“There is a case of yours that may have relevance to one of ours,” Monk answered. “I dare say you’ve heard of the woman who was murdered and mutilated on Limehouse Pier?”
“Good God, yes! The newspapers are full of it. Giving you chaps a hard time.” There was commiseration in both his face and his voice.
Monk decided to be frank about it. He judged Wembley would be offended by anything less.
“The only person we can find who knew the woman is unfortunately himself dead,” he began. “It seems he supported her financially. He was her only known client, and saw her regularly once a month.”
“She was a prostitute,” Wembley concluded. “One client only? That’s unusual. But if he’s dead already then he can’t have killed her. Isn’t it reasonable to assume she picked up someone else, and was unfortunate enough to run into a lunatic?”
“Yes, that’s a fair deduction,” Monk agreed. “My men are following that line of inquiry, from the little there is to go on. So far it’s a solitary case. No reports of anyone unusually violent or disturbed in the area. No other women attacked lately. No previous crimes similar enough to this one to assume it’s the same perpetrator.”
Wembley bit his lip. “Have to start somewhere, I suppose, but it does sound pretty violent for a first crime.”
“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The alternative is that it was someone she knew, and the hatred was personal.”
“Who the devil did the poor woman know to hate her enough to rip her entrails out?” Wembley’s face creased with revulsion. “And why in such an open place as the pier? Wouldn’t he risk being seen by any passing ferry, or lighterman?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Which all makes him sound more and more like a complete lunatic, someone possessed by a sudden, insane rage. Except he had the knife with him, or possibly an open razor. According to the surgeon, it was quite long, and very sharp indeed. If anyone saw them-which so far no one will admit to-then they took them for acquaintances, or if it was in the act, for a prostitute and client on the pier.”
“A bit unusual, isn’t it?” Wembley asked. “Why not an alley? There must be plenty more private places around there.”
“Perhaps she thought she was safe with him in such a visible place,” Monk replied.
Wembley pursed his lips. “Or he had some power over her. He could force her to go with him. God, what a mess!”
“Indeed.” Monk smiled bleakly. “And it becomes more complicated. The man who supported her was Dr. Joel Lambourn, who apparently took his own life in Greenwich Park, just over two months ago.”
Wembley took a deep breath, and let out a sigh. “A connection with him? That is a surprise. I suppose you’re certain?”
“Yes, there seems to be no doubt. Both his widow and his sister, Mrs. Herne, say that they were aware of the relationship. They may not have known the woman’s name, but they knew she existed.”
Wembley shook his head. “I … I really am amazed. He is the last man I would have expected to do such a thing.” He looked profoundly unhappy. “But then he is the last man I would have expected to commit suicide. So I have to grant that my judgment is pretty poor. You say Mrs. Lambourn knew about it?”
“She says so.”
“But you doubt it?” Wembley pressed.
Monk gave a faint smile. “I find my judgment floundering also. I’ve missed something crucial, I fear, because the situation, this relationship, his death-none of it seems to fit with what I hear of the man. Did you know Lambourn personally?”
“Yes, but not well.”
“But well enough to be surprised that he killed himself?”
There was no hesitation in Wembley’s voice. “Yes.”
“But you have no doubt that he did?” Monk persisted.
“Doubt?” Wembley was startled, then his eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that he didn’t?”
“Mrs. Lambourn is convinced he was murdered,” Monk replied. “But that may be because she cannot bear to accept that he wanted to die. I don’t think I could bear to believe that my wife would kill herself, and that I hadn’t even been aware that she was desperate, let alone suicidal. Could you?”
“No,” Wembley said immediately. “What did his sister say? Or is she in the same category?”
“Not at all.” Monk recalled Amity Herne’s utterly different face, voice, and even more her attitude and mind- set. It was distasteful to repeat her words. “She seemed to find no difficulty in believing he killed himself,” he replied. “She said he was a professional failure and something of a personal one as well. He could never live up to the perception of him that his wife held, and the strain of trying to do so, the pretense, finally overwhelmed him.”
“I have no idea about his personal life,” Wembley said with heat, as if he were offended by Amity’s words. “But professionally he was outstanding. He had one of the finest minds in his field. It’s true he held himself to a high standard. But I don’t believe he ever fell short of it, and he was certainly robust enough to deal with a degree of failure. Good heavens, man, there’s no doctor on earth who doesn’t deal with failure every week!”
He jerked his hands apart in a gesture of frustration. “People die; people fail to throw off a disabling disease. You do your best. You might solve every case, I suppose, but you certainly don’t prevent every crime!” It was something of an accusation. Monk’s implied criticism of Lambourn had obviously angered Wembley.
Monk found himself perversely pleased. “So you cannot believe that he killed himself over a sense of professional failure?”
Wembley’s face was tight and angry. “No, I cannot.”
“Then over what?”
“I don’t know!” He glared at Monk. “I am forced to go along with the evidence. He was found alone, in the early morning, in an out-of-the-way part of Greenwich Park. He had taken opium, enough to make him drowsy and lessen any physical pain and fear. He had slit his wrists and bled to death.”
Monk leaned forward a little. “How do you know he took the opium himself, and cut his own wrists?”
Wembley’s eyes widened and he leaned forward a little. “Are you suggesting that someone else did it, and left him there to die? Why, for God’s sake? And why wouldn’t he have fought back? He wasn’t a small or weak man, and there was no evidence he was bound or restrained. The opium in his body was considerable, but it would not render him insensible immediately. He must have acquiesced in what was going on.”
Monk’s mind raced. “But his wrists were cut. Could the injuries have hidden signs of having been bound?”
Wembley shook his head slowly. “They were cut on the inside, to get the artery. If they had been bound, the marks would be on the outside.”
Monk was not ready to give up. “Any other bruises?” he asked.
“None that I could see. Certainly nothing on his ankles.”
“His face?”
“Of course not. I could hardly have missed that!”
“What sort of hair did he have?”
“Gray, thinning on top a little. Why?” But Wembley had hesitated.
“And at the back?” Monk asked.
“Thick still. Are you thinking there may have been a bruise hidden by his hair?”
“Could there?”
Wembley took a long, slow breath and let it out in a sigh. “I didn’t think to look. It’s possible. But there was no blood. I would have seen that.”
“How did he take the opium?”
“I’ve no idea. What difference does it make?”
“Powder in a twist?” Monk asked. “And water to drink it down? Or a solution of some sort? Something like laudanum or some other patent medicine?”
“Why does it matter now?” Wembley spoke more slowly, his curiosity awakened.
“You can’t carry opium loose,” Monk pointed out. “And you can’t take powder without something to wash it down with. Laudanum would’ve been carried in a bottle.”
Wembley pursed his lips. “I saw no bottle, packet, or anything else. The police must have taken it away. I
