Monk bit his lip. “I think I’ll leave her to tell you that.”
“So bad?” Rathbone asked.
“Worse.” Monk drank the last of his port. “Worse as to what she thinks happened to Lambourn, and who killed Zenia Gadney and why. But at least listen to her, Oliver. Make your own judgments. Don’t go on mine.”
Rathbone stood up also. “I would welcome a challenge, as long as it’s not absurd.”
“It might be absurd,” Monk answered him. “It certainly might be.”
The next morning was cold. Winter was closing in.
Rathbone heard the prison door clang shut, steel on stone, and looked at the woman who stood alone in the cell in front of him. There was a table in the center of the floor with a chair on either side; apart from that, nothing at all.
“I am Oliver Rathbone,” he said. “Mr. Monk said you would like to see me.” He looked at her with curiosity. Monk had said she was handsome, but that hardly conveyed the degree of individuality in her face or her bearing. She was tall, within an inch or two of Rathbone’s own height, and the way she carried herself, even here in this wretched place, gave her a dignity that was remarkable, as Monk had claimed. She was not truly beautiful in a classical sense-maybe there was too much character in her face, the mouth too generous-but there was charm, a power, even a rare kind of balance that was unusually pleasing.
“Dinah Lambourn,” she replied. “Thank you for coming so soon. I am afraid I am in very deep trouble and I need someone to speak for me.”
He gestured for her to be seated, and when she was, he sat in the hard-backed wooden chair opposite her.
“Monk told me some of what has happened,” he began. “Before I look further into it myself, or hear what the police have to say, I would like you to tell me yourself. I have heard your husband’s name, and know his reputation for professional skill. I even heard him testify once, and could not shake him.” He smiled very slightly to assure her that the memory was a pleasant one. “You do not need to fill in that background for me. Begin with what you know of Zenia Gadney, and how you learned it, and perhaps also with the last few weeks of your husband’s life, as you think it may be relevant.”
She nodded slowly, as if absorbing the information and deciding how to tell her story. “It is very relevant,” she said in a low voice. “In fact it is the heart of all this. The government is planning to pass an act to regulate the labeling and the sale of opium, which is presently available just about anywhere. You can buy it at dozens of small shops on any high street. It is in scores of patent medicines, in whatever amount the manufacturer cares to use. There is no label on it to tell the user the strength, what it is mixed with, or what would be an appropriate dose, or a dangerous one.” She stopped, searching his face to make certain he was following her.
“Your husband’s part in this?” he prompted.
“Gathering research to make sure the bill passes. There is very heavy opposition to it, backed by those who make a fortune from selling opium as it is presently permitted,” she replied.
“I see. Please go on.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Joel worked very hard indeed to gather facts and figures, to verify them by checking and rechecking, visiting individual people and hearing stories. The more he learned, the worse the picture seemed to be. He came home almost in tears sometimes, having heard stories of babies dying. He was not a sentimental man, but so many unnecessary deaths distressed him profoundly.” Her face reflected her grief of the memory. “None of it was malice; it was all complete ignorance of what they were using. Just ordinary people: frightened, hurting, perhaps exhausted and at their wits’ end, desperate for anything to ease the pain-their own, or that of someone they loved.”
Rathbone began to see the outline of something far larger than he had imagined, and he suddenly felt absurdly privileged by his own physical well-being.
“Dr. Lambourn presented a report to the government?” he deduced. It was obvious, apart from what Monk had told him, but he must be careful not to leap to conclusions, or to put words in her mouth.
“Yes. And they rejected it.” Clearly she still found it difficult to acknowledge. Monk had been right in his estimate of her loyalty to her husband.
“On what grounds?”
“They said incompetence, extreme bias toward his own opinions.” Her voice caught and she had trouble repeating the words. “They refused to accept his facts. He said it was because his facts disagreed with their financial interests.”
“The financial interests of those in the government?” he clarified. He could see that she believed absolutely what she was saying, but it did sound as if it could well have been bias.
She heard the inflection in his voice. Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “The interests of the government commission, of which Sinden Bawtry is the head and my brother-in-law, Barclay Herne, is a member.” Now her bitterness was undisguised. “There is a strong faction in the government who believe that the bill would make opium inaccessible to much of the poorer part of the general public, and as such be highly discriminatory. And of course to measure and label accurately would cost a lot. It would reduce profit on each bottle or packet sold. Fortunes rest on that. All part of the legacy of the Opium Wars.”
She leaned forward earnestly, her hands on the scarred table between them. “There is a great deal we don’t speak of, Sir Oliver, painful things that many people are desperate to conceal. No one likes to have to admit that things their country has done are shameful. Joel was as patriotic as the next person but he did not deny the truth, however horrible it is.”
Rathbone was growing impatient. “What has this to do with the murder of Zenia Gadney, Mrs. Lambourn?”
She flinched. “Joel was found dead two months … two months before Mrs. Gadney was killed.” She swallowed as if there were something in her throat close to choking her. “He was sitting alone on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park. He had taken quite a heavy dose of opium, and …” Again she found it difficult to force the words through her lips. “His wrists were cut so he had bled to death. They said it was suicide, because of his professional failure regarding the report, and the government’s rejection of it. They were very damning of his ability.”
Now she was speaking more rapidly, as if to say it all and get it finished. “They said he was overemotional and incompetent. That he confused personal tragedies with genuine assessment of facts. They … they made him sound silly … amateurish.” She blinked away tears but they spilled over her cheeks. “It hurt him badly, but he was not suicidal! I know you will think I am saying that, believing it, because I loved him, but it is true. He had every intention of fighting them and proving that he was right. He cared about the issue so much he would never have given up.
“In the last few days before his death I found him working in his study at three and four in the morning, white-faced with exhaustion. I told him to come to bed, I begged him, but he said that after what he had heard, his nightmares were worse than any weariness he could feel. Sir Oliver, he would never have killed himself. He would see it as a betrayal of those he was entrusted to help.”
Rathbone hated having to ask her, but he could not defend her without knowing the truth-and, whatever the past, whatever the truth of the opium issue, defending her was what he was entrusted with. It would be better to hurt her now than in court, where the damage would be public and almost certainly irrecoverable.
“If that is so, then I agree,” he said gently. “The whole issue of the report’s rejection was no reason for him to have taken his own life. Which forces me to ask: What was the reason? The prosecution is possibly going to agree with you that he was willing to fight the government, but that his affair with Zenia Gadney came to the surface in some way. Perhaps she threatened to expose him-”
“That’s absurd,” she said sharply. “She hadn’t done so in fifteen years. Why on earth would she have suddenly chosen that time? If he were dead, she would have no income and be driven to seek money on the streets, which is both difficult for a woman her age, and-as has been made tragically clear-dangerous!”
“They will argue that she did not realize that,” he said, watching her face.
Her response was instant. “She was an ordinary woman, not a fool! She lived in Limehouse. She knew people there, shopped there, walked the streets to get wherever she was going,” she said derisively. “Do you think she had no idea how dangerous it was?”
“Then she did not realize that Dr. Lambourn might later take his own life rather than pay her more money,” he responded.
