Anne Perry: A Sunless Sea

“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.”

“If he went up the hill alone with them, at night, knowing who they were and what they did, then he was an idiot!” Monk said savagely. He ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry,” he apologized. “There’s something here we’re missing. It does look as if he could well have gone up the hill with someone he knew. There were no marks of hoofprints or tire tracks on the path or the grass, and no one could have carried him up there single-handed. Even two would have found it difficult. It doesn’t make sense.”

Rathbone nodded. “We always assumed he walked willingly, but alone.” He turned to Runcorn. “Were there any footprints other than his?”

“Those of the man who found him, and by the time I got there, other police, and the police surgeon,” Runcorn replied. “There could have been anyone else’s and I wouldn’t have seen. And to be honest, at that time I assumed it was suicide, too. I didn’t think of alternatives. I should have.” He looked wretched, filled with guilt for an irresponsible oversight.

Rathbone glanced at Monk and saw the pity in his face. This was something that would have been unimaginable only a year or two ago.

“Actually we know it wasn’t either Herne or Bawtry in person, because there are people who’ll swear they were elsewhere, lots of people,” Hester said. “So if it was one of them who was selling the opium, then he had somebody else actually kill Lambourn. But they can’t account for their time when Zenia Gadney was killed. They wouldn’t think to, because as far as anyone else knew, there was no connection.”

“They paid someone to kill Lambourn?” Rathbone asked. “Zenia? Is that possible? And then killed her so she couldn’t betray them, or blackmail them?”

“Why wait two months?” Monk asked.

“Perhaps she didn’t try blackmail until then?” Rathbone suggested.

“Or perhaps it isn’t either Herne or Bawtry anyway?” Runcorn put in. “Where do we go if it’s someone else altogether?”

Monk sighed. “Let’s look at who it has to be.” He ticked off the points on his fingers, one by one. “Someone Lambourn knew, and who had the power to have his report rejected, and his name blackened for incompetence.” He went to the second finger. “Someone who had access to raw opium of pure quality in order to sell it.” He touched the third. “Someone who knew of Lambourn’s connection with Zenia Gadney, and was in a position to make it look as if Dinah had killed her.”

“One more,” Hester added.

“What?”

“Someone who knew a woman who could pose as Dinah in the shop in Copenhagen Place. She could have worn a wig to imitate Dinah’s hair, but it had to be a woman,” she answered.

“Unless it really was Dinah?” Monk looked from one to the other of them to see what they thought.

Suddenly an idea came to Rathbone’s mind. He looked up quickly.

“I … I think I know.” The words seemed absurd, not courageous but idiotic and desperate. “I want to have Bawtry in court tomorrow, and Herne and his wife. I think I know how I might trick them on the stand.”

“Think?” Monk said softly.

“Yes … I think. Do you have a better idea?”

Monk pushed his hands through his hair again. “No.” He looked at Runcorn.

“We’ll do whatever you want,” Runcorn promised. “God help us.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone answered almost under his breath, wondering if he could be right, and if he could possibly pull it off.

Rathbone slept badly. There was too much racing through his mind, too many possibilities for success, and for failure. His plans were made, but everything rested in the balance of his one last, great gamble. In his mind he turned over everything he could say, every disaster he might avert, or rescue if it came down to it.