Agatha grimaced. “Not much, but I told ’im anyway. ’E listened.”
“Do you think he killed himself?” Hester said bluntly.
Agatha frowned. “He didn’t look to me like that kind of coward, but I s’pose yer never know. What difference does it make to you?”
Hester wondered how much truth to tell. She looked at Agatha more carefully, and decided not to lie at all. The whole question of opium in medicines was complicated by the abuse of it. Where was the dividing line between supplying a need, and profiteering? And had any of it to do with Joel Lambourn’s death, or Zenia Gadney’s?
“I think maybe he was murdered and it was made to look like suicide,” she said aloud to Agatha. “Some of it doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah? Like I said, why do you care?” Agatha repeated, looking at Hester narrowly.
“Because if he was murdered, then that makes more sense of Zenia Gadney’s murder on Limehouse Pier,” Hester explained.
Agatha shivered. “Since when did bloody lunatics make sense? What’s the matter wi’ you?”
“Mrs. Lambourn’s on trial for the murder of Zenia Gadney because the doctor visited Zenia every month and paid her rent and all her other expenses,” Hester replied with some heat.
“Stupid bitch,” Agatha said bitterly. “What the hell good did that do ’er?”
“None at all.”
“So why’d she do it then?” Agatha said, frowning, her eyes full of anger.
“Maybe she didn’t. She says the doctor didn’t kill himself, either.”
Agatha stared at her, a new comprehension in her face. “An’ you reckon as it was something to do with him asking about the opium?”
“Don’t you? There’s a lot of money in opium,” Hester pointed out.
“Bleedin’ right there is,” Agatha said with scathing savagery, as if some memory had returned to her with the thought. “Fortunes made in it, an’ reputations lost. Nobody wants to think o’ the Opium Wars now. Lot o’ secrets, most of ’em bloody an’ full o’ death an’ money.” She leaned forward a little. “You be careful,” she warned. “You’d be surprised what big families got rich on that an’ don’t say nothing about it now.”
“Did Dr. Lambourn know that?”
“Didn’t say, but he weren’t nobody’s fool-an’ neither am I. Don’t go messin’ around with opium sellers, lady, or you’ll maybe end up somewhere cut up in an alley, or floatin’ down the river, belly up. I’ll get yer what yer need. An’ I ain’t sayin’ that fer profit. Those bastards will ’ave yer for breakfast, but they won’t cross me.”
“Did Zenia know about all this?” Hester said quickly.
Agatha’s eyes widened. “How the ’ell do I know?”
“I’d wager good money you know a great deal about anything that interests you,” Hester retorted instantly.
Agatha laughed very quietly, almost under her breath.
“So I do, but madmen wot butcher women in’t my concern, less they’re after me. An’ if they do that …” She lifted up her big hands and deliberately cracked her knuckles. “An’ I got a big carving knife o’ me own, if I ’ave to use it! Mind your own business, lady. I’ll get yer opium for yer, best in the world. Fair price.”
“And the needle?” Hester asked tentatively.
Agatha blinked. “An’ the needle. But yer got ter be real careful with it!”
“I will.” Hester stood up. She was glad the weight of her skirt hid the fact that her knees were trembling a little. She kept her voice very steady. “Thank you.”
Agatha sighed and rolled her eyes, then suddenly she smiled, showing her big white teeth.
CHAPTER 14
Oliver Rathbone was eating his breakfast when the maid interrupted him to announce that Mrs. Monk had called to see him regarding a matter she said was urgent.
Rathbone put down his knife and fork and rose to his feet. “Ask her to come in.” He gestured toward his half-finished food. He had no taste for it anyway. He ate it at all simply because he knew he required the nourishment. “Thank you, I don’t need any more, but please bring fresh toast and tea for Mrs. Monk,” he requested.
“Yes, Sir Oliver,” the maid said obediently, and left, taking the plate with her.
A moment later Hester came in, her cheeks flushed from the wind.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, her eyes taking in the table and the obvious fact that she had interrupted. “I had to catch you before you left for court.”
“Sit down. More tea is coming.” He gestured toward the chair where Margaret used to sit, then, as she took it, he sat also. “You must have left home very early. Has something happened? I’m afraid I have no good news to tell you.”
“Bad news?” she asked quickly, anxiety shadowing her face.
He had learned not to lie to her, even to soften a blow.
“I’m beginning to think Mrs. Lambourn could be right, at least insofar as there being a government agreement not to allow Lambourn’s report to be given any credibility,” he answered. “I’ve tried to question his suicide, and the judge has cut me off every time. I think Coniston has also been briefed to head off any mention of it at all.”
“But you’ll not let him get away with that.” It was half a question; the doubt was still there in her voice, and in her eyes.
“We’re not beaten yet,” he said ruefully. “In a sense their possible agreement in keeping it out of the evidence suggests that there is something to hide. It certainly isn’t in order to spare anyone’s feelings, as they say it is.”
The maid came in with fresh tea and toast, and Rathbone thanked her for it. He poured for Hester without asking, and she took it with a smile, then reached also for toast and butter.
“Oliver, I’ve been doing a little asking around among people I know. I had a long talk with a prostitute near Copenhagen Place. She knew Zenia Gadney, possibly as well as anyone did.”
He heard the pity in her voice and found himself knotted inside. He wished he were more convinced of Dinah Lambourn’s innocence. But even if Joel Lambourn had been murdered, it did not prove that Dinah had not killed Zenia out of revenge for her betrayal during all the years before.
Except, of course, if anyone had betrayed Dinah, it was Joel himself. But he was already dead, and beyond her reach. The only things that made Rathbone question Dinah’s guilt at all were the senseless timing of Zenia’s death, and the fact that Pendock and Coniston both seemed so determined to block Rathbone from raising any doubt, however reasonable, about Joel’s suicide.
Hester knew she did not have his attention.
“Oliver?”
He concentrated again. “Yes? I’m sorry. What did you learn that you need to tell me before I go into court again?”
She spread marmalade on her toast. “That Zenia was a very quiet woman, kept very much to herself. She used to walk often, especially by the river. She stood and gazed southward, watching the water and the sky.”
“You mean toward Greenwich?” he asked curiously.
“Well, toward the south bank anyway. She had a past that she spoke of very seldom, once to Gladys, the girl I mentioned.”
Rathbone felt a little chilled. “What kind of a past? Is it one that could provide another motive for killing her with such violence?”
Hester shook her head. “Not as far as I can see. She said she was married once, but apparently she drank so hard she ruined her life, and possibly she left him, or he left her.”
“Who was he?” Rathbone asked quickly, feeling a lift of hope he hardly dared acknowledge. “Where can we find him? Could he have followed her to Limehouse and killed her? Perhaps he wanted to marry again, and she
