He ate dinner alone, and without enjoyment. He had at last faced the fact that he did not want Margaret back, and that was a bitter knowledge. There was no ease between them, and now, not even any kindness. What he wished was that it could all have been different.
Had he been lacking in tenderness or understanding? He had not seen it that way. He had sincerely defended Arthur Ballinger to the utmost of his ability. The man had been found guilty because he was guilty. At the end Ballinger himself had admitted it.
That memory took his mind back to the photographs again. His stomach knotted and he felt as if a shadow had passed over him. Perhaps the evening was colder than he had thought. The fire burned in the grate but its warmth did not reach him.
He was sitting wondering if there was any purpose in asking one of the servants to fill the coal box so he could stoke the fire high, when a much larger thought occurred to him. Should he remain in this house at all? It was a home for two people at least. And he felt another strangely sharp stab inside him. Had he wanted children? Had he assumed that naturally, eventually, there would be?
Thank God there had not been any. That loss would have been far more difficult to bear. Or perhaps Margaret would have stayed, for the child, and they would have lived in icy civility with each other. What death of all happiness!
Or would Margaret have been different with a child? Would it at last have separated her from the previous generation and turned her fierce protectiveness toward her family of the present and future?
Rathbone was still contemplating this when Ardmore came in and told him that Monk was in the hall.
Rathbone was surprisingly pleased to hear that, in spite of the fact that it was after ten o’clock.
“Send him in, Ardmore. And fetch the port, will you? I don’t think he’ll want brandy. Maybe a little cheese?”
“Yes, Sir Oliver.” Ardmore went out with a half-concealed smile.
Monk came in a moment later and closed the door. He looked tired and unusually grim. His hair was wet from the rain outside and, from the way he looked at the fire, he was cold.
Rathbone felt his momentary happiness evaporate. He indicated the chair on the other side of the fireplace and sat down himself.
“Something is wrong?” he asked.
Monk eased himself into a comfortable position. “I arrested a woman today. She asked me to help her get a good lawyer to represent her. Specifically, she asked me to get you.”
Rathbone’s interest was piqued. “If you arrested her then I assume you believe her guilty? Of what, exactly?”
Monk’s face tightened. “Killing then eviscerating the woman whose corpse we found on Limehouse Pier a couple of weeks ago.”
Rathbone froze. He stared at Monk to see if he could possibly be serious. Nothing in his face suggested levity of any sort. Rathbone sat up a little straighter, his hands laced in front of him. “I think you’d better tell me in rather more detail, and from the beginning, please.”
Monk related the discovery of the body near the pier, describing it only briefly. Even though he had seen the headlines, Rathbone still found his stomach churning. He was glad when Ardmore brought in the port, and Monk too was happy to take a glass. The rich warmth of it was comforting, even if nothing could wipe the images of that morning out of his mind, the winter sunrise over the river and the hideous discovery of Zenia’s body.
“You identified her?” he asked, watching Monk’s face.
“A small-time prostitute in her forties, with one client,” Monk replied. “It seems he kept her with sufficient generosity that she could survive on that money alone. She lived very quietly, very modestly, in Copenhagen Place, which is in Limehouse just beyond the Britannia Bridge.”
“Sounds more like a mistress than a prostitute,” Rathbone commented. “Is it the wife you’ve arrested?” It seemed like the obvious conclusion.
“Widow,” Monk corrected him.
Rathbone was startled. “Did the dead woman kill the husband?”
“Why on earth would she do that? His death left her destitute,” Monk pointed out.
“A quarrel?” Rathbone suggested. “Someone giving her a better offer, but he wouldn’t let her go? Who knows? Did he die of natural causes?”
“No. Suicide-apparently.”
Rathbone leaned forward a little farther, more interested now. “Apparently? You doubt it? His wife killed him, do you think?”
“No, she adored him, and now she is without means as well, except what he left. Not quite sure what that is yet, but probably not inconsiderable.” He stopped. “Actually it’s far more complicated than that. I have no idea what lay ahead for him. He had suffered a degree of professional disgrace. His prospects may not have been as good as before. On the other hand, he was determined to fight his way back, according to his wife.”
Rathbone was intrigued. The story was full of passion, violence, and total inconsistency.
“Monk, there’s something missing in this, something crucial that you are not telling me. Stop playacting and give me all of it,” he demanded.
“The man was Dr. Joel Lambourn,” Monk replied.
Rathbone was stunned. He knew the name. The man had been highly respected. More than once he had even been called as an expert witness in court regarding certain medical facts. Rathbone could picture him in his mind: grave, softly spoken, but with the kind of authority that would not be shaken by even the most stringent cross-examination.
“
“I don’t think there are two,” Monk answered. “It is his wife, Dinah, who appears to have killed Zenia Gadney in revenge for her part in Lambourn’s suicide. Dinah is convinced that the research that was touted as a failure was actually totally correct, and that Lambourn was innocent of professional error. She also-” He stopped abruptly, his face tight with anxiety. “It would be better if you went to see her yourself rather than my telling you secondhand what she said, and its inconsistencies.”
Rathbone sat back in his chair, turning the matter over in his mind, very aware of Monk watching him, and the urgency of his emotions.
“Why are you so anxious about this, that you come to me at this time in the evening, rather than waiting to visit my chambers tomorrow?” he asked thoughtfully. “What is it that intrigues you so much? Is it pity for a widow who has been betrayed, bereaved, and now awaits trial and almost certainly the hangman? Is she handsome? Brave? And these are not idle questions, so give me the truth!”
“Yes, she’s handsome,” Monk said with a wry smile. “But I suppose the truth is that I’m not sure she’s guilty. The evidence is strong against her, and so far we’ve found no one else at all to suspect, not even a suggestion. There’s no other crime on the records like it, solved or unsolved. Limehouse is certainly a rough area, but Zenia Gadney had lived there for years without coming to any harm.”
“Years?”
“Fifteen or sixteen at least.”
“Supported by Joel Lambourn the entire time?” Rathbone said sharply. “That’s a lot of money going from his household to her. Did the wife know about this? I mean, clearly you think she did at the end, but when did she discover it?” Perhaps the case was not as commonplace, or as sordid, as it first appeared?
“Her story’s inconsistent,” Monk answered. “At first she denied her husband’s affair, then said she knew of it, but not the woman’s name or where she lived.”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “And she didn’t want to find out? A remarkably incurious woman! Most women would want, at the very least, to see the competition.”
“It is hardly competition in the ordinary sense,” Monk told him. “Dinah Lambourn is, in her own way, beautiful. But what is far more attractive than that, she is unusual, full of character, emotion, and a remarkable dignity. Zenia Gadney was pleasant, but as ordinary as a boiled potato.”
“Staple diet for most,” Rathbone observed drily. “Does the wife have children?”
“Two daughters. At present still at home with the housekeeper.”
Rathbone sighed. More victims of the tragedy. “I suppose I can go and speak to this woman, see what her account is. What does she say?”
