A Sunless Sea

by Anne Perry

  “Rubbish,” Rathbone replied. “Her life as she knew it ended with his death because she loved him. He was murdered because of his proposal to add restrictions to the sales of opium because of what he discovered about the effects of taking it by needle. She is willing to risk being hanged in order to clear his name of suicide and professional incompetence, and perhaps even to see his work completed simply because he believed in it. Even though she didn’t, and still doesn’t, know what it really is.”

  “For God’s sake, Rathbone!” Coniston exclaimed. “She’s facing the hangman because the evidence says she’s guilty. She lied to Monk and he caught her in it. From the evidence you’ve provided, if Lambourn didn’t kill himself, it’s even possible she killed him also. We have only her own, and her sister-in-law’s, word for it that she knew about Zenia Gadney. There’s a very reasonable case to say that she only learned about Zenia just before Lambourn’s death, and that’s the connection.” He smiled with a bitter irony. “You might just have proved her guilty of both murders.”

  Rathbone sat staring at Coniston. He realized now how shallow his knowledge of the man was. Good family; excellent education; good career, improving all the time. Fortunate, if possibly dull marriage. Three daughters and a son. But he knew nothing of the inner man, the hopes or the dreams. What hurt him, or made him laugh? What was he afraid of, apart from poverty or failure? Was he afraid of making a mistake, convicting an innocent person? Was he ever lonely? Did he doubt the best in himself, or fear the worst? Had he ever loved someone, and been proved hideously wrong, as Rathbone had?

  He had no idea.

  “Do you give a damn what the truth is?” he said quietly.

  Coniston leaned forward across the table, his face tense, the skin drawn suddenly tight with his own urgency. “Yes, I do! And I care like hell that we don’t betray our country’s laws and freedoms, the tolerance of individuals’ rights to take whatever medicines they choose, how they choose. Information is one thing, and I’m all for that. But making opium illegal and the sellers of it criminals is quite another. You can’t prove anything at all from this Nisbet woman’s words.”

  “We may not be able to affect what the Pharmacy Act says, and whether opium sales are restricted, or not. That is not our decision,” Rathbone argued. “But we can and must affect what happens in the Old Bailey this week. You’d better choose where you stand, Coniston, because you aren’t going to be able to play the middle any longer. Are you sure, beyond reasonable doubt, that what this Nisbet woman says isn’t true, and doesn’t have any bearing on why Lambourn was killed?”

  Coniston blinked. “What are you saying? That someone selling pure opium here in London, now, killed Lambourn, and then Zenia Gadney?”

  “Are you saying that isn’t a possibility?” Rathbone watched Coniston’s face, and the realization hit him. He drew in his breath and let it out very slowly. His heart was pounding so violently he felt as if it must be making his body shake. “My God. You know who is behind this, don’t you!” It was a statement, not a question, in fact all but an accusation.

  “He did not kill either Lambourn or Zenia Gadney,” Coniston said so softly, Rathbone barely heard him. “Do you really think I didn’t make certain of that myself?”

  “Did you? Are you saying that out of knowledge or belief?” Rathbone asked. Was it all slipping away from him again, in his grasp, and then gone, like mist from empty hands?

  “Knowledge,” Coniston answered. “Give me that much credit. He believes Lambourn’s response to what Agatha Nisbet told him was hysterical and completely disproportionate. He wanted that part of his report excluded. He’s not guilty of this. Lambourn was a fanatic and he took his own life. His wife couldn’t accept that and chose this insane and terrible way of trying to force the government’s hand.” His glance wavered, but only for an instant.

  “What?” Rathbone demanded.

  “Bring in your witness.” Coniston’s voice was a whisper, all but caught in his throat. He sighed. “Play it out. I imagine you’re going to anyway. But be warned, if you somehow manage to ruin an innocent man, I’ll personally see that you pay for it with your career. I don’t care how damn clever you are.”

  “An innocent man? What is he innocent of? Murder of Lambourn and Zenia Gadney, or of selling people a one-way ticket to hell?”

  “Just stop dancing around and prove something!” Coniston answered.

  “I mean to.” Rathbone finished the last of his brandy. “But don’t forget, reasonable doubt is enough.” He put the empty glass down and rose to his feet. He walked away without looking back.

  RATHBONE SAW NO SIGN of either Monk or Hester in the hallways as he returned. His muscles locked tight with tension.

  The court resumed with Agatha Nisbet back on the stand again. The jurors looked pale and unhappy, but not one of them averted his eyes or his attention from her.

  “You have described some of the most terrible suffering any of us here has heard,” Rathbone began. “Did you describe these things also to Dr. Joel Lambourn?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said simply. “I took ’im an’ I showed ’im.”

  “And what was Dr. Lambourn’s reaction?” he asked, looking up at Agatha again.

  “ ’E were sick,” she answered. “Looked like a man with the ague. At first ’e were just revolted, like anyone would be, then as we saw more, ’e got gray in the face an’ I were afraid ’e were going to ’ave a seizure or an ’eart attack. I even fetched ’im brandy.”

  “And that revived him?”

  “Not a lot. ’E looked like a man as ’ad seen death in front of ’im. Reckon as perhaps ’e ’ad, save it weren’t more’n a few days before ’e were found with ’is wrists cut, poor sod.” Her language was coarse, but the pity in her face, even the grief, was too powerful to belittle or ignore.

  Rathbone deliberately took a risk, but time was pressing hard on him. “Did he seem to you suicidal?”

  “The doctor?” she said incredulously. “Don’t be a fool! ’E were ’ell-bent on stoppin’ it, whatever it cost. Never reckoned as it’d cost ’im ’is life. Not ter even think of ’is wife too.”

  “Are you referring to Zenia Gadney?”

  “Never ’eard of ’er, till now. I meant Dinah. An’ if yer think she killed ’im yer dafter than them as is in Bedlam chained ter the walls an’ ’owlin’ at the moon.”

  Rathbone controlled the slightly hysterical laughter that welled up inside him.

  “I do not think so, Miss Nisbet. Nor do I think she killed Miss Gadney. I think Dinah Lambourn guessed some of this. Then when Zenia Gadney was murdered, she allowed herself to be accused, even adding to her appearance of guilt by telling a lie she knew would very quickly be found out.”

  He hesitated only a moment. “She did this, risking her own life, so this court could discover and expose the truth. That is a truly remarkable love, a loyalty beyond death. I thank you, Miss Nisbet, for your courage in coming here to tell us of horrors I am sure you would far rather not relive. Please wait there in case Mr. Coniston has anything to ask you.”

  He returned to his seat, wondering what Coniston would do, and if Pendock would support him if he objected.

  Coniston rose slowly. He walked out into the center of the floor with even more grace than usual. Rathbone did not know him well enough to be certain if that was a mark of excess of confidence, or a time-wasting maneuver because he lacked confidence.

  As soon as Coniston spoke, he knew it was the latter. All his original certainty had evaporated, but it was a good mask, nonetheless. The jury would not read him.

  “Miss Nisbet,” he began courteously, “you have seen some shocking and very dreadful things. I respect you since they so clearly move your compassion, and your will to help and minister to the sick.” He moved two or three steps to the left and then turned. “In all this horror, did you see the face of any man responsible for the sale of opium, and the needles to administer it into the blood? Are you certain you would even r
ecognize him if you saw him again, unconnected to his trade?”

  Rathbone saw the look of confusion in Agatha’s face. He rose to his feet.

  “My lord, Miss Nisbet has not stated that she would remember him, or indeed that she ever knew his name. All she said was that Dr. Lambourn had a powerful and extremely distressed reaction to her story and behaved as if he knew who it was.”

  “You are quite correct, Sir Oliver,” Pendock agreed. He turned to Coniston. “Perhaps it would be simpler, Mr. Coniston, if you were merely to ask the witness if she believes she would recognize the man again, were she to see him, here or elsewhere.”

  Coniston’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed.

  Agatha answered simply. “I never saw ’im, far as I know. But—” She stopped abruptly.

  “But …?” Coniston asked quickly.

  “But that in’t no use,” she answered, clearly lying.

  Coniston drew breath to ask a further question, then changed his mind. “Thank you, Miss Nisbet,” he said, turning and walking back toward his table. “Oh! Just one more thing, did Dr. Lambourn tell you that he knew who this man was, or that he was acquainted with him, that he would challenge him, ruin him, see him in prison? Anything like that?”

  It was a gamble, and even the jury seemed to be aware of it. The silence was intense.

  Rathbone rose again. “My lord, perhaps one question at a time might be clearer, both for Miss Nisbet and for the jury?”

  “Indeed,” Pendock agreed. “Mr. Coniston, if you please?”

  Coniston’s face colored deeply, and his jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in it bulged.

  “My lord.” There was the slightest edge of sarcasm in his acquiescence. “Miss Nisbet, did Dr. Lambourn say that he knew this man you say sells opium for profit?”

  “No, sir, but ’e went white like ’e were going ter faint,” she replied.

  “Could that be the very natural horror of a decent man told of abominable human crime and suffering?”

  “Course it could,” she said tartly.

  “Did he say that he had either the wish or the power to ruin this man? For example, send him to prison?” Coniston continued.

  “I went ter get ’im brandy. ’E didn’t say much at all, ’ceptin’ ter thank me.”

  “I see. Did he at any time tell you that he was going to face this man, accuse him, or otherwise bring him to answer for his terrible trade? Did he tell you this man’s name?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Miss Nisbet. That is all I have to ask you.”

  Rathbone was on his feet yet again. “May I re-direct, my lord?”

  “Of course,” Pendock told him.

  Rathbone looked up at Agatha. “Miss Nisbet, did you form the opinion that Dr. Lambourn was deeply horrified by what you told him?”

  “Course ’e was,” she said witheringly.

  “Because of the suffering, the crime of it?”

  “I think it were ’cos ’e ’ad an idea ’oo it were,” she said slowly and distinctly. “But ’e never told me.”

  There was an immediate ripple of amazement and horror through the room. Rathbone turned to look at the gallery, and at that moment saw the door open and Hester come in. Their eyes met and she gave a very slight nod. Relief washed through Rathbone like a wave of heat. He turned to the judge, the smile still on his lips.

  “I would like to call Dr. Alvar Doulting to the stand, my lord.”

  Pendock glanced at the clock on the far wall.

  “Very well. You may proceed.”

  Alvar Doulting came up the aisle between the seats in the gallery and across the open floor. He climbed the steps of the witness stand with difficulty. When he reached the top and faced Rathbone, suddenly all that Agatha Nisbet had said of a living hell became real to Rathbone’s eyes. Doulting looked like a man who lived in a nightmare. His skin was gray and sheened with sweat. In spite of the fact that he clung to the rail, he was trembling violently. A muscle in his face twitched and he was so gaunt the bones of his skull seemed to stretch his skin.

  Rathbone felt a searing guilt that he had compelled the man to come here.

  Doulting swore to his name and his professional qualifications, which were impressive. He had clearly once been a great doctor in the making. The man who stood in front of them now was the more horrifying because of it.

  Based upon what Agatha Nisbet had told him, Rathbone began his questioning, urged on by the feeling that Doulting might not stay well long enough to say much. If the diarrhea, vomiting, and cramps that Winfarthing described in the withdrawal symptoms of addiction were to strike him, he would be unable to continue, no matter how critical his evidence was to the case. And yet still Rathbone felt brutal doing it.

  “Thank you, Dr. Doulting,” he said with profound sincerity. “I appreciate your coming. Since you are clearly unwell, I shall be as brief as I can. Did you speak with Dr. Joel Lambourn, shortly before his death in early October?”

  “Yes, I did.” Doulting’s voice was steady, in spite of his physical distress.

  “Did he ask you about the sale and use of opium, in the course of his investigation into the possible Pharmacy Act prepared by Parliament?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell him, if anything, beyond the dangers of people overusing it because of the fact that it was inadequately labeled?”

  Doulting gripped the railing more tightly and took a deep breath.

  “I told him about the relief opium gave to agonizing pain when it was administered directly into the bloodstream using the recent invention of a hollow needle attached to a syringe. I also told him how much more deeply addictive it is, acting within a matter of days to make someone so dependent upon it that it is almost beyond a person’s ability to stop using it. It takes over their lives. The hell of being without it is almost as bad as the pain it relieved.”

  Rathbone was compelled to ask the next question, even though he hated doing so. He felt the clenching of his own body as he imagined not only the man’s pain but his humiliation.

  “And how do you know this, Dr. Doulting?”

  “Because I am addicted to it myself,” Doulting answered. “I was given it with the best intentions, after I had my pelvis crushed in an accident. My pain then was almost unbearable. The opium was given to me for some time, until the bones healed. Now that the pain is almost forgotten, I wish I had never seen opium, never heard of it. I dread the hell of withdrawal and can bear to survive only for the comfort the next dose of opium will bring.”

  “Where do you obtain it?” Rathbone asked.

  “From a man who sells it to me, in a form pure enough to inject into my body.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you afford it?”

  “I have lost everything I had, my house, my family, my practice. Now I must do his bidding to sell it to others who have also become its slaves. I think perhaps I would rather be dead.” There was no melodrama in his voice, no self-pity. “It would certainly be better for others, and perhaps it would be better for me also.”

  Rathbone wished he could reply with any comfort at all, even if only to acknowledge his dignity, but this was not the place.

  “Do you know the name of this man, Dr. Doulting?” he asked.

  “No. I would tell you if I did.”

  “Would you? What would happen to your supply then?”

  “It would be stopped, as I imagine it will be now that I have testified here. I really don’t think I care anymore.”

  Rathbone lowered his gaze. “There is nothing I can say to touch your pain. The best I can do is thank you for coming here and testifying to this court—at such price to yourself. Please wait there in case Mr. Coniston has anything to ask you.”

  Coniston stood up slowly. “Dr. Doulting, do you expect us to take this fearful account solely on your word? By your own admission, you are the servant of this man and will do anything for your dosage of opium.”

>   Doulting looked at him with weary contempt. “If you doubt me, go into the back alleys and gutters where the lost and the dying are. You’ll find others who’ll tell you the same thing. For God’s sake, man, look at me! Before the opium I was as respectable as you, and as comfortable. I had rank and position, a home, a profession. I had health. I slept at night in my own bed and woke looking forward to the day. Now all I want is redemption—and death.”

  There was a wave of pity from the court in sighs and murmurs so palpable that Coniston found himself unable to continue. He looked up at Doulting, then across at Rathbone. Someone in the gallery called out to him to sit down.

  “Order!” Pendock said loudly. “I will have order. Thank you, Mr. Coniston. Is that all?”

  “Yes, my lord, thank you.”

  Pendock looked at Rathbone. “Court is adjourned for today.”

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON AND into the evening, Rathbone, Monk, Hester, and Runcorn sat around the kitchen table eating, drinking tea, and planning the last day of the trial. Sleet battered against the windows and the oven made the room an island of warmth.

  “Might have enough evidence for a verdict based on reasonable doubt,” Rathbone said unhappily, “which I suppose is better than I hoped for a day or two ago. But I want to prove her innocent. Her life will still be ruined without more than this.”

  “And she will not have cleared Lambourn’s name,” Monk pointed out.

  Hester was staring at the plates arranged on the dresser, but clearly her vision was beyond them, far into a space only she could see.

  “Do you believe Lambourn knew who it was?” she asked, shaking her head a little and looking at Rathbone. “He must have, mustn’t he? Or at the very least, whoever it is thought he knew. That has to be why he was killed. If he had handed in a revised report and the government had seen it, especially Mr. Gladstone, who is something of a moral crusader, selling opium might well be made illegal.”

  “It would make sense,” Runcorn agreed. “If he was killed by someone he knew, that would explain why he went out to meet them alone in the evening. Maybe he even walked up One Tree Hill with them.”