Petherton made no attempt to disguise his pain at the memory.
“No error, I’m afraid. It was I. I have already answered all the questions the police asked me at the time, and those of a gentleman from the government. Home Office, I believe.”
“I’m sure.” Monk now gave the explanation he had been planning. “I dare say you read of the very violent murder of the poor woman found on Limehouse Pier, at the beginning of this month?”
Petherton’s shock was transparent. “What on earth has that to do with Lambourn’s death? The poor man was gone long before then.”
“Lambourn’s widow has been arrested and charged with killing the woman,” Monk replied. “We are trying to keep down the public hysteria, in order to have some semblance of a fair trial.”
“Mrs. Lambourn?” Petherton shook his head in disbelief. “That’s preposterous! Why, in God’s name, would she do such a thing? You have to have made some hideous mistake.”
“Possibly,” Monk conceded, wondering if it really was possible, or if he was just mouthing conciliatory words. “Because of the nature of her likely defense, I am rechecking all the facts so they cannot be twisted to support a story that is not the truth.”
“And if it is the truth?” Petherton challenged.
“Then she may well be innocent, and we shall have to look further to find whoever butchered this poor woman,” Monk answered.
Petherton frowned. “Can you really believe any woman, never mind a civilized and dignified lady, could do such a thing to another of her own sex?” He looked at Monk as if he were some curiosity of nature, not quite human.
“I’ve been in the police for a long time,” Monk told him. “I can believe a lot of things that I wouldn’t have ten or fifteen years ago. Even so, I find it hard to believe it of Mrs. Lambourn. That is why I need to learn the details of the case for myself. Perhaps another explanation is possible.”
“I can only say what I have already said.” Petherton looked as if he wished very much that he could find the imagination or the courage to lie.
“Do you often walk your dog so early?” Monk asked him. “And is it usually to Greenwich Park that you go?”
“Quite often in the park,” Petherton answered. “Far more often than not. But to answer your first question, no, not usually so early. I could not sleep and it was a fine morning. I went a good hour earlier than is my habit.”
“And you usually go to One Tree Hill?”
“Not often. I wanted to think that day. A certain personal matter had been causing me concern. I wasn’t really paying much attention to where I was. I only became aware of my surroundings when Paddy-my dog-started to bark, and I was afraid he was bothering someone. It was an unusual sort of sound, as if he were troubled by something. Which of course he was. I ran after him and found him bristling, hackles raised, staring at a man sitting with his legs out in front of him, his back against the tree. He had lolled a bit to one side, as if he were asleep. Except, of course, he was dead.”
“Was that immediately clear?” Monk asked quickly.
“I …” Petherton hesitated, clearly thinking back with some distress. “I rather think I did know it right away. His face was very pale indeed, almost bloodless. He looked dreadful. And of course his wrists were scarlet with blood, and there was blood on the ground. I didn’t touch him at first. I was rather … shaken. When I gathered my wits I bent down and touched his forearm, above the slashes-”
“His sleeve was rolled up?” Monk interrupted.
“Yes. Yes, his shirtsleeve was quite high.”
“Jacket?”
“I … as I recall he had no jacket on. No, he definitely was in a shirt only. I touched his arm and the flesh was cold. His eyes were sunken. I could find no pulse at his neck. I didn’t try his wrists-the blood.” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t want to … to leave a mark where I … I admit, I didn’t want to put my fingers in his blood. It seemed not only repellent, but intrusive. The poor man had already reached the lowest hell a living person can. His despair should be treated with … with some decency.”
Monk nodded. “Certainly that was the right decision. And where was the knife?”
Petherton blinked. “I didn’t see it.”
“Wouldn’t it have been close to his hand?” Monk continued almost casually.
“It wasn’t.” Petherton shook his head. “Perhaps he had moved, and it was half under him?”
“Hidden by his jacket?”
“I told you, he didn’t have a jacket, just a shirt,” Petherton repeated.
“Were you wearing a jacket?”
“Yes, of course I was. It was October and early in the morning. Barely light. It was cold.” Petherton was now frowning and clearly troubled. “It doesn’t make complete sense, does it? Would a man intent on committing suicide walk half a mile, or more, in the cold, before dawn? I never thought of that before.” He chewed on his lip. “He must have been half out of his mind with despair over something … and yet he looked so peaceful, as if he had just sat down there against the tree and let it happen.” He stopped there and looked at Monk.
“He had taken a lot of opium,” Monk said, watching Petherton’s face. “That was probably why he looked so calm. He was probably all but insensible from it.”
“Then how did he climb that hill?” Petherton said immediately. “Or is that what you are saying-he took it once he got up there? Then he’d still want a jacket while he was walking. I wonder what happened to it.”
“Did you see the footprints of anyone else there?” Monk asked.
Petherton looked surprised. “I didn’t look. It was very early daylight. Only just enough to see by. You think someone was with him?”
“Well, as you point out, he surely would have worn a jacket, unless he went out early the previous evening, and didn’t intend to go so far,” Monk replied.
Petherton saw what he was leading to. “Or meant only to go for a short walk, and return home? As I remember, it was actually a very mild evening the previous day. It turned cold overnight. I was outside myself. Pottering in the garden until quite late.”
Monk changed his direction of approach.
“Did you see anything that could have had opium in it, or water to take a powder with?”
“No. I didn’t search his pockets!” Again the faint revulsion showed in his face.
“But could he have had a bottle or a vial in them?” Monk persisted.
“Not a bottle. A small vial in a trouser pocket, I suppose. What are you saying happened?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Petherton. That is what I need to find out. But for your own sake as well as that of the investigation, please do not discuss this with anyone. God knows, we have had sufficient tragedy already.” He said the words easily, but he felt a weight in his mind as he struggled to think of any answer but suicide, and failed to find one, in spite of the small anomalies they had just discussed. Was it even conceivable that Dinah had gone out after him, followed him up a path that perhaps he often took? Was it she who had found him and removed the knife and the vial to make the death seem more suspicious than it was?
Monk thanked Petherton again, and left him looking just as confused as he himself felt. He walked out into the fresh air and turned west toward the police station to look for Constable Watkins.
That proved to be far more difficult than he had expected. First he was mistakenly directed to Deptford, an awkward journey that took him over an hour, only to discover that Constable Watkins had already left and gone back to Greenwich.
In Greenwich, Watkins was involved in an investigation and Monk was told to wait. After an hour he asked again. With profuse apologies, the sergeant told him that Watkins had been called away and would not return until the following day. And no, he did not know where Watkins lived.
It was too late to find Dr. Wembley again, and until Monk had confirmed Petherton’s story with Watkins, there was no purpose anyway. He had wasted a whole day, and he went home angry and more sure than ever that he was being intentionally misled, although whether to protect Lambourn or to hide some secret, he did not know.
He was at the police station in Greenwich the next morning by half-past seven, much to the dismay of the
