Anne Perry: A Sunless Sea

Rathbone felt a slight sickness clench in his stomach. “And your attention was drawn by a woman screaming?”

“Yes.”

“Briefly, what did you then, Mr. Monk?”

“Mr. Orme and I took the boat in to the woman who had attracted our attention. She was screaming because she had discovered the dead and grossly mutilated body of a woman who proved to be Zenia Gadney, a resident of Copenhagen Place, nearly half a mile away.”

“Mrs. Gadney, she had been murdered?” Rathbone asked.

“Yes.”

“In the course of your investigations did you learn why she was out at night, alone, in such a place as Limehouse Pier?”

“Apparently she liked to walk in that area, in daylight.” Monk hesitated a moment. Was he as aware of the gamble they were taking as Rathbone was?

“And was she alone then?” Rathbone prompted. He could not afford to slip now.

“She was seen with another woman at about sunset,” Monk answered quietly.

“Another woman?” Rathbone repeated it, his voice raised to make sure no one failed to hear.

“Yes. I have several witnesses who say it was a woman. They did not know who it was, nor were they able to give any detailed description, except that she was a few inches taller than Mrs. Gadney,” Monk answered him.

“Did they appear to know each other?” Rathbone asked. “According to your witnesses.”

“That was their impression,” Monk conceded. He looked tense, worried. Rathbone wondered how hard he had had to push for the testimony, but he was convinced it was the truth.

“So Mrs. Gadney was also out around dusk, with a person she appeared to trust, and was found murdered by morning?” he said aloud. “Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would it surprise you to know that Dr. Lambourn also went out alone, just after dark, and seems to have met someone he trusted, possibly a woman, and gone up One Tree Hill where he was dosed with opium and his wrists cut? He also was found alone, the following morning.”

“It would have surprised me at the time,” Monk replied. “It does not surprise me now.”

“Had you seen this pattern initially, might you have investigated differently?”

Coniston stood up. “That is a hypothetical question, my lord, and the answer is meaningless.”

“I agree. Mr. Monk, you will not answer that question,” Pendock directed.

Rathbone smiled. The comment was for the jury, not for Monk to answer, and they all knew it, especially Pendock.

“Thank you,” Rathbone said to Monk. “I have no more to ask you.”

“I have nothing, my lord,” Coniston said. “We have heard it all before.”

Rathbone asked for a brief adjournment and was granted it.

He met Monk out in the hall.

“Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Monk asked anxiously, falling in step with him as they made their way toward Rathbone’s chambers.

“No, I’m not sure,” Rathbone answered. “I told you that yesterday evening.” They reached the door and went in, closing it after them. “I’ve got Bawtry coming in a moment. Are you ready?”

“Before he comes,” Monk said quickly, “I saw him in the hall just before I came into court.” Briefly he described the quarrel between Amity and Herne, and then the total change he had seen in her manner toward Bawtry.

“Interesting,” Rathbone said thoughtfully. “Very interesting. Perhaps I shall have to amend some of my ideas. Thank you.”

Before Monk could reply there was a knock on the door and the court usher told Rathbone that Mr. Sinden Bawtry was here to see him.

Rathbone glanced at Monk, then at the usher. “Ask Mr. Bawtry to come in, please. Then see that we are not interrupted.”

Bawtry came in looking only slightly concerned. He shook hands with both of them, then accepted the seat Rathbone offered.

“What can I do for you, Sir Oliver?” he asked.

Rathbone had been awake half the night thinking of exactly this moment. He had everything to win, or to lose, resting on what he said in the next few minutes.

“Your advice, Mr. Bawtry,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’m sure you would like this case ended as soon as possible, as we all would-but with justice completely served.”

“Of course,” Bawtry agreed. “What can I advise you regarding? I knew Lambourn, of course, but not his wife.” He made a slight grimace. “I’m sorry, perhaps that is technically incorrect. I mean Dinah Lambourn, whom I took to be his wife. Zenia Gadney I had never even heard of until her tragic death. What is it you wish to know from me?”

“So much I had surmised,” Rathbone replied with the ghost of a smile. He must judge this perfectly. Bawtry was a brilliant man, a star very much in the ascendant, even considered a possible future prime minister by some. He had the background, as well as what appeared to be a blemishless record, and he was fast gaining a formidable political reputation. No doubt within the next few years he would make a fortunate marriage. He had no need to seek money, so he could afford to marry a woman who would be a grace to his social ambitions, and of personal pleasure to him, with wit and charm, perhaps beauty. Rathbone would be a fool to underestimate him. Facing the clever, unflinching eyes he was acutely aware of that.

“Then how can I help you?” Bawtry prompted him.

“Did you see this report of Lambourn’s personally, sir?” Rathbone asked, keeping his voice light, stopping the trembling of it with an effort. “Or did you perhaps take Herne’s word that it was unacceptable?”

Bawtry looked slightly taken aback, as if this were something he had not even considered. “Actually I saw very little of it,” he replied. “He showed me a few pages, and they did seem a bit … haphazard, conclusions drawn without sufficient evidence. He told me the rest was even worse. Since the man was his brother-in-law, he quite naturally wished to protect him from being publicly made a fool of. He wanted to destroy the report without having any more of its weaknesses being known. I could understand that, and frankly I admired it in him. Whether it was for his wife’s sake, or for Lambourn’s was irrelevant to me.”

“But you never saw the rest of it?” Rathbone pressed.

“No. No, I didn’t.” Bawtry stared at him. “What are you suggesting? You wouldn’t be asking me this now unless you believed that it had some relevance to this trial.” The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Herne didn’t kill Lambourn, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was unquestionably at the dinner in the Atheneum. Aside from personally seeing him there, I could name at least twenty members who were there also and will swear to it.”

Rathbone smiled sadly. “I know that, Mr. Bawtry. Mr. Monk already made absolutely certain of it.”

Bawtry glanced at Monk, then back at Rathbone. “Then I don’t understand what it is you are asking me. I did not read more than a few pages of Lambourn’s report. Incidentally, I believe he was factually right. The use of opium has to be labeled, and its sale in patent medicines restricted to people who have some medical or pharmaceutical knowledge at the least. It was never his conclusions that were in doubt, only the quality of his research, and the way he presented it. He allowed his own anger and pity to destroy his objectivity. To use it in argument for a bill could only have allowed the opponents of it-and they are many and powerful-to have fuel against us.”

“We don’t think the labeling of patent medicines was the issue for which Dr. Lambourn was murdered.” Rathbone cleared his throat. He realized with surprise that his hands-which he was keeping carefully at his sides, out of sight-were clenched so hard that they ached.