CHAPTER 24
Rathbone slept badly. There was too much racing through his mind, too many possibilities for success, and for failure. His plans were made, but everything rested in the balance of his one last, great gamble. In his mind he turned over everything he could say, every disaster he might avert, or rescue if it came down to it.
He drifted off into fitful sleep, still troubled. If he lost, Dinah would be hanged. Either way, in using the photograph to dictate Pendock’s behavior, to force him into decisions he would not have otherwise made, what had Rathbone done to himself?
Would Pendock ever forgive him? Rathbone knew that if he were certain of the decision he had made in his own mind, that should not matter. But how could one ever be certain when it came to using such methods?
Was he sure Dinah was innocent? Was he seeing her as a woman who would risk anything and everything to save her dead husband’s name because that was what he wanted to see, needed to believe someone would do? And did it ease any of the pain he felt from the bitter end of his own marriage?
He woke late, with a jolt of panic; what if he did not get to the Old Bailey in time? The day was jarringly cold; the sky was dark and the easterly wind carried a sleety edge of worse to come. The pavements were icy, and keeping balance was hard as he strode along.
Runcorn, his first witness, was already waiting for him in the hallway as he went toward his chambers to put on his wig and gown. He had never imagined he would find Runcorn’s figure reassuring, but it was acutely so today. The man had a solidity to him, a certainty of the things he believed in.
“All present and correct, Sir Oliver,” Runcorn said quietly.
For a moment Rathbone was puzzled. It seemed an oddly inclusive expression to use referring to himself.
“Mr. and Mrs. Herne, Bawtry, and the police surgeon, sir,” Runcorn explained. “And Mrs. Monk says she’ll do the best to fetch Dr. Doulting again, just as you said. Could be that the poor man’s too ill.”
Rathbone drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of overwhelming relief. “Thank you.”
“And there’s a Mr. Wilkie Collins here as well,” Runcorn went on. “Something to do with the Pharmacy Act. Says he’s supporting it, and to send you the message that he’ll remember Joel Lambourn. I gather he’s a writer of some sort.”
Rathbone smiled. “Indeed he is. Please give him my compliments, Mr. Runcorn. If I survive this, I’ll take him to the best dinner in town.”
Runcorn smiled back. “Yes, sir.”
Half an hour later Runcorn was on the witness stand and Rathbone was looking across at him. The gallery was silent, the twelve jurors sitting motionless. A few of them appeared not to have slept much either.
Upon his high chair Pendock seemed like an old man. Rathbone wanted to avoid looking at him at all, but to do so would be both foolish and impossibly rude. He was acutely aware that if he had not spoken, Pendock might have died without ever knowing of his son’s aberration. The knowledge of it now was a dark burden to carry, whatever the nature of this one trial.
At the next table Coniston was tense, looking one way and then another. Even the jury must see that he had lost the certainty he had shown as recently as yesterday morning.
Rathbone cleared his throat, coughed, then coughed again.
“Mr. Runcorn, in the light of further evidence and certain facts that seem to be unclear, I must take you back to your earlier testimony regarding the death of Joel Lambourn.”
Coniston half rose, but Pendock was there before him.
“I realize you object, Mr. Coniston, but nothing has been said yet. I shall stop Sir Oliver if he wanders from the point. I imagine the prosecution is as keen as the rest of the court to learn the truth of this. If indeed Dr. Lambourn was murdered, then in the interests of justice we must know that.” He smiled in a ghastly gesture, looking like a man drowning. “If the accused is guilty of that also, I assume you wish to know it?”
Coniston sat back down again, looking at Rathbone with an expression of complete confusion. “Yes, my lord,” he said grudgingly.
Rathbone waited a second or two, then asked his first question of Runcorn.
“You were called to take over the investigation of Dr. Lambourn’s death as soon as the local police realized who he was, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Runcorn replied simply. This was the last stand, and there was no time or need to elaborate beyond what was absolutely necessary.
“You examined the body, and the surrounding scene?” Rathbone asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you tell if Dr. Lambourn had walked to the place where you found him, or been carried there in some way?”
“I can tell you that there were no marks on the ground of any kind of transport, sir,” Runcorn said firmly. “Nothing with wheels anywhere near, no hoofprints of any horse, just the foot marks of several men, and those of a dog, matching the one belonging to the gentleman who found the body.”
“Do you conclude from that absence of these indications that Dr. Lambourn walked?”
“Yes, sir. He was at least an average height and weight of man. It would have been impossible for one man to have carried him all the way from the path. It was some distance-hundred yards or so-and steep.”
“Two men?” Rathbone asked.
Coniston rolled his eyes with exasperation, but he did not interrupt.
“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Runcorn answered. “Two men carrying a body would have left some kind of mark on the grass, and even on the path. It’s very awkward, carrying a dead weight. Have to go sideways some of the time, or even backward. Slips out of your grip. Anyone who’s tried it would know.”
“But what footprints were there around the body?” Rathbone persisted.
“Clearly?” Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “Impossible to say, sir. Too many people been there. The gentleman who found him, the policemen, the surgeon. They all went up to him, naturally, at first probably to see if they could help. Pretty well mucked up everything. No harm meant, of course. Couldn’t know it would ever matter.”
“Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “So he could have walked there himself, either alone, or with someone else?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever find the knife with which he had cut his wrists?”
Runcorn shook his head. “No, sir. Looked very hard, even at some distance, to see if he could have thrown it. Don’t know how far a man can throw a knife when he’s just cut his wrists. Come to that, don’t know why he would want to.”
“Nor do I,” Rathbone agreed. “Did you find anything in which he could have taken the opium? I’m thinking of a bottle for water, or a vial that contained any solution in which opium could have been dissolved.”
“No, sir. Looked for that, too.”
“Or a syringe with a needle?” Rathbone asked.
“No, sir, nothing.”
“Nevertheless, at first you concluded that his death was suicide?”
“At first, yes, sir,” Runcorn agreed. “But the more I thought about it, the unhappier I got. Still, there was nothing I could do until Mr. Monk came along about a second death, which was very definitely a murder, and asked me to look into Dr. Lambourn’s death a little harder.”
“But you had been told to leave the matter as it was, had you not?” Rathbone pressed.
“Yes, sir. I did it in my own time, but I’m aware I’d been ordered to leave it,” Runcorn admitted. “But I began to think he was murdered. I can’t leave that to rest without knowing for sure.”
Coniston stood up abruptly.
“Yes, yes,” Pendock said quickly. “Mr. Runcorn, please do not give us any conclusions you may have come to unless you have proof that they are correct.”
“Sorry, my lord,” Runcorn said contritely. He did not argue, although Rathbone could see from his face that
