Anne Perry: A Sunless Sea

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she said calmly.

“But in the last ten years or so you both lived in London, and therefore were able to visit far more frequently?”

“Yes. Perhaps once a month or so,” she agreed.

“And of course you were aware of his marriage to Zenia Gadney?”

“Yes. But I have been forced to be discreet about it, for reasons that must be obvious to you.”

“Of course. But you knew, and you were aware that Dinah Lambourn also knew?” he asked, forcing himself to be polite, even gentle.

“Yes. I have said as much.”

“And your brother, he knew where Zenia lived once they were no longer … together?”

“Yes.” She looked puzzled and a trifle irritated.

Rathbone smiled. “Had he ever mentioned the address to you?”

She hesitated. “Not … not specifically, that I recall.”

“Generally? For example, that it was in the Limehouse area?”

“I …” She gave a slight shrug. “I am not certain.”

“I ask because it appears that Dinah knew Zenia’s whereabouts closely enough to ask for her in Copenhagen Place. She did not wander around searching half London for her; she went almost immediately to the right street.”

“Then Joel must have mentioned it,” Amity replied. “You appear to have answered your own question, sir.”

“It appears that he made no secret of Zenia’s whereabouts,” Rathbone agreed. “Are you certain you were not aware? Or your husband, perhaps? Might your brother have confided in your husband, possibly in case something should happen to him, and he would need someone he could rely on to take care of Zenia if he were not able to?”

Amity drew in her breath sharply, as if some terrible thought had suddenly come into her mind. She gazed at Rathbone in horror.

“He … he might’ve.” She licked her lips to moisten them. Her hands tightened on the railing in front of her.

The tension in the courtroom crackled like the air before a thunderstorm. Every single one of the jurors was staring at Amity.

“But he was dining at the Atheneum on the night your brother was killed,” Rathbone went on.

“Yes. Yes, any number of gentlemen will testify to that,” she agreed, her voice a little husky.

“Just so. And on the night Zenia Gadney was killed?” he asked.

“I …” She bit her lip. Now she was trembling, but her eyes did not waver from his even for an instant. “I have no idea. He was not at home, that’s all I can say.”

Now there was rustle and movement everywhere. In the gallery people coughed and shifted position, each straining to move left or right so their view of the witness was uninterrupted. The jurors fidgeted.

Coniston was staring at Rathbone as if he had suddenly changed shape in front of his eyes.

“You don’t know where he was, Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone repeated.

“No …” Her voice wavered. She put her hand up to her mouth. She gulped, staring almost helplessly at Rathbone.

“Mrs. Herne-”

“No!” Her voice rose and she was shaking her head violently. “No. You cannot make me tell you any more. He is my husband.” She swiveled around in the witness box and pleaded with Pendock. “My lord, surely he cannot force me to speak against my husband, can he?”

It was the desperate cry of a wife in defense of the man to whom she had given her life and her loyalty, and it utterly condemned him.

Rathbone looked at the jurors. They were frozen in horror and sudden, appalling understanding. There was no doubt left anymore, only shock.

Then he swung round to the gallery and saw Barclay Herne, ashen-faced, eyes like black sockets in his head, trying to speak. But no words came.

On either side of him people moved away, grasping at coats and shawls, pulling them closer in case even a touch should contaminate them.

Pendock demanded order, his voice cracking a little.

Herne was on his feet, staring wildly as if seeking some rescue. “Bawtry!” he shouted desperately. “For God’s sake!”

Behind him, facing the judge and witness stand, Bawtry also rose to his feet, shaking his head as if in awful realization.

“I can’t help you,” he said in perfectly normal tones, but the sudden silence from the gallery made his voice audible.

Everyone was now staring at these two men, but no one could have missed seeing the doors swing open. Hester Monk came in, the gaunt figure of Alvar Doulting a step behind her.

Sinden Bawtry turned toward them as the sound of their entry caught his attention.

Doulting stared at Bawtry. Hester seemed to be half supporting him as he lifted one arm awkwardly to point at Bawtry.

“That’s him!” he said, gasping for breath. His body was shaking so badly he looked in danger of collapse. “That is the man who sold the opium and syringes to me, and to God knows how many others. I’ve watched too many of them die. Buried some of them in paupers’ graves. I’ll find one myself soon.”

The crowd erupted as pent-up terror and fury at last found release, people rising to their feet, crying out.

“Order!” Pendock shouted, also rising to his feet, his face scarlet.

But no one took any notice of him. The ushers tried to push their way through the crowds to help Bawtry, or at the very least to make sure he was not trampled.

Amity Herne, still in the witness stand, could do nothing. Her anguish was naked in her face. She cried out Bawtry’s name in a howl of despair, but it was hardly audible above the din, and no one listened to her or cared.

Coniston looked like a lost child, searching this way and that for something familiar to hold on to.

Pendock was still shouting for order. Gradually the noise subsided. Ushers had helped Bawtry out and stood guarding the doors. Hester eased Doulting into a seat at the back where people made ample room for him, sitting apart, as if his private hell were contagious.

At last Pendock had restored some kind of sanity and was able to continue.

“Sir Oliver!” Pendock said savagely. “Was that outburst contrived by you? Did you arrange for that … that appalling scene to take place?”

“No, my lord. I had no idea that Dr. Doulting would know by sight the man who has dug his grave, so to speak.” That was something less than the truth. At the time he had arranged it with Hester, he had expected Doulting to reveal Barclay Herne as both the seller and an addict.

Pendock started to speak again, and then changed his mind.

“Have you anything further to ask of Mrs. Herne?” he said instead.

“Yes, my lord, if you please,” Rathbone said humbly.

“Proceed.” Pendock barely lifted his hand, but the gesture was unmistakable.

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone turned to Amity, who was now looking as if she had heard the news of her own death. Her eyes were unfocused, her entire body sagging.

It was all up to him now. He must make it plain to the jury. Reasonable doubt was no longer the verdict he sought; it was a clear and ringing “not guilty.” What happened to Bawtry was up to a different jurisdiction, and would perhaps only happen on the stage of public opinion. Dinah Lambourn’s life, and Joel Lambourn’s reputation, were Rathbone’s responsibility. And maybe he would also achieve some measure of justice for Zenia Gadney.

“Mrs. Herne,” he began. The silence in court was absolute. “Mrs. Herne, you have heard the evidence making it seem highly likely that your brother, Joel Lambourn, was murdered by a woman he trusted, who arranged to meet with him on the night of his death? Together they walked up into Greenwich Park, he totally unsuspecting of any violence. On One Tree Hill they stopped. It is possible she somehow managed to inject him with a needle, but more likely she offered him a drink that was extremely heavily laced with opium. He became dizzy, then unconscious within a very short space of time. She then slit his wrists with a blade she had brought with her, leaving him to bleed to death alone in the dark.”