such lunatics and hang them. No one, decent or indecent, was safe until they did.
Monk had just that day received a summons from Barclay Herne, junior government minister and brother- in-law of the late Joel Lambourn. He wished to speak to Monk on the matter of Zenia Gadney’s death, and requested that Monk be good enough to call upon him in his offices so that they might speak discreetly. Monk was curious to know what Barclay Herne might have to say. Surely it could only concern Joel Lambourn. What other connection could Herne possibly have with Zenia Gadney?
Monk caught a hansom. After half an hour’s slow progress through the wet, busy streets of government buildings, he alighted outside Herne’s offices in Northumberland Avenue. He was shown into a comfortably furnished waiting room, then spent fifteen minutes standing impatiently, wondering what Herne wanted.
When he eventually appeared, Monk was surprised. He had expected someone more impressive, less genial-at least superficially. Herne was barely average height, stocky in build, and with a face that was, at first glance, very ordinary. Only when he closed the door behind himself and stepped forward, hand held out, did that impression alter. His smile changed his whole aspect. His teeth were strong and very white, and there was a bright intelligence in his eyes.
He shook Monk’s hand with a grasp so firm it bordered on being painful. It was a tangible intimation of the man’s power.
“Thank you,” he said with every aspect of sincerity. “I appreciate your time. A little early for whisky.” He shrugged. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Monk would have loved a hot drink after the long, cold ride, but he did not want to waste time with formalities. “What can I do for you, Mr. Herne?”
Herne gestured to Monk to sit down in front of a good, brisk fire, and immediately placed himself in the green leather armchair opposite.
“Rather a disturbing situation,” he said ruefully. “It has come to my notice that you are looking into the death of my late brother-in-law, somewhat further than has already been done. Is that really necessary? My wife puts on a very brave attitude, but as you may imagine, it is most unpleasant for her. Are you married, Mr. Monk?”
“Yes.” Monk pictured Amity Herne’s cool, totally composed face, and agreed with her husband that if she was indeed distressed, she hid it remarkably well. But he chose his words carefully. “And if my wife were to sustain such a loss, I would be proud of her if she could keep so dignified a composure.”
Herne nodded. “I am, I am indeed. But I still would greatly prefer it if we might offer whatever assistance we can now, and have the matter settled as soon as possible. Poor Joel was …” He gave the slightest shrug and lowered his voice a little before continuing. “… less settled in his mind than others seem to believe. One does not tell every Tom, Dick, and Harry of one’s family difficulties. It is natural to try to protect … you understand?”
“Of course.” Monk was curious to know what it really was that Herne wanted. He found it hard to believe that it was merely to avoid Monk distressing his wife with further questions. Monk hadn’t even considered returning to speak to Amity; he doubted she would say anything different from her original statement: that Dinah was naïve as to Lambourn’s weaknesses, and perhaps the pressure of her idealistic view of him had been difficult for him to uphold.
Herne seemed to be finding it hard to choose the right words himself. When he finally looked up at Monk he had an expression of candor.
“Some of our relationships were a little difficult,” he confided. “When my wife and I were first married we lived in Scotland. To be honest we hardly ever saw Joel and Dinah. My wife was not close to Lambourn. There were several years between them so they grew up separately.”
Monk waited.
Herne was tense. His hands were rigid so that his knuckles shone white. “It is only recently that I myself began to appreciate that Joel was a far more complicated person than he appeared to be to his friends and admirers. Oh, he was certainly charming, in a very quiet way. He had a phenomenal memory and could be most entertaining with bits and pieces of unusual information.” He smiled uncomfortably, as if it were some kind of apology. “And of course jokes. Not the sort you laugh loudly at, more quiet jests in amusement at the absurdity of life.” He stopped again. “He was very easy to like.”
Monk drew in a breath to ask him what this had to do with either Joel’s or Zenia’s deaths, but then changed his mind. He might learn more if he allowed Herne simply to ramble a little longer.
Then suddenly Herne looked very directly at Monk. “But he was not the man poor Dinah chose to see him as.” He lowered his voice. “He had a lonely, much darker side,” he confided. “I knew he had this woman he kept in Limehouse. He visited her frequently. I don’t know exactly when, or how often. I’m sure you will understand that I preferred not to. That was some ugly corner of his nature I would honestly have been happier not to know about.” He made a slight gesture of distaste, perhaps for what he imagined of Lambourn, or possibly only for the fact that he had unintentionally learned more of another man’s private life than he wished to.
“How did you find out, Mr. Herne?” Monk asked.
Herne looked rueful. “It was something Dinah said, actually. I only realized the implication afterward. It was really rather embarrassing.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Joel always seemed so … unimaginative-rather staid, in fact. I couldn’t even picture him with a middle-aged whore in the backstreets of a place like West India Dock Road.” He frowned. “But since the poor man died before this unfortunate creature was killed, he couldn’t possibly have been implicated in the horror. I can only presume she became desperate for money, and because he had looked after her for so long, she had lost her sense of self-preservation and become careless.”
Monk was inclined to think the same thing, but he waited for Herne to complete what he wanted to say.
“My family …” Herne seemed to be finding it difficult to ask. “I would appreciate it very much if you did not publicly make any connection between Joel and this woman. It is hard enough for Dinah that she has to be aware of his … weakness, and, God help us, deal with his professional failure and his suicide. And of course for my wife; they were not close, but he was still her brother. Please … don’t make his connection with this woman public. It can have no bearing on her murder.”
Monk did not have to weigh it in his mind. “If it has nothing to do with convicting her killer, then we would have no reason to mention Dr. Lambourn,” he answered.
Herne smiled and appeared at last to relax. “Thank you. I … we are greatly obliged to you. It’s been hard for all of us, but most especially Dinah. She is a … a very emotional woman.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Thank you,” he repeated.
It was only after Monk had left the office and was in a hansom on his way back to the River Police Station at Wapping, stuck in heavy traffic where the Strand becomes Fleet Street, that he realized exactly what Barclay Herne had told him. Dinah Lambourn had admitted that she was aware that her husband had an interest in another woman, but she had deliberately chosen to know no more of it than that. She had told him that she did not know where he went, or the woman’s name.
Herne had told Monk that he had learned of the affair from Dinah, and then gone on to speak not just of Limehouse in general, but quite specifically of the West India Dock Road, which was a matter of yards from where Zenia Gadney had lived. Unintentionally, he had betrayed that Dinah knew exactly where Zenia Gadney lived, and thus he had exposed Dinah’s lie.
The thought was repulsive. He tried to shut it out of his mind, but his imagination raced, painting picture after picture. Dinah had loved Lambourn almost obsessively. She had thought too well of him, set him on a pedestal that perhaps no man could remain on. Everyone has weaknesses, things over which they stumble. To ignore that, or deny it, places a burden too heavy to carry from day to day.
Love accepts the scars and the blemishes as well as the beautiful. Sooner or later the weight of impossible expectation produces evasions: perhaps only small ones to begin with, then larger ones, as the burden grows heavier The hansom was barely moving in the traffic. It was raining harder now. Monk could see the drops bouncing up from the road, and the water swirling in the gutters. Women’s skirts were sodden. Men jostled one another, umbrellas held high.
Had Dinah felt as if Joel had betrayed her? She had made an idol of him, only to discover he had feet of material even less pure than clay. Had the murder of Zenia Gadney been her revenge on a fallen god?
Or maybe that was complete nonsense? He hoped so. He wanted profoundly to be wrong. He had liked Dinah, even admired her. But it was inescapable that he must now find out.
