“I will find out either way, Mrs. Moulton,” he told her gravely. “It will take me a great deal longer than if you simply tell me, and of course it will involve questioning a number of other people. However, if that is what I am obliged to do, then I will. I find it distasteful as well. I have some regard, and a great deal of sympathy for Mrs. Lambourn, but circumstances leave me no choice. Will you tell me, or must I ask as many other people as it requires in order to find out?”
She was clearly distressed, and angry. Her eyes were sharp and bright, and the color a high pink in her cheeks. “Wherever Mrs. Lambourn said she was, then I have no doubt that it is the truth,” she answered icily.
Monk’s mind raced for a moment.
“She said you were at an art exhibition in Lewisham all afternoon, then had tea and discussed the work until early evening,” he lied. He felt terrible doing it, but he didn’t see another way to discern the truth.
“Then you know where she was,” Helena Moulton said with a tight smile. “Why are you bothering to question me about it?”
“So she was telling the truth?” he said very quietly, feeling a coldness creep up inside himself.
“Of course.” Helena was pale.
“Would you be prepared to testify to that in court, before a judge, if it should be necessary?” He felt brutal.
She gulped, and remained silent.
He rose to his feet. “Of course you won’t, because you were not with Mrs. Lambourn.”
“Yes, I was,” she whispered, but she was trembling.
“She said you were at a soirée, not an art exhibition, and not in Lewisham.” He shook his head. “You are a good friend, Mrs. Moulton, but this is beyond your ability to help.”
“I … I …” She clearly did not know what to say, and she was now also afraid for herself, and embarrassed.
“May I assume that you have no idea where Mrs. Lambourn was on that day?” he said more gently.
“Yes …” The word was almost inaudible, but she gave a tiny nod of her head.
“Thank you. There is no need to rise. The maid will show me out.”
She remained where she was, shivering and huddled into herself.
He returned to Lower Park Street. He now had no alternative but to arrest Dinah Lambourn. He could not imagine her attacking Zenia Gadney with such ferocity, to have hit her hard enough to kill her, and then disemboweled her there on the pier; but Dinah was quite a tall woman, and statuesquely built. She could have had a strength born of rage and despair. Zenia Gadney was several inches shorter and perhaps fifteen pounds lighter. It was possible.
The thought of it made him feel sick, and yet he could not deny the evidence. She had been seen in the area looking for Zenia, in a state of mounting anger. She had lied about where she had been. She, like anyone else, would have carving knives in her kitchen. Perhaps in irony she had even used one of Joel’s old open razors.
Above and beyond all else, she had a passionate and compulsive nature. Zenia Gadney had robbed her of what she held dearest, the center of her life financially and socially, but-far beyond that-emotionally. Lambourn’s love for her, and her belief in him, was the foundation of her own identity. Zenia Gadney had taken that from her. It appeared her need for revenge had obliterated everything else.
As he stood at the front door of the house in Lower Park Street, Monk tried to imagine what his own life would be if Hester had turned to someone else, made love with another man, lain in his arms and talked with him, laughed with him, shared her thoughts and her dreams and the intimateness of physical love. Would he want to kill that man? Even to eviscerate him?
He might.
The maid answered his knock and showed him to the withdrawing room. He stood, waiting for Dinah to come. He thought of her daughters, Marianne and Adah. Who would look after them now? What future would lie ahead for them, their father a suicide, their mother hanged for the terrible murder of his mistress?
He never got used to tragedies. The edges were never blunted. They cut to the bone always.
Dinah came into the room, walking very upright, her head high, and her face ashen white, as if she knew why he had returned.
“You weren’t with Mrs. Moulton,” Monk said quietly. “She was willing to lie for you. When I told her you had said you were together at the art exhibition in Lewisham, she agreed.” He shook his head slightly. “You were seen in Limehouse, specifically in Copenhagen Place, where Zenia Gadney lived, asking about her, and in a state close to hysteria.” He stopped because of the look of amazement in her face, almost stunned disbelief. For an instant he doubted his own knowledge. Could it be she was insane and had no idea what she had done?
“I didn’t kill her,” she said hoarsely. “I never even met her! If … if I can’t prove that, will they hang me?”
Should he lie? He wanted to. But the truth would be hideously clear soon enough. “Probably,” he replied. “Unless there is some extraordinary mitigating circumstance. I’m … sorry. I have no choice but to arrest you.”
She gulped, choked for breath, then swayed as if she might faint.
“I know …,” she whispered.
“Have you resident staff to care for your daughters until someone else can be informed? Perhaps Mrs. Herne?”
She gave a bitter little laugh, which ended in a sob. It was a moment before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak again.
“I have resident staff. You won’t need to call Mrs. Herne. I am ready to come with you. I would be obliged if we might go now. I do not like good-byes.”
“Then please call whoever you wish to pack nightclothes and toiletries for you,” he instructed. “It will be better than having me follow you upstairs.”
She colored faintly, then almost immediately was as ashen as before.
The woman who came in answer to the summons was elderly, gray-haired, and plump. She looked at Monk with loathing but accepted Dinah’s instructions to pack a small case for her, and to look after Adah and Marianne for as long as should prove necessary. The boot boy was sent to fetch a hansom cab and bring it to the front door.
Monk and Dinah rode down to Greenwich Pier for the ferry crossing in the dark. Then at the other side they took another hansom for the long chilly ride, cramped together as they jolted over the cobbles.
It was only then that she spoke.
“There is one way in which you can help me, Mr. Monk, and I think perhaps you will not refuse,” she said quietly.
“If I can.” He wished profoundly that he could, but he feared she was beyond anything he could do.
“I shall require the best possible lawyer to fight for me,” she said with surprising calm. “I did not kill Zenia Gadney, or anyone else. If there is someone who can help me to prove that, I believe it would be Sir Oliver Rathbone. I have heard that you know him. Is that true?”
He was startled. “Yes. I’ve known him for years. Do you wish me to ask him to see you?”
“Yes, please. I will pay anything I have-everything-if he will defend me. Will you please tell him so?”
“Yes, of course I will.” He had no idea whether Rathbone would take the case or not. It seemed hopeless. One thing he was certain of, money would not be the issue. “I will ask him this evening, if he is at home.”
She sighed very softly. “Thank you.” She seemed at last to relax a little against the back of the seat, exhausted of all strength, physical and emotional.
CHAPTER 9
Oliver Rathbone arrived home after an ambivalent conclusion to the trial he had been fighting. It was a partial victory. His client had been convicted of a lesser charge, thus carrying a considerably lighter sentence. It was what he believed was warranted. The man was guilty of more, even though there were mitigating circumstances. Rathbone might have achieved a better result for him, but it would not have been just.
