“But what you really don’t want, my friends, is to live it! Or your children to live it … or, if you claim to be God-fearing men, any fellow human being on the face of this fair earth.”
He ignored Pendock, who seemed about to speak, and Coniston now standing, ready to interrupt.
“I know! I know.” Winfarthing would not be stopped. “Not relevant to the death of this wretched woman in Limehouse-Gadney, or whatever her name was, poor creature.” He leaned forward over the railing, peering at Rathbone. “But maybe it was, you see? Uncomfortable to talk about it. Makes us face the fact that we are responsible. My God, if you’re man enough to allow it, for the love of heaven, be man enough to stand up and look at what it is!” His voice had risen until the volume of it, and the outrage in it, filled the room.
“We brought opium into this country. We take the money for its sale. We use it to ease our own pain when we are injured. We drink it to stop our coughs, our bellyaches, and our sleeplessness. Thank God for it-used wisely.”
His voice sank to a growl. “But that does not give us the right to turn away from the misuse, the horrific knowledge of what it is like for those whose ignorance allows them to stumble into the living death of addiction. They’re drowning in it! A great ocean of gray, endless half-life.
“And those who sell it to them, put this magic needle into their hands, peddle hell for a profit, are not breaking any laws! Then is it not our duty before God and man to change those laws so that it is?”
No one moved in the gallery. The jurors stared at him, ashen-faced.
Coniston looked wretched. He gazed at Pendock, then at the jury, then finally at Rathbone, but he did not say anything.
Rathbone cleared his throat. “Did you tell Dr. Lambourn the horror of addiction through taking opium by needle, Dr. Winfarthing?”
“Goddamnit, man!” Winfarthing roared. “What the devil do you think I’ve been telling you?”
Pendock suddenly jumped into life, shouting, “Order!”
Winfarthing swiveled around and glowered at him. “What now?” he demanded. “My lord,” he added with just a whisper of sarcasm.
“I will not have blasphemy in my court, Dr.… Winfarthing.” He affected to forget his name and find it only with an effort. “If you repeat that offense I shall hold you in contempt.”
A look of incredulity filled Winfarthing’s face. Quite clearly a suitable retort came to his mind, and with an equally clear effort he restrained himself from giving it.
“I apologize to the Almighty,” he said without a shred of humility. “Although I am certain He knows in what sense I call on His name.” He looked again at Rathbone. “To answer your question, sir. I told Dr. Lambourn about the sale of opium fit to let into the blood, and the use to which these needles are put. Which is that a man-or woman, for that matter-may enter into their own private hell after only a few days on the poison, and be captive for ever afterward until death releases them to whatever damnation eternity offers-please God-to the seller of this nightmare and to those of us who deliberately choose not to distress ourselves with knowledge of it!”
Coniston was on his feet, his voice sharp and high above the hubbub in the room. “My lord! I must speak with you in chambers. It is of the utmost importance.”
“Order!” Pendock roared. “I will have order in my court!”
Very gradually the uproar subsided. People shifted uncomfortably, angry, frightened, wanting someone to tell them that it was not true.
Pendock was furious, his face purple.
“Sir Oliver, Mr. Coniston, I will see you in my chambers immediately. The court is adjourned.” He rose to his feet and strode out, his scarlet robe swirling wide, as if he were oblivious of what he brushed past or knocked into on the way.
Feeling a little sick, Rathbone followed Coniston and the court usher out of the side entrance and across the hall. As soon as the usher had knocked and received permission, they went into Pendock’s chambers.
The door closed behind them. They both stood before Pendock, who barely glanced at Rathbone before looking up at Coniston.
“Well, what is it, Mr. Coniston?” he demanded. “If you are going to tell me that this man Winfarthing is outrageous, I am acutely aware of it. And if Sir Oliver cannot keep him in some kind of control then I shall hold him in contempt, and that will be the end of his evidence. So far it seems to me to be inflammatory, unproven, and irrelevant to this case.”
Rathbone drew in his breath to defend Winfarthing on all counts, but before he could speak, Coniston cut across him.
“My lord, all you say is perfectly true, and I imagine that the jury can see it as the last ploy of a desperate man, as well as we can. However, there is another, more urgent and serious issue at stake here.” He leaned forward just a fraction, as if he could impress the importance of it on Pendock even more. “Winfarthing was suggesting high crimes committed by certain men, without proof, or names, but leaving the implication with which to brand innocent men, simply because they have been mentioned as knowing this wretched Lambourn. There are matters of state concerned, my lord, great dangers of bringing Her Majesty’s Government into disrepute, at home and abroad.”
“Rubbish!” Rathbone exploded in fury and frustration. “That’s a ridiculous excuse to present-”
“No, it isn’t!” Coniston was speaking to him, momentarily ignoring Pendock. “I give you credit for not knowing what this man was going to say, but now that you do, you must dismiss him, with an apology to the court, and a denial of the truth of any of it-”
“I will not deny the truth of it,” Rathbone cut across him. “I can’t, and neither can you. And if that is what he said to Lambourn, then it is relevant, whether it is true or not. It is what Lambourn then believed.”
“You don’t know whether Lambourn believed it or not!” Coniston protested, his face flushed. “You have only Winfarthing’s word for any of it. This seller of opium, if he exists at all, could be … anybody! This is totally irresponsible, and terrifies the public for no good reason at all.”
“What is irresponsible is to condemn Dinah Lambourn without giving her the best possible defense,” Rathbone retorted. “And hearing every argument and witness who-”
“Enough!” Pendock held up his hand. “This issue of needles is irrelevant to the murder of Zenia Gadney. She was beaten and disemboweled. Whatever Winfarthing thinks he knows, or has heard about opium selling or addiction, it has nothing to do with the obscene murder of one woman on Limehouse Pier. She was not buying or selling opium, and you have not proved that she had any connection to this mystery seller, or any other buyer, whatsoever.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Coniston said gratefully, his face at last ironed smooth of anxiety. He did not look at Rathbone.
Pendock’s face was pinched, but he acknowledged Coniston’s thanks. He turned to Rathbone. “Tomorrow you will begin closing arguments and we will put the matter to the jury. Is that understood?”
Rathbone felt crushed. “I have two more witnesses, my lord,” he began.
Coniston jerked upright, almost to attention. “Witnesses to what?” he asked sharply. “More horrors of degradation in our backstreets by those who choose to addict themselves?”
“Are there more?” Rathbone snapped back at him. “Then it seems you know more of it than I do!”
“I know there’s a lot of loose talk and scandalmongering,” Coniston replied. “A lot of sensationalism and seeking to frighten the public and drag their attention from the murder of Zenia Gadney, poor woman. You talk about justice! What about justice for her?”
“Justice for her would be finding the truth,” Rathbone said equally angrily. When he swung round to face Pendock again, for the first time he noticed the framed photograph on the table a little to his right, normally in the judge’s line of sight, not his visitor’s. It was of a woman and two young men, one not unlike Pendock himself. It might have been him, thirty-five years earlier. The other boy bore a resemblance also, but far less so. Brothers?
But the woman’s fashionable gown was modern. And when Pendock had been twenty-two or — three, as the young man was, it would have been 1832, or thereabouts. There was no such photography as this then. They had to be Pendock’s wife and sons. Rathbone was almost certain he had seen one of them, the son who did not look like Pendock, in a photograph before, in a very different setting from this elegant pose with his mother. In the other photograph he had been wearing far fewer clothes, his nakedness had been erotic, and the other person in the image had been a small, narrow-chested boy, perhaps five or six years old.
