Anne Perry - A Sunless Sea

Heart pounding, Rathbone turned back to Dinah.

“I know that you find it hard to believe that Dr. Lambourn took his own life,” he began, “but during the last week before his body was found, was he at any time unusually distressed, angry, at a loss to know what to do? Was he different from his normal self?”

Coniston moved in his seat, but he did not rise, although he made ready to.

Reading Rathbone’s cue, Dinah replied. “Yes. He returned home from questioning people in the dockside areas, about two or three days before his death. He was most distraught by something he had learned.”

“Did he tell you what that was?” Rathbone asked.

There was total silence in the room. The gallery seemed to be holding their breath. Not a juror moved so much as a hand.

“No.” Dinah sighed the word, then made an effort to speak more clearly. “I asked him, but he said it was something too terrible to tell anyone until he knew who was behind it. I asked him again, but he said it was something I should not know about, for my own sake, since such suffering was involved. Once it was in my mind, I would never be able to forget it, he said. It would haunt my dreams, waking and sleeping, for the rest of my life.” The tears were running down her face unchecked now. “I saw the grief in him, and I knew that he spoke the truth. I didn’t ask him again. I don’t know which was easier for him, my knowing, or not knowing. I never learned, because two days later he was dead.”

“Could it have been the number of deaths caused by accidental overdose of opium in some new area he was researching?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t see how. Had there been something appalling, a large number of deaths in one place, then surely that would have been something Mr. Herne would have wished to know about, and it would not have been secret. It must have been something else.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Rathbone agreed. “Did he at any time say to you what he intended to do about this terrible thing that brought about so much suffering?”

Dinah was silent for several moments.

One of the jurors moved uncomfortably; another leaned forward as if to look at her more closely.

Coniston stared at Rathbone, then looked up at the judge.

Rathbone wanted to know if Barclay Herne was in the court or not. He had his back to the gallery and did not dare disturb his concentration to look.

“I am trying to think back on what he said,” Dinah replied at last. “To think of his words, and what he might have meant. He was very disturbed by it, very distressed.”

“Did he know who was involved in this abomination?” Rathbone asked. “Or anything about the nature of it?”

“Only that it concerned opium,” she replied quietly. “And that he cared about it passionately.”

This time Coniston did rise to his feet. “My lord! We have not in any way whatever established that there was any abomination to discover, only that something happened that Dr. Lambourn was disturbed about.” He spread his hands out wide. “It could have been an accident, a misfortune of nature, anything at all. Or for that matter, it could have been nothing. We have only the accused’s word that we are talking about anything more than an excuse to drag this trial out as long as possible.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Coniston,” Pendock agreed. “I have no more patience with your time-wasting, Sir Oliver. If you have no further evidence to bring forward, then we shall put the matter to the jury.”

Rathbone was desperate. He had nothing else to ask Dinah. She had pleaded not guilty when she was charged. There was not even a denial to add.

“I have two more witnesses, my lord,” he said, hearing his own voice sound hollow, even faintly ridiculous. Where the devil was Monk? Where were Hester and her Dr. Winfarthing?

Pendock turned to Coniston. “Have you any questions to ask the accused, Mr. Coniston?”

Coniston hesitated, then either in cowardice not to take any chances, or in mercy not to drag out the pointless ritual, he answered quietly.

“No, my lord, thank you.”

Rathbone was beaten. “I wish to call Dr. Gustavus Winfarthing, my lord, but he is not yet in court. I apologize, and ask-”

The doors at the back of the court burst open and a huge figure strode through, jacket flying, his mane of graying hair standing on end as if he had come in from a high wind.

“Don’t you dare apologize on my behalf!” he cried loudly. “I most certainly am here. Good heavens, sir, a blind man on a galloping horse could not miss me.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the gallery, perhaps as much a release of tension as any amusement. Even one or two of the jurors smiled widely, then suddenly realized that perhaps it was inappropriate, and forced their faces into expressions of gravity again.

Winfarthing walked right up to the edge of the table where Rathbone sat, and then stopped.

“Are you ready for me, Sir Oliver? Or shall I wait outside again?”

“No!” Rathbone controlled his relief and his anxiety with an effort. “We are perfectly ready for you, Dr. Winfarthing. If you would take the stand, sir, you will be sworn in.” He was not at all ready for him. He needed to speak to him alone, learn what he had to say and keep some grasp on the testimony, but he dared not try Pendock’s patience, or he might lose even this chance.

Winfarthing obeyed, climbing with some difficulty up the narrow, curving steps to the witness box, finding it awkward to get his bulk between the railings. He swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, then stood meekly waiting for Rathbone to begin.

Rathbone had never seen the man before. In fact he knew nothing of him except the little that Hester had told him, and the rather larger amount he deduced from the warmth with which she had spoken. Even the mention of his name had made her smile. Rathbone now had almost nothing left to lose. He set out with a bravado he was far from feeling.

“Dr. Winfarthing, were you acquainted with Joel Lambourn?”

“Of course I was,” Winfarthing replied, raising his eyebrows and staring at Rathbone as if he were a peculiarly inept student in front of him for some childish prank. “Excellent man, both professionally and personally.” Then, as if anticipating Coniston’s objection to the fact that he had not been asked to assess Lambourn’s character, he turned toward him and glared ferociously.

“Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly. “Did he seek your opinions or experiences regarding the use of opium when he was doing research for his report in the three or four months before he died?”

“Of course he did,” Winfarthing said with surprise in his face and his voice again, as if the question were redundant.

Already the gallery was silent. Behind him Rathbone could not hear even the rustle of movement in the seats. Please heaven, Winfarthing had something to say, more than the details, with which he could take the afternoon until Monk would find and bring Agatha Nisbet.

“Why, Dr. Winfarthing?” Rathbone prompted. “Have you some expertise in the study of infant deaths from opium overdose?”

“Tragically, yes,” Winfarthing replied. “I was able to confirm a good deal of what he had found, and add my own figures to his, which incidentally were almost exactly the same.”

Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, if it will save the court’s time, I am willing to agree that Dr. Lambourn’s figures were honestly obtained, and may well have been accurate regarding the misuse of opium in dosing children. Whether that is a tragedy that can be overcome by better dispensing is not within our remit. But since Sir Oliver himself has implied, properly or not, that the reason for Dr. Lambourn’s death had nothing to do with his report on opium labeling, I do not see how it has even the remotest relevance to the murder of Zenia Gadney, even in the unlikely, and totally unproven, event that she was privy to any part of this report. Or, for that matter, that she could have had a copy of part of it in her keeping.”