and Boxing Day, until Winfarthing can be spoken to and forewarned, in fairness, that the prosecution will try to discredit him on the witness stand.”
“And then he might not testify?” she said shakily.
“Apart from being unfair, it might be very much against our interest to have him testify before I have had the opportunity to find out exactly what he will say, and possibly what to avoid asking him. Don’t forget, Mr. Coniston will have the chance to question him after I do. I think you have seen enough of Coniston to know that he will give Winfarthing, or anybody else, a very hard time indeed. He’ll try everything he knows to destroy his credibility, even his reputation, if he can.”
He lowered his voice, trying to be as gentle as he could. “It is not only your life or freedom that may rest on the outcome of this case. If you are not guilty, then someone else is.”
“I don’t know who.” She closed her eyes and the tears escaped under her lids. “Don’t you think I would tell you if I did?”
“Yes, of course I do,” Rathbone said softly. “All I have to do now is to make the jury see that there is such a person. But you have to decide if you want me to do this. It will be very rough. And before I can get Winfarthing on the stand, I shall have to fill Tuesday morning with something else, or the judge will declare the defense closed, and it will be too late. If I call you, you are all I have left, except your daughters. Believe me, Coniston will crucify them before he allows the truth to come out. I believe he really thinks you are guilty, and he won’t spare your children.”
“I’ll testify,” she said, cutting across everything else he might have added, although in truth there was nothing more. He had always known what she would say.
“And you understand what Coniston will try to do to you?”
“Of course. He will try to paint me as a hysterical woman trying to cling to the memory of a man who wouldn’t marry me, as a woman afraid of losing his money to live on and raise my illegitimate children with.” She gave a brief, forced smile, which was painful to see in its attempt at courage. “It will hardly be worse than facing the hangman in three weeks.”
He drew in his breath to argue, and then decided it would only be an insult to offer her false promises. He looked down at the scarred tabletop and then up at her. “I know you didn’t kill Zenia Gadney, and that you made it look as if you might have in order to stand trial so you could try to save Joel’s reputation and honor. We might lose, but we aren’t there yet.”
“Aren’t we?” she whispered.
“No—no, we aren’t. I will call you on Tuesday as my first witness, and keep you there until Winfarthing turns up.”
“Will he?”
“Yes.” It was a rash promise.
He hoped he could keep it. He stood up. “Now I must go home and think what to ask you, and then what to ask Winfarthing.”
She looked up at him. “And Miss Nisbet?”
“Ah, that’s different. I know very well what I will ask her.”
Perhaps that was overstating it a little, but it was whether Agatha Nisbet would come at all that troubled him, not what he would ask her. He could only rely on Hester for that. Monk and Runcorn he knew would still be working on the actual murder, and searching frantically for the person who had walked up One Tree Hill with Lambourn, and left him up there to bleed to death.
BOTH HESTER AND MONK had done all they could to keep the desperation of the trial away from Scuff, but he was far too observant for them to have succeeded. Christmas morning was bright and cold, at least to begin with, although it closed over and there was a promise of snow later on.
Hester was up very early, long before daylight, to put the goose in the oven, and to hang garlands of ribbons and holly up around the house.
She and Monk had in the end decided to get Scuff a watch, the best one they could afford, with his initials and the date engraved on the back. As well as that there were other small things, such as little bags of sweets, homemade fudge, and his favorite nuts. Monk had found him a pair of really warm woolen socks and Hester had very carefully cut down one of Monk’s cravats to make it the right size for Scuff’s slender neck. And of course she had also chosen a book for him, one he would thoroughly enjoy reading.
About eight o’clock in the morning, when it was at last truly daylight, she heard the kitchen door open and Scuff put his head around nervously. Then he saw the holly and the ribbons, and his eyes widened.
“Is it Christmas?” he said a little breathlessly.
“Yes it is,” she replied with a wide smile. “Merry Christmas!” She put down the spoon she had been using to stir the porridge and walked over to him. She considered asking his permission to kiss him, then decided it would give him the opportunity to refuse, even if he actually wanted her to, so she just put both arms around him and hugged him hard. She kissed his warm cheek. “Merry Christmas, Scuff!” she said again.
He froze for a moment, then shyly he kissed her back.
“Merry Christmas, Hester,” he replied, then blushed scarlet at the familiarity of using her name.
She ignored it, trying not to let him see her smile. “Would you like breakfast?” she asked. “There’s porridge first, but don’t eat too much, because there are bacon and eggs after. And of course there’s a roast goose for dinner.”
He drew in a deep breath. “A real one?”
“Of course. It’s a real Christmas,” she told him.
He gulped. “I got a present for yer. Do yer want it now?” He was fidgeting on his seat, already halfway to standing up again.
She had not the heart to make him wait. His eyes were bright, his face flushed. “I’d love to see it now,” she answered.
He slid to the floor and ran out into the hall, and she heard his feet on the stairs. Only moments later he was back again with something in his hand that was small and wrapped in a piece of cloth. Watching her face intently, he held it out to her.
She took it and unwrapped it, wondering what she would find, and already anxious. It was a small silver pendent with a single pearl in it. It hung on a fine chain. In that moment it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had ever seen. And she was terrified as to where he had got it.
She looked up and met his eyes.
“D’yer like it?” he asked almost under his breath.
There was a lump in her throat she had to swallow before she could speak. “Of course I do. It’s perfect. How could anyone not love it?” Dare she ask where he got it? Would he think she didn’t trust him?
He relaxed and his face flooded with relief. “I got it from a tosher,” he said proudly. “I done errands fer ’im. ’E let me ’ave it.”
Suddenly he looked embarrassed and his gaze slid away from hers. “I said it were for me ma. Is that all right?”
Now it was she who felt the warmth wash up her face. “It’s … it’s more than all right,” she told him as she carefully put the chain around her neck and fastened the clasp. She saw his eyes shine with pleasure, and she couldn’t resist reaching down and hugging him gently.
“In fact it couldn’t be better,” she added, releasing him before he could feel uncomfortable. “We have a couple of things for you, when William comes down.”
“I got summink for ’im too,” Scuff said, reassuring her.
“I’m sure you have,” she replied. “Are you ready for porridge? We’ve got a very special, busy day ahead.”
“How long is it Christmas?” he asked, seating himself at the table.
“All day, actually until the middle of the night,” she answered. “Then it’s Boxing Day, and that’s a holiday, too.”
“Good. I like Christmas,” he said with satisfaction.
CHAPTER
22
ON TUESDAY THE TRIAL reopened with Coniston looking considerably more relaxed, as if the end of a long and weary journey were almost reached. There was something in his face that could even have been sympathy for Rathbone.
Pendock brought them to order very quickly.
“Have you a witness, Sir Oliver?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “I call the accused, known as Dinah Lambourn.”
Pendock looked slightly startled, as if he considered it a mistake, but he made no comment.
Dinah was brought down from the dock. Carefully, her whole body trembling, she climbed the steps to the witness stand, gripping the rails as if she was afraid of falling. Indeed, she might have been. She looked ashen; her face seemed to have no blood beneath the alabaster skin.
Rathbone walked out into the center of the court and looked up at her. How long would he have to keep her here? He must speak with Winfarthing before he put him on the stand. Any lawyer who did less than that was a fool. He trusted Hester, but he still needed his own preparation.
“You lived with Joel Lambourn for fifteen years as his wife?” he asked, his voice a little strained.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Did you ever marry him?”
“No.”
“Why not?” It seemed a brutal question, but he wanted the jury to understand her and be in no doubt whatsoever that she had always known of Zenia Gadney.
“Because he was already married to Zenia, his wife from before we met,” she answered.
“And he did not put her aside in order to marry you?” He tried to put surprise into his voice without cruelty, but it was impossible. He winced at the sound of it.
“I didn’t ever ask him to,” she replied. “I knew Zenia had had a bad accident and the pain had caused her to become addicted first to alcohol, and then to opium. She finally recovered from the gin, but never completely from the opium. There was a time when the one thing she clung to, and which saved her from suicide, was the fact that Joel did not abandon her. I loved him, I always will. I would not ask him to do something he believed to be cruel and wrong. I wouldn’t want him to be a man who wished to.”
