“How did she learn?”
“I don’t know. Joel didn’t say.”
“Did he say when she learned?”
“No. At least not to me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Herne. Again, I am deeply sorry that I had to raise this distressing subject, but the circumstances left me no choice.” He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone thanked him and rose slowly to his feet. He walked out across the floor toward the witness stand. He could feel the jury’s eyes on him, cautious, ready to blame him if he was the least bit insensitive. They were naturally predisposed against him because he represented a woman accused of a bestial crime. And now, added to that, he was about to ask pointed and cruel questions, adding to this innocent woman’s grief and very natural embarrassment.
“You have already suffered more than enough, Mrs. Herne,” Rathbone began gently. “I shall be as brief with you as I can. I commend you for being so honest regarding your brother’s … tastes. That cannot have been easy for you. You and your brother were close?” He already knew the answer to that from Monk’s questioning of her.
She blinked. In that instant he knew she was considering a lie, and as their eyes met, she decided against it.
“Not until recently,” she admitted. “My husband and I lived some distance away. Visiting was difficult. But we always kept in touch. There were just the two of us, Joel and I. Our parents have been dead a long time.” There was an ache of sadness in her voice, and a loneliness in her face. She was the perfect witness for Coniston.
Rathbone changed his tactics. There was very little, if anything at all, that he could win.
“Did you at that time also come to know your sister-in-law better?”
She hesitated again.
He felt his stomach knot. Should he have asked her that? If she said yes, then she would either defend her, or be seen to betray her. If she said no, she would have to give a reason. He had made an error.
“I tried,” she said guiltily, a slight flush in her cheeks. “I think if things had been different, we might have become close. But when Joel died, she was beside herself with grief, as if she blamed herself …” She tailed off.
In the gallery several people moved, sighed, and rustled fabric or paper.
“Did you blame her?” Rathbone asked clearly.
“No, of course not.” She looked startled.
“It was not her fault that Dr. Lambourn’s work was rejected?”
Coniston made as if to stand up. Rathbone turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. Coniston relaxed again.
“Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone prompted.
“How could it be?” she answered. “That isn’t possible.”
“Should she have … complied with his needs? The ones for which he went to the woman named Zenia?” he suggested.
“I … I …” At last she was stuck for words. She did not look to Coniston for help but lowered her gaze modestly.
Coniston stood up. “My lord, my learned friend’s question is embarrassing and unnecessary. How could Mrs. Herne be-”
Rathbone gave a gracious little wave. “That’s all right, Mrs. Herne. Your silence is answer enough. Thank you. I have no further questions.”
Coniston next called Barclay Herne, and asked him to give the briefest possible account of Lambourn’s being asked by the government to make a confidential report on the use and sale of certain medicines. Herne added the now-accepted fact that, to his profound regret, Lambourn had become too passionately involved in the issues and it had warped his judgment to the degree that the government had been unable to accept his work.
“How did Dr. Lambourn take your rejection of his report, Mr. Herne?” Coniston said somberly.
Herne allowed grief to fill his expression. “I’m afraid he took it very badly,” he answered, his voice soft and a little husky. “He saw it as some kind of personal insult. I was worried for the balance of his mind. I profoundly regret that I did not take more care, perhaps persuade him to consult a colleague, but I really did not think it would affect him so … frankly, so out of proportion to reality.” He looked miserable, forced publicly to expose his family’s very personal tragedy.
Rathbone was surprised to feel a touch of pity for him. He turned as discreetly as he could to see if his wife had remained in the gallery, now that her own evidence was given. He saw her after a moment of searching, when a large man bent forward. Amity Herne was sitting immediately behind him, next to Sinden Bawtry. His handsome head was turned sideways, as if speaking to her.
The next moment the man in front straightened up again, and Rathbone drew his attention back to the witness stand.
“I wondered afterward if perhaps he had indulged in the use of opium far more than we guessed at the time.” Herne was answering the next question. “I’m sorry to say that. I feel very guilty that I did not take his whole breakdown far more gravely than I did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Herne.” Again Coniston bowed to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone thanked him and took his place in the center of the floor, like a gladiator in the arena-exposed. “You mentioned opium, Mr. Herne. Were you aware that Dr. Lambourn was using it?”
“Not until after his death!” Herne said quickly.
“But you just said that you blamed yourself for not having realized that he was using it so much. How could you be expected to do that, if you were not aware that he was using it at all?”
“I meant that maybe I should have been aware,” Herne corrected himself.
“Could he have used more than he was aware of himself?” Rathbone suggested.
Herne looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Wasn’t his research into the issue of opium being available in patent medicines, purchasable on any high street in the country, but without labeling to allow the person buying to know-”
Coniston jerked up to his feet. “My lord, Dr. Lambourn’s work was confidential. This is not an appropriate place to debate what has not yet been proved as to its accuracy.”
“Yes, your objection is noted, Mr. Coniston.” Pendock turned to Rathbone. “This kind of questioning is irrelevant, Sir Oliver. You cannot connect it with the murder of Zenia Gadney. Are you suggesting that Mrs. Lambourn was somehow affected by taking opium incorrectly labeled, to the extent that she is not guilty for her acts?”
“No, my lord. But my learned friend raised the question of taking opium-”
“Yes,” Pendock said quickly. “Mr. Coniston, Sir Oliver did not object to your reference, but I do. It has nothing to do with the murder of Zenia Gadney. Please restrict yourself to that subject. You are wasting the court’s time and patience, and run the risk of confusing the jury. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have anything more to ask the witness that has bearing on the issue at trial.”
Rathbone stood in the middle of the floor and stared up at Pendock in his magnificent seat. His full-bottomed white wig and scarlet robes marked him out as a man set apart, a man with superior power. He saw in Pendock’s face that he was immovable on the subject. It was a strange, chill moment of understanding. Pendock was not impartial; he had his own agenda, perhaps even his orders.
“No more questions, my lord,” Rathbone replied. He turned and walked back to his seat. It was at that moment, facing the gallery, that he saw Sinden Bawtry staring across the heads of the people in front of him, directly at Pendock.
At the end of the day Rathbone went to see Dinah in the prison. As her lawyer, he was allowed to speak to her alone. As soon as the cell door clanged shut, closing them into the narrow space with its echoing stone and stale smell, he began. Time was short, and precious.
“When did you first know about your husband and Zenia Gadney?” he asked. “You are fighting for your life. Don’t lie to me now. Believe me, you cannot afford it.”
She looked ashen pale, her eyes hollow, her whole body tense, but there was no wavering in her. He could
