taken. The street was an area of quiet, solid houses for people who lived hardworking and private lives. He hated doing this, but he knew there was no choice so he did not hesitate.
The door was opened by a parlor maid dressed in a plain, stiff blouse and skirt and a crisp white apron. She looked at him inquiringly. “Yes, sir?”
He introduced himself and asked if he might speak to Mrs. Lambourn. He apologized for intruding on her privacy, and quickly mentioned that it was a matter of importance, or he would not have come.
He was shown to a pale green morning room overlooking the street. The curtains were half drawn, leaving the chairs in shadow and one warm patch of sunlight on the patterned carpet. There was no fire lit, but it was likely that Mrs. Lambourn was not receiving many visitors at the moment.
Monk thanked the maid. When she had gone and the door was closed, he looked around the room. The walls were lined with bookcases, all of them full. He walked over to read the titles. They covered all sorts of subjects, not merely medical texts and histories, but general British history, Chinese history (which he had not expected to see), and some very recent texts on the modern history of the United States of America.
On the opposite wall he found philosophies, the complete works of Shakespeare, Milton’s
He was still looking at them when Dinah Lambourn came in. The slight sound of her closing the door startled him and he turned to face her.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You have a most interesting selection of books!”
“My husband’s,” she said quietly.
Under normal circumstances she would have been a striking woman. She was tall, and had high cheekbones and a strong face, which now looked vulnerable, almost bruised with grief. She wore black unrelieved by any jewelry at all. Her rich, dark brown hair was the only color about her, apart from the dark blue hue of her eyes.
Her sadness was so palpable Monk felt a stab of guilt again for having come to her with such a wretched question to ask. What sort of a man had Joel Lambourn been that he could have left a woman like this and gone all the way across the river and west to the Limehouse area to find a drab woman like Zenia Gadney? Was he weak, and Dinah overpowered his dull personality? Did he fail to answer her needs, emotionally or physically, and he wanted some plain, ordinary woman who asked nothing of him? Or perhaps who dared not criticize?
Or did he have a darker side that he had not wanted Dinah to know of?
She was waiting for Monk to explain himself. How could he tell why he had come and cause her the least pain possible? And yet he must learn the truth.
“Did you know a woman named Zenia Gadney, who lived in Copenhagen Place, in Limehouse?” he asked quietly.
She blinked, as if the question puzzled her. She stood still for several moments, as though searching her memory. “No, the name is not familiar,” she said at last. “But you said ’did I know.’ Has something happened to her?”
“I’m afraid it has. This is unpleasant, Mrs. Lambourn. Perhaps you would prefer to sit down.” He said it in a tone that made it more a request than merely a suggestion.
She complied, slowly, her face going even paler, her eyes fixed on his. “How does that concern me?” Her voice trembled.
“I regret to tell you that she is dead,” he answered.
“I’m sorry.” It was a quiet murmur, but conveyed a feeling that went far deeper than mere good manners would require.
“But you said you didn’t know her,” he responded, already a chill touching him.
“What has that to do with it?” She lifted her chin a little. “I am still sorry that she is dead. Why do you come here? Limehouse is miles away, and the other side of the river. I know nothing about it.”
“I believe your husband knew her.”
Her grief almost slipped out of control. “My husband is dead, Mr. Monk,” she said huskily. “And I have never met Mrs.… Gadney.”
“I know your husband is dead, Mrs. Lambourn, and I am deeply sorry for that.” He wanted to express condolences for what he was about to add to her grief, but it seemed shallow in the circumstances. “Those I spoke to said he was a remarkably fine man,” he went on. “However, it seems that he knew Mrs. Gadney quite well, and over a long period of time.”
She had to clear her throat before she could force herself to speak. Her slender white hands were locked around each other in her lap.
“What are you implying, Mr. Monk? When did this Mrs. Gadney die, and how? It must’ve been serious; if you came here despite the fact that you knew my husband has been dead for some little time?”
“It appears that your husband met with Mrs. Gadney in Limehouse at least once a month,” he replied. He watched her face for shock, disgust, defensiveness, but he saw only grief that he was certain of. There were other emotions there as well, but he could not read them.
“When did she die, and of what cause?” she asked very quietly.
“Nearly a week ago. She was murdered.”
Her eyes widened. “Murdered?” She could hardly say the word. Her tongue stumbled and there was horror in her eyes.
“Yes.” He felt brutal. “You may have heard word of it, by the papers. There was a woman killed and her body mutilated, near Limehouse Pier.”
“No. I had not heard.” Dinah Lambourn was now so pale he was afraid she might faint.
“Would you like me to ring for your maid, Mrs. Lambourn?” he offered. “She could bring water, perhaps smelling salts. I am afraid I have brought very ugly news for you. I’m sorry.”
“I shall … be all right.” She forced herself to sit more upright, but it was clearly an effort. Her voice wavered. “Please say whatever it is you have to say.”
“You did not know her?” Monk asked again.
She evaded the answer. “Do you know who did this thing?” she asked instead.
“No, not yet.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “But you think I can help you?”
“Possibly. So far Dr. Lambourn seems to have been her only friend. And judging by the patterns of her expenditure in the local shops, she seems to have had money each time after he visited her. Quite often she paid her bills then.” He left the implication in the air.
“I see.” Mrs. Lambourn folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. She had long fingers with elegant nails. Her skin was unblemished.
“Tell me something about Dr. Lambourn,” he requested. He wanted to keep her talking to make some judgment about what kind of woman she was. He still was not sure whether he believed that she had not known Zenia Gadney. And was she still so numb with grief that she had no curiosity about the other woman who had held so much of her husband’s loyalty and attention-not to mention his money?
She spoke quietly, as if remembering for herself rather than informing Monk. He had the sudden, complete conviction that she did not expect to be believed. She never once looked up at him in any attempt to persuade.
“He was a gentle man,” she began, struggling to find the words at once large enough and precise enough to convey what she saw in her own mind. “He never lost his temper with me, or with our daughters, even when they were young, and noisy.” She smiled briefly, but it vanished as she controlled her emotions with an obvious effort. “He was patient with people who were genuinely not very clever. And compared with him, that was very many. But he couldn’t abide liars. He was quite stern with the girls if they lied to him.” She shook her head slightly. “It only happened about twice. They loved him very much.”
Outside in the street a carriage passed, the sound of it barely penetrating the quiet room.
Monk allowed a few moments before prompting her to continue.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I still keep expecting to hear his step. That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I know he’s dead. Every inch of my body knows it, every thought in my mind is filled with it. And yet when I go to sleep I forget, and in the morning I wake up, and for a second it is as if he hasn’t gone. Then I remember again.”
