professional failure and his personal sexual deviancy,” he added. “Not to mention clearing his wife of murdering and eviscerating the woman with whom he was betraying her. Which raises the question as to what the whole blood-soaked nightmare is about! Is it really about opium, and the right to import it and sell it at immense profit without the restrictions that the proposed Pharmacy Act would enforce?”
“It’s looking more and more that way, isn’t it?” Rathbone concluded. “Someone with a vested interest in opium killed Lambourn in a way intended to disgrace him, and therefore his report. Then when Dinah tried to defend him, they killed Zenia Gadney in the most hideous way imaginable and blamed her, so they could silence her also. That’s monstrous. Is anyone in our government really so profoundly corrupt? God, I hope not!” He remembered the courtroom, the gallery, and Sinden Bawtry sitting on the end of the row, almost concealed by the shadow of the pillar and the roof. What was he there for? To guard the Pharmacy Act, or to sabotage it?
“Then who?” Monk asked. “And there’s a very serious question as to whether Dinah Lambourn is guilty and, personally, I no longer think she is. Certainly it is not beyond a serious doubt.”
“I need to know a great deal more about this Pharmacy Act, who is for it and who against,” Rathbone said, forcing himself to think coherently. “And what results there will be if it is passed. Who will lose? Would any sane man, however greedy, really go to these lengths to delay an act of Parliament that is bound to be passed in a year or two?”
“No,” Monk admitted, shaking his head a little. “There must be more than the Pharmacy Act involved. But you haven’t time to waste on this.”
Rathbone stood up. “I can’t afford not to have. It may not be the Pharmacy Act, or even the Opium Wars, but it’s tied to them. Otherwise why destroy Lambourn and his report? Come with me.” It sounded like an instruction, and that was how he meant it.
“Where are we going?” Monk rose obediently.
“To see Mr. Gladstone, the chancellor of the Exchequer,” Rathbone replied. “At least I hope so. He’s the coming man, a great believer in reform and the welfare of ordinary people.” As he went to the door and out into the hall he was already absorbed in plans to speak to people he knew: to one man in particular for whom he had done a remarkable favor. That man could gain him entrance to Number 11 Downing Street, and Gladstone’s attention, even on a Saturday morning, if he believed the matter urgent enough.
Monk, at his heels, was impressed into silence.
It was mid-afternoon by the time all the favors had been called in, and William Ewart Gladstone had made a space in his day to receive Rathbone and Monk. They were shown into the study, where the chancellor stood by the hearth. He was a solid, imposing figure with muttonchop whiskers and an oddly familiar face, as if a newspaper picture had come to life.
“Well, gentlemen?” he said, staring first at one, then the other. “This must be of remarkable importance. Please be brief. I can give you half an hour, precisely.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rathbone had been summarizing in several different forms what he had to say, omitting one thing and then another, trying to find not only the essence of the matter, but also that part of it that would most appeal to the crusader in Gladstone, the moral preacher that was so often at the forefront of his character.
“I am defending the widow of Joel Lambourn, who is charged with a repulsive murder, of which I believe her innocent,” he began. He saw the distaste in Gladstone’s face and made his decision immediately. It was something of a risk, knowing Gladstone’s puritanical streak, but he was used to watching the expressions of juries and surmising whether he was winning or losing them, and what line of argument would serve him best.
“She is a woman of intense loyalty, especially to her late husband,” he continued. “I have just this morning discovered from Commander Monk”-he gestured in Monk’s direction-“that they were not actually married, because he was still married to the murder victim, Zenia Gadney. His visits to see her in Limehouse were not sexual liaisons, as everyone is claiming, but in order to continue in his support for her financially, and to do what he could to ensure her comfort. That was in spite of her previous terrible addiction to opium, from which he helped her to recover.”
He saw the sudden pity in Gladstone’s eyes, and a wave of anger. “The addiction to opium is one of the greatest curses of our age,” he said quietly. “And yet the good it can do for those in agonies of pain, we cannot forfeit. God help us, we must be very careful what we do in this pharmacy bill.”
“Dinah Lambourn intentionally implicated herself in Zenia Gadney’s death,” Rathbone went on hastily. “When the police questioned her, she did so because she wanted to stand trial in a hugely publicized murder.”
“Why?” Gladstone said incredulously, his craggy face momentarily slack as he struggled to understand.
“To bring to light her husband’s work on the medical facts of opium deaths,” Rathbone replied, using the word husband intentionally. “Especially in children. He had given his report to the government, and they had rejected it as incompetent, and then blackened his name by accusing him of taking his own life.”
“I remember the case.” Gladstone shook his head. “A sin of despair, poor man.”
“With respect, sir,” Rathbone said as hastily as he could without rudeness, “I am beginning to believe that it was not a suicide, but actually a very clever murder.” He turned toward Monk, inviting him to explain.
Monk picked up the story.
“To begin with, sir, it appeared to be suicide,” he agreed. “But the police inspector in charge was in some respects overridden by government officers claiming to be acting in the best interests of Lambourn’s family, as a matter of loyalty and discretion. Certain evidence in the murder of Zenia Gadney led me to Dinah Lambourn. When I was questioning her, she brought up Lambourn, and denied passionately that his death was suicide, or that his report was incompetent.” Monk was speaking hastily, before he could be interrupted. Rathbone heard him deliberately slow his pace.
“She said he had been murdered, in order to discredit him,” he continued. “I was obliged to investigate what she had said, as a matter of fairness, and I found several unexplained discrepancies in the story as told by the police looking into the matter. I can tell you of them all if you wish; for example, the fact that there was no knife or blade found anywhere near him, even though he slit his wrists.”
Rathbone was watching Gladstone’s face and he saw his interest suddenly sharpen.
“Do you believe he was murdered, sir?” he asked Monk.
“Yes, Mr. Gladstone,” Monk said immediately. “I think there are people with certain interests who were willing to kill Lambourn to silence him, and then kill the unfortunate Zenia Gadney in order to blame Dinah Lambourn and thus silence her also. That way the whole report on the dangers of opium could be buried.”
“What interests, exactly?” Gladstone asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Monk admitted. “We haven’t been able to find any copies of Dr. Lambourn’s report, even though we searched both his house and Mrs. Gadney’s, so we don’t know what new information or conclusions he offered, or whose interests he endangered.”
“A very slender case, Commander Monk,” Gladstone said grimly. “What is it you wish of me?”
Monk took a deep breath. He had much to gain, and to lose.
“A summary of what the bill will contain, and anything in the way of letters or notes Dr. Lambourn may have offered ahead of his full report,” he answered.
“Quite a lot,” Gladstone observed drily. “Do you really believe this woman is innocent?”
“I do believe it,” Monk answered, sweat breaking out on his skin at the risk he was taking. What had he done to his own career if Dinah was guilty?
Gladstone pondered for several moments. “That seems both remarkable, and very foolish. The bill will pass. It is necessary for the welfare of the people that it should. I can have a summary of it delivered to you easily enough. Anything on Lambourn’s report may be more difficult, but I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rathbone said warmly, then bit his lip and looked at Gladstone. “There is probably no more than one day left of prosecution evidence; then I will have to begin the defense. I can stretch that out for three or four days at best. Once the verdict is in-and at the moment there is hardly any doubt that they will convict her-then sentence of death will be passed and that may prove all but impossible to overturn.”
He glanced at Monk, then back at the chancellor. “It is not only that an innocent woman will pay with her life for her loyalty to her husband, but the Pharmacy Act may be delayed, or diluted in its efficacy. No one can measure how many people will die unnecessarily if that were to happen, perhaps most of them children.”
Gladstone’s face was tight and grim. He was clearly laboring under some great emotion. He did not look at
