Monk did not bother to answer this time. He waited for Daventry to list that as well.
“Chloroform and morphine,” Daventry said. “But that’s not what matters the most. If your child is crying with toothache, or a bad stomach, which one are you going to give him: Godfrey’s Cordial, Street’s Infant Quietness, Winston’s Soothing Syrup, or Atkinson’s Infant Preservative? How much opium is in each of them, and what else is in them?” He shrugged. “You don’t know, do you? Neither does your average harassed mother who’s getting half the sleep she needs, and probably half the food, and maybe she can’t read well or understand figures, either. What would you say to having them regulated so she doesn’t have to worry about it?”
“Is that what they’re proposing?” Now Monk’s interest was sincere and sharp, almost as sharp as Daventry’s own.
“Part of it, yes.”
“And Lambourn was getting the facts for them?”
“Yes,” Daventry agreed, warming to it as he realized Monk’s understanding. “And on other things, but opium was the chief thing.”
“Why would anyone be against it?” Monk was puzzled.
“Lot of money in opium,” Daventry replied. “Start telling people what they can and can’t sell, you’ll get their backs up. Also it means the government knows about it all. Under the counter as well as over. People who sell opium-and you’d be surprised at who some of them are-are very happy to hear how many people’s lives are made easier by it, but not how many children die of overdoses, or how many people get dependent and then can’t do without it. They don’t want to be blamed for those unfortunate side effects.”
He waved his hands around to encompass everyone in general. “Nobody wants to remember the Opium Wars. You’d be surprised whose fortunes were built on the opium trade. Don’t want to rake all that up. Make yourself a lot of enemies.”
“Do you know this for yourself, or did Dr. Lambourn tell you?” Monk asked gently.
The blush burned hot up Daventry’s young face. “Dr. Lambourn told me most of it,” he replied, so quietly Monk barely heard him. “But I believe it. He never lied.”
“So far as you know …” Monk smiled to rob the words of some of their sting.
Daventry’s expression was bleak, but he did not argue.
“Why do you think he took his own life?” Monk asked.
Daventry’s face filled with a deep distress. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Do you know Mrs. Lambourn?”
“I’ve met her. Why?”
“She thinks he was murdered.”
Daventry’s eyes were brilliant. He caught his breath in sharply. “To hide his research? That would make sense. I can believe it. Are you going to find out who did it?” That was a very definite challenge, with all the sting of contempt if the answer were no.
“I’m going to find out if it’s so, first of all,” Monk told him. “Where is this research now?”
“The government people took it,” Daventry said simply.
“But you have copies, working notes, something?” Monk insisted.
“I haven’t.” Daventry shook his head. “There’s nothing here. I know because I’ve looked. If he kept it at home, they’ll have taken that, too. I told you, there’s a lot of money at stake-and a lot of people’s reputations as well.”
Several answers rose to Monk’s lips, but he did not make any of them. He could see in Daventry’s eyes that he did not know where Lambourn’s papers were, and he was even more distressed by it than Monk was.
“How did Dr. Lambourn take the government rejection of his research?” he asked instead. That was what he needed to know. Was that the reason Lambourn had taken his life? Was the disgrace deeper than Monk had at first assumed it to be? Was it not just this report, but his whole reputation in other fields that was ruined?
Daventry did not reply.
“Mr. Daventry? How did he take the rejection? How important was it to him?” Monk insisted.
Daventry’s expression hardened. “If he really took his own life over it, then something happened between the last time I saw him and that night,” he answered fiercely, his voice charged with emotion. “When he left here, he was determined to fight them all the way. He was certain his facts were right and that a pharmaceutical act is absolutely necessary. I don’t know what happened. I can’t think of anything anyone could say to him that would have made it different.”
“Could he have found a mistake in his figures that altered their validity?” Monk suggested.
“I don’t see how.” Daventry shook his head. “But if he really had been wrong, he’d have admitted it. He wouldn’t have gone out to One Tree Hill and killed himself! He just wasn’t that sort of man.”
“I’m afraid he wasn’t nearly as good as he believed himself to be,” one of Lambourn’s more senior assistants said unhappily, half an hour later. Nailsworth was a good-looking young man, and very confident. He smiled at Monk with a down-curved twist to his lips as if in apology. He shrugged. “He formed a theory and then looked for evidence to prove it, ignoring anything that called it into question.” He smiled again, too easily. “Really, he should have known better. He used to be excellent. Perhaps he had a health difficulty we weren’t aware of?”
Monk looked at the man with dislike. “Yes,” he agreed a trifle acidly. “It is totally unscientific, in fact not even strictly honest, to create your theory and then look only at the facts that fit it. Even worse to bend the facts to make them fit, and then claim to have been impartial.”
Monk was being sarcastic and expected a quick defense, but he was disappointed.
Nailsworth nodded. “I see you understand. I suppose there’s a certain logical pattern to solving crimes as well.”
“Indeed.” Monk was unexpectedly angry. “Perhaps you would guide me through the logical steps you followed before deciding that Dr. Lambourn’s research was in error, and that he was unable to accept that fact.”
“Well, it’s tragically clear that he was unable to accept his own failure,” Nailsworth said tartly. “Unfortunately one can hardly avoid that conclusion!”
Monk stopped him. “Undeniably he is dead. But please start at the beginning, not at the end.” His smile was more a baring of the teeth. “As you would if you were creating a theory yourself. Facts first.”
Nailsworth’s eyes were hard and bright. “Dr. Lambourn collected a great number of facts and figures about the sale of opium in different parts of the country and wrote them up in a report,” he said icily. “The government compared them with other information they had, from several other sources, and found that Lambourn was in error in too many instances, and that his conclusions were flawed. They rejected his report and he took it very hard. It questioned his standing as a scientist and as a doctor. For some reason this whole issue of opium was one he took far too personally. He staked his reputation in it, and lost. Ending in the one fact you don’t dispute, he is now dead, having cut his own wrists.”
His eyes never moved from Monk’s face. “I’m sorry. He was a very agreeable man, and I think he had every intention of being honest, but he allowed his emotions to govern his thought.” He sounded anything but sorry. There was condescension perhaps, but not grief. Monk wondered what Lambourn had done to sting Nailsworth’s vanity so deeply.
“His recommendations were both restrictive and completely unnecessary,” Nailsworth continued. “ ‘Overblown’ was the word they used about his results. He was humiliated, and he couldn’t face it. Now if you have any compassion at all for his family, you’ll leave the matter alone.”
Monk watched and listened. Nailsworth was deeply angry, but the sharp edge in his voice betrayed something else. Something he dared not show? Some private concern over the opium issue? Jeopardy to his future career, should he speak out of turn?
As Monk thanked him and walked away, he thought it more likely to be the latter. Would Nailsworth have been in danger had he come forward as sympathetic to Dr. Lambourn?
Or, Monk wondered, was he now twisting the facts about Nailsworth to fit a theory of his own, already adopted, out of a wish for Dinah Lambourn to have some shred of comfort? Perhaps he was as guilty as any of them of selecting and interpreting the facts to fit the outcome he wanted.
