suspect of hurting her. Maybe …” He thought for a moment. “Maybe someone who said they were Lambourn’s solicitor, or a friend.”
“A doctor,” Hester said very slowly. “Or a member of the family.”
“Or his wife,” Orme said sadly.
No one argued.
“Now we’ve got until the day after Boxing Day to prove it,” Runcorn said, looking from one to the other of them. “If Sir Oliver can make the trial last that long.”
CHAPTER 20
Rathbone lay awake a good deal of that night, his mind in turmoil. Monk had sent him regular notes to keep him aware of what he had discovered. But as yet there was no proof that could be presented in court.
Dinah’s only defense was that she believed her husband had been murdered because he discovered something that would ruin the reputation of someone, someone who would commit murder rather than be exposed. And she, in turn, was willing to risk her own life on the gallows in order to force the police and the court to find the truth.
When should Rathbone tell that to the jury? If he told them too soon it would have lost its power by the time he summed up. If he waited too long it would look like a desperate, last-minute invention.
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the total darkness, and felt as if he had lost control of the case. He must get it back. Even if he was actually working on trust that Dinah was innocent, and hope that Monk would find a thread of proof that he could unravel, he could not let Coniston know that. Above all he must not let the jury see it.
Monk’s note had spoken quite clearly of an opium addiction far more profound than even that of those who smoked it, one where the substance was injected directly into the bloodstream through a vein. Someone was deliberately introducing people to it, in a time of their weakness because of physical or emotional agony, and then when they were dependent, exploiting that desperation.
It was an evil of almost limitless proportion, but it was not technically a crime in the eyes of the law. Monk had acknowledged that himself. So why kill Lambourn? What had he discovered that he must die for?
Rathbone had to guess the answer, and guess correctly. Then he could hope to spin out the trial until Monk found the beginning of proof. Rathbone would have built up the foundations of a case, and would have to add only the final piece that tied it all together and name the man behind the murders of both Lambourn and Zenia Gadney.
Would he be able to do that? He fell asleep at last with only the outline of a plan in his mind.
When the trial resumed in the morning, Rathbone looked across at Sorley Coniston and saw the smooth pleasure in his face. As things were now, he could hardly lose.
Rathbone must begin to take control of the pace and the temper of the evidence now. The end of the week was Christmas. As it stood, the best verdict he could hope for was reasonable doubt, and looking across the room to the twelve men in the jury box, he could not see even one doubter among them. They sat motionless, grim- faced, as if steeling themselves to answer levelly that they were prepared to condemn a woman to death for what they believed she had done.
Rathbone had no other suspect even to suggest to them, but he had to create one. In his own mind it was a nameless, faceless assassin employed by someone guilty of wanting to destroy Lambourn’s credibility and see his report buried. Repeated like that, it sounded as desperate to Rathbone as it would to anyone else. He must give this person reality, ambitions, fear of loss, greed-evil.
Everyone came to order for Judge Pendock. Coniston rose to his feet and called his final witness. Rathbone had been advised who it was, as the law required, but he had no defense against what he knew the man would say. He had been hoping Coniston would not think to look for him, but considering Amity Herne’s knowledge, and her loathing of Dinah Lambourn, it was to be expected.
Rathbone had managed to raise just a shadow of doubt as to whether Lambourn had taken his own life or whether, in view of the absence of a weapon or anything in which to dilute or drink the opium, there had been someone else present. No one had yet suggested the use of a syringe.
The new witness swore as to his name and occupation, and to tell the truth.
“Mr. Blakelock,” Coniston began, “you are a registrar of births, deaths, and marriages?”
“Yes, sir,” Blakelock answered. He was a handsome man, prematurely gray but otherwise wearing his years well.
“Did you register the marriage, eighteen years ago, of Dr. Joel Lambourn?”
“I did.”
“To whom?” Coniston asked.
There was no interest in the courtroom. Only Rathbone sat stiff, his eyes on the jury.
“Zenia Gadney,” Blakelock replied.
“Zenia Gadney?” Coniston repeated, his voice ringing out, high and sharp, as if the answer astonished him.
Even Pendock jolted forward, his jaw slack.
In the jury box there was a ripple of amazement. One man gasped and all but choked.
Coniston waited for the full impact to sink in, and then with a very slight smile he continued.
“And was that marriage dissolved, sir?”
“No,” Blakelock answered.
Coniston shrugged and made a wide, helpless gesture with his hands. “Then who is Dinah Lambourn, the mother of his children, and with whom he has lived for the last fifteen years, until his death?”
“I presume ‘his mistress’ would be the most appropriate term,” Blakelock replied.
“Then when Lambourn died, Zenia … Lambourn would be his widow, not the accused?” Coniston went on.
“Yes.”
“And so heir to his estate?” Coniston added.
Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, that is an assumption that Mr. Blakelock is not qualified to make, and indeed it is an error. If you wish it, I can call Dr. Lambourn’s solicitor, who will tell you that his estate is left to his daughters, Adah and Marianne. There was a small bequest, an annuity, to Zenia Gadney. It would amount to approximately the same amount as he gave her when he was alive.”
Pendock glared at him. “You were aware of this, Sir Oliver?”
“I was aware of the provisions of the will, my lord. It seemed a fairly obvious inquiry to make,” Rathbone answered.
Pendock drew in his breath to add something further, and then changed his mind. It would have been improper to ask what Dinah had confided in Rathbone, and the jury would draw their own conclusions anyway.
Coniston realized as much; he certainly had no need to win such minor skirmishes as this. “I apologize, my lord,” he said with a slight smile. “It was an assumption, and as my learned friend has pointed out, in this case, unjustified. Perhaps for the defense, he will call someone to prove that the accused was aware that her children would inherit? Then her very natural fear of being left destitute by her husband’s suicide would be set aside, leaving only the motive of an equally natural jealousy.”
Rathbone allowed a look of incredulity to cross his face.
“Is the prosecution suggesting that the accused was jealous of the woman she so obviously supplanted in Dr. Lambourn’s affections?” he asked. “Or perhaps that Zenia Gadney was so jealous, after all these years, that she attacked Dinah Lambourn? In which case the mutilation is repellent and unnecessary, but the blow that caused Mrs. Gadney’s death may very well be considered self-defense!”
“This is preposterous!” Coniston said with disbelief, but no apparent ill humor. “My lord-”
Pendock held up his hand. “Enough, Mr. Coniston. I can see for myself the absurdity of it.” He glared at
