“Please be very careful, Superintendent,” he warned him. “Do these facts that you uncovered have any direct bearing on the murder of Zenia Gadney, or the fact that Dinah Lambourn has been charged with that crime?”
Runcorn considered for a moment.
Rathbone had the intense impression that he was weighing up exactly how much he could get away with.
“Superintendent?” Rathbone felt he had better speak before Coniston could rise to his feet yet again.
“Yes, sir, I believe it does,” Runcorn answered. “If Dr. Lambourn and Zenia Gadney were killed by the same person, and it could not have been the accused, then it was someone else, and we must find that person. It is appearing to the police more and more likely that it was someone whom Dr. Lambourn learned about in his investigations into the use of opium-someone who was making a vast profit, first causing people to become addicted to the drug by their taking it directly into the blood for the relief of pain from broken bones and the like, and then becoming so dependent on it they couldn’t live without it. Then he can charge them whatever he likes-”
Coniston was on his feet. “My lord, can Mr. Runcorn, or anyone else, offer even a shred of proof as to this supposed poison? It’s a fairy tale! Speculation without any proof at all.” He took a hasty breath and changed the subject. “And as to anyone swearing that Mrs. Lambourn did not leave the house again that night-we have heard nothing whatever to substantiate any of this except the word, reported secondhand, of a fourteen-year-old girl, very naturally loyal to her mother. What child of this age would be willing to believe that her mother could have cold-bloodedly slit her father’s wrists and then watched him until he bled to death?”
Rathbone felt as if the ground had suddenly lurched beneath him, pitching him off balance, and he was left struggling to regain his posture.
“Sir Oliver,” Pendock said with evident relief, “you are risking becoming absurd. This is all a rather desperate attempt to waste time, I don’t know for what purpose. Who are you imagining will ride to your rescue? You have provided absolutely nothing to support this fantasy of conspiracy that you are asking us to believe in. Either produce it, sir, or provide us with some credible defense. If you have none, then save this fruitless distress to your client and allow her to plead guilty.”
Rathbone felt the blood burn up his face. “My client has told me she is not guilty, my lord,” he said, the bitterness harsh in his voice. “I cannot ask her to say that she beat to death and then eviscerated a woman, in order to save the court’s time!”
“Be very careful, Sir Oliver,” Pendock warned, “or I shall hold you in contempt.”
“That would only delay the trial even longer, my lord,” Rathbone retorted, then the instant after regretted it, and knew it was too late. He had made an irrevocable enemy of Pendock.
There was a ripple of excitement in the gallery. Even the jurors were suddenly intensely alive, their eyes moving from Rathbone to Pendock, then to Coniston, lastly to Runcorn, still waiting for further questions.
Dinah Lambourn was not the only one on trial. Perhaps in one way or another, everyone in the court was. They each had a part to play in finding justice.
Rathbone now chose his words with meticulous care. Dinah Lambourn’s life might hang on his skill, and his ability to forget his own vanity or temper and think only of her, and whatever truth he could force the jury to hear.
He had no idea what else Runcorn knew. Staring at his face now, he wondered what on earth the man wanted him to ask. What could it concern that he could not raise without Pendock stopping him again? What tied Zenia Lambourn to the sale of opium and needles, except Lambourn and his research?
“Mr. Runcorn, did you have occasion to consider the possibility that Zenia Gadney might have known something of Dr. Lambourn’s research into crimes involving, or following from, the sale of opium pure enough to inject into the blood, and the degeneration into madness or death that can result from it?”
Now the jurors were craning forward to listen, faces tense, fascinated and frightened.
Runcorn seized the chance. “Yes, sir. We thought it possible that Dr. Lambourn made more than one copy, at least of the most controversial parts of his report. Since it was not found in his own home, we thought he might well have left it with his first wife, Zenia Gadney. He may have believed that no one else, apart from Dinah Lambourn, knew of her existence.”
Coniston stood. “Then the poor woman cannot have been murdered for it, except by Dinah Lambourn, which is our contention. All Sir Oliver has done is provide the accused with a second motive, my lord.”
Pendock looked at Rathbone with a faint smile on his face.
“You appear to have shot yourself in the foot, Sir Oliver,” he observed.
Runcorn drew in a sharp breath, looked at Rathbone, and then beyond him into the body of the gallery.
Rathbone understood instantly what Runcorn meant. He gave him the slightest of nods, then smiled back at Pendock.
“If Dinah Lambourn were the only one to have known the truth, that would be so, my lord. Perhaps you are unaware that both Barclay Herne and his wife, Amity Herne, Joel Lambourn’s sister, both knew of his first marriage.” Rathbone allowed his voice to take on a slightly sarcastic tone. “I believe they … forgot to mention this in their earlier testimony, though they have both confessed as much to me in the privacy of their own home.”
Again the color drained from Pendock’s face and he sat rigid, his hand in front of him, a closed fist on his great carved bench.
“Are you suggesting that one of them murdered this unfortunate woman, Sir Oliver?” he said very slowly. “I assume you have ascertained their whereabouts at the time in question?”
Rathbone felt as if he had been physically struck. In a matter of seconds victory had turned to defeat.
“No, my lord,” he said quietly. “I was pointing out that Dinah Lambourn was not the only person aware of the fact that Joel Lambourn was married to Zenia Gadney, and visited her once a month, that we know of. It is always possible that either Barclay or Mrs. Herne may have told other people, perhaps their acquaintances from that earlier time when Dr. Lambourn was still together with Zenia Gadney, or should I say Zenia Lambourn?”
“Why on earth would either of them do such a thing?” Pendock asked incredulously. “Surely it is something no one would wish to make public? It would be most embarrassing. Your suggestion is eccentric, to put it at its kindest.”
Rathbone made one last attempt.
“My lord, we are uncertain whether Dr. Lambourn’s report contained references to the sale of opium and these needles, with details of the horror of the addiction such methods cause. Whether the stories are entirely true or not we do not know. But it remains likely that people’s names are mentioned, either as dealers of this poison or addicts to it. Finding every copy of these papers and making certain they do not fall into the wrong hands could be regarded as a service to anyone mentioned in them-and perhaps the country in general. Opium, used properly, and under medical supervision, remains the only ease we have for mortal pain.”
Pendock was silent for a long time.
The court waited. Every face in the gallery and in the jury box was turned toward the judge. Even Runcorn in the witness box turned to watch and wait.
Seconds ticked by. No one moved.
Finally Pendock reached a decision.
“Do you have any evidence of this, Mr. Runcorn?” he said quietly. “Evidence, not supposition and scandal?”
“Yes, my lord,” Runcorn answered. “But it is all in bits and pieces, scattered among the accounts of tragic infant deaths that Dr. Lambourn was looking for. He came across this other evidence by accident and we think he only pieced together who was behind it in the last few days of his life.”
Rathbone took a step forward.
“My lord, if we might have the rest of the day to assemble it sensibly, and make certain that no innocent person is unintentionally slandered, we might be able to present it to the court, or to your lordship in chambers, and see what the value of it may be.”
Pendock sighed heavily. “Very well. The court is adjourned until Tuesday morning.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone inclined his head, suddenly almost sick with relief.
Runcorn came down from the stand and walked toward him.
“Sir Oliver, Mr. Monk would like to see you, as soon as possible,” he said quietly. “We have more.”
