face, even the grief, was too powerful to belittle or ignore.
Rathbone deliberately took a risk, but time was pressing hard on him. “Did he seem to you suicidal?”
“The doctor?” she said incredulously. “Don’t be a fool! ’E were ’ell-bent on stoppin’ it, whatever it cost. Never reckoned as it’d cost ’im ’is life. Not ter even think of ’is wife too.”
“Are you referring to Zenia Gadney?”
“Never ’eard of ’er, till now. I meant Dinah. An’ if yer think she killed ’im yer dafter than them as is in Bedlam chained ter the walls an’ ’owlin’ at the moon.”
Rathbone controlled the slightly hysterical laughter that welled up inside him.
“I do not think so, Miss Nisbet. Nor do I think she killed Miss Gadney. I think Dinah Lambourn guessed some of this. Then when Zenia Gadney was murdered, she allowed herself to be accused, even adding to her appearance of guilt by telling a lie she knew would very quickly be found out.”
He hesitated only a moment. “She did this, risking her own life, so this court could discover and expose the truth. That is a truly remarkable love, a loyalty beyond death. I thank you, Miss Nisbet, for your courage in coming here to tell us of horrors I am sure you would far rather not relive. Please wait there in case Mr. Coniston has anything to ask you.”
He returned to his seat, wondering what Coniston would do, and if Pendock would support him if he objected.
Coniston rose slowly. He walked out into the center of the floor with even more grace than usual. Rathbone did not know him well enough to be certain if that was a mark of excess of confidence, or a time-wasting maneuver because he lacked confidence.
As soon as Coniston spoke, he knew it was the latter. All his original certainty had evaporated, but it was a good mask, nonetheless. The jury would not read him.
“Miss Nisbet,” he began courteously, “you have seen some shocking and very dreadful things. I respect you since they so clearly move your compassion, and your will to help and minister to the sick.” He moved two or three steps to the left and then turned. “In all this horror, did you see the face of any man responsible for the sale of opium, and the needles to administer it into the blood? Are you certain you would even recognize him if you saw him again, unconnected to his trade?”
Rathbone saw the look of confusion in Agatha’s face. He rose to his feet.
“My lord, Miss Nisbet has not stated that she would remember him, or indeed that she ever knew his name. All she said was that Dr. Lambourn had a powerful and extremely distressed reaction to her story and behaved as if he knew who it was.”
“You are quite correct, Sir Oliver,” Pendock agreed. He turned to Coniston. “Perhaps it would be simpler, Mr. Coniston, if you were merely to ask the witness if she believes she would recognize the man again, were she to see him, here or elsewhere.”
Coniston’s jaw clenched, but he obeyed.
Agatha answered simply. “I never saw ’im, far as I know. But-” She stopped abruptly.
“But …?” Coniston asked quickly.
“But that in’t no use,” she answered, clearly lying.
Coniston drew breath to ask a further question, then changed his mind. “Thank you, Miss Nisbet,” he said, turning and walking back toward his table. “Oh! Just one more thing, did Dr. Lambourn tell you that he knew who this man was, or that he was acquainted with him, that he would challenge him, ruin him, see him in prison? Anything like that?”
It was a gamble, and even the jury seemed to be aware of it. The silence was intense.
Rathbone rose again. “My lord, perhaps one question at a time might be clearer, both for Miss Nisbet and for the jury?”
“Indeed,” Pendock agreed. “Mr. Coniston, if you please?”
Coniston’s face colored deeply, and his jaw was clenched so tight the muscles in it bulged.
“My lord.” There was the slightest edge of sarcasm in his acquiescence. “Miss Nisbet, did Dr. Lambourn say that he knew this man you say sells opium for profit?”
“No, sir, but ’e went white like ’e were going ter faint,” she replied.
“Could that be the very natural horror of a decent man told of abominable human crime and suffering?”
“Course it could,” she said tartly.
“Did he say that he had either the wish or the power to ruin this man? For example, send him to prison?” Coniston continued.
“I went ter get ’im brandy. ’E didn’t say much at all, ’ceptin’ ter thank me.”
“I see. Did he at any time tell you that he was going to face this man, accuse him, or otherwise bring him to answer for his terrible trade? Did he tell you this man’s name?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Miss Nisbet. That is all I have to ask you.”
Rathbone was on his feet yet again. “May I re-direct, my lord?”
“Of course,” Pendock told him.
Rathbone looked up at Agatha. “Miss Nisbet, did you form the opinion that Dr. Lambourn was deeply horrified by what you told him?”
“Course ’e was,” she said witheringly.
“Because of the suffering, the crime of it?”
“I think it were ’cos ’e ’ad an idea ’oo it were,” she said slowly and distinctly. “But ’e never told me.”
There was an immediate ripple of amazement and horror through the room. Rathbone turned to look at the gallery, and at that moment saw the door open and Hester come in. Their eyes met and she gave a very slight nod. Relief washed through Rathbone like a wave of heat. He turned to the judge, the smile still on his lips.
“I would like to call Dr. Alvar Doulting to the stand, my lord.”
Pendock glanced at the clock on the far wall.
“Very well. You may proceed.”
Alvar Doulting came up the aisle between the seats in the gallery and across the open floor. He climbed the steps of the witness stand with difficulty. When he reached the top and faced Rathbone, suddenly all that Agatha Nisbet had said of a living hell became real to Rathbone’s eyes. Doulting looked like a man who lived in a nightmare. His skin was gray and sheened with sweat. In spite of the fact that he clung to the rail, he was trembling violently. A muscle in his face twitched and he was so gaunt the bones of his skull seemed to stretch his skin.
Rathbone felt a searing guilt that he had compelled the man to come here.
Doulting swore to his name and his professional qualifications, which were impressive. He had clearly once been a great doctor in the making. The man who stood in front of them now was the more horrifying because of it.
Based upon what Agatha Nisbet had told him, Rathbone began his questioning, urged on by the feeling that Doulting might not stay well long enough to say much. If the diarrhea, vomiting, and cramps that Winfarthing described in the withdrawal symptoms of addiction were to strike him, he would be unable to continue, no matter how critical his evidence was to the case. And yet still Rathbone felt brutal doing it.
“Thank you, Dr. Doulting,” he said with profound sincerity. “I appreciate your coming. Since you are clearly unwell, I shall be as brief as I can. Did you speak with Dr. Joel Lambourn, shortly before his death in early October?”
“Yes, I did.” Doulting’s voice was steady, in spite of his physical distress.
“Did he ask you about the sale and use of opium, in the course of his investigation into the possible Pharmacy Act prepared by Parliament?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him, if anything, beyond the dangers of people overusing it because of the fact that it was inadequately labeled?”
Doulting gripped the railing more tightly and took a deep breath.
“I told him about the relief opium gave to agonizing pain when it was administered directly into the bloodstream using the recent invention of a hollow needle attached to a syringe. I also told him how much more deeply addictive it is, acting within a matter of days to make someone so dependent upon it that it is almost
