“Yes,” Monk agreed, his face carefully expressionless.
“Did the local police know who she was?” Coniston asked casually, as if he did not know the answer.
“No,” Monk replied.
Coniston looked a little startled. He stood motionless, stopped in mid-stride. “They had never had occasion to arrest her, or at least caution her regarding her activities as a prostitute?”
“That is what they said,” Monk agreed again.
“If she was indeed a prostitute, do you not find that remarkable?” Coniston asked with a lift of surprise in his voice.
Monk’s face was expressionless. “People often don’t recognize someone when they have died violently, especially if there is a lot of blood involved. People can look smaller than you remember them when they were alive. And if they are not dressed as you know them, or in a place where you expect to see them, you do not always realize who they are.”
Coniston looked as if that was not the answer he had wanted. He moved on. “Did you then make inquiries to find out who she was?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you inquire?” Coniston spread his hands, encompassing an infinity of possibilities.
“We spoke to local residents, shopkeepers, other women who lived in the area and with whom she might have been acquainted,” Monk answered, still hardly any emotion in his voice.
“When you say ‘women,’ do you mean prostitutes?” Coniston pressed.
Monk’s face was bland. Probably only Rathbone could see the tiny muscle ticking in his cheek.
“I mean laundresses, factory workers, peddlers, anyone who might have known her,” he said.
“Were you successful?” Coniston inquired courteously.
“Yes,” Monk told him. “She was identified as Zenia Gadney, a middle-aged woman who lived quietly, by herself, at Fourteen Copenhagen Place, just beyond Limehouse Cut. She was known to several other people in the street.”
“How did she support herself?” Coniston was still calm and polite, but the tension in him was not missed by the jury. Watching them, Rathbone could feel it himself.
“She didn’t,” Monk answered. “There was a man who called on her once a month, and gave her sufficient funds for her needs, which appeared to be modest. We found no evidence of her having earned any money other than that, except for the very occasional small sewing job, which might have been as much for goodwill and companionship as for money.” Monk’s face was somber, his voice quiet, as if he too mourned not only her terrible death, but the seeming futility of her life.
Knowing him as he did, Rathbone had no difficulty reading the emotions in his face and his choice of words. He wondered if Coniston read it also. Would he judge him with any accuracy?
Coniston hesitated a moment, then went on. “I assume that, as a matter of course, you attempted to identify this man, and the kind of relationship he had with her?”
“Of course,” Monk answered. “He was Dr. Joel Lambourn, of Lower Park Street, Greenwich.”
“I see,” Coniston said quickly. “That would be the late husband of the accused, Mrs. Dinah Lambourn?”
Monk’s face was a blank slate. “Yes.”
“Did you go to see Mrs. Lambourn? Ask her about her husband’s connection with Mrs. Gadney?” Coniston said innocently. “It must have been unpleasant for you to have to inform her of her husband’s connection with the dead woman.” There was a touch of pity in his voice now.
“Yes, of course I did,” Monk answered him. His own expression was ironed clear of compassion as much as he could, and yet it still shone through.
The jury watched intently. Even Pendock in the judge’s seat leaned forward a little. There was a sigh of breath in the gallery, as if the tension had become too great.
“And her reaction?” Coniston prompted a little sharply, as if he was annoyed at having to ask.
“At first she said she did not know Mrs. Gadney,” Monk replied. “Then she admitted that she was aware that her husband had supported her until his death two months earlier.”
“She knew!” Coniston said loudly and clearly, even half turning toward the gallery so no one in the whole courtroom could have missed it. He swung back toward Monk. “Mrs. Lambourn knew that her husband had been visiting and paying Zenia Gadney for years?”
“She said so,” Monk agreed.
Rathbone made a small note on his paper in front of him.
“But first she denied it?” Coniston pressed. “Was she embarrassed? Angry? Humiliated? Afraid, even?”
Rathbone considered objecting on the grounds that such a judgment was not in Monk’s expertise, then changed his mind. It would be futile, merely drawing attention to his own desperation.
The shadow of a smile crossed Monk’s face, and then disappeared. “I don’t know. She was in the grip of some powerful emotion, but I have no way of knowing what it was. It could easily have been shock and horror at the manner of Zenia Gadney’s death.”
“Or remorse?” Coniston added.
Rathbone started to rise to his feet.
Pendock saw him. “Mr. Coniston, you are speculating inappropriately. Please restrict yourself to questions the witness can answer.”
“I apologize, my lord,” Coniston said contritely. He looked up at Monk again. “But it would be accurate to say that Mrs. Lambourn was in a state of extreme emotion, Mr. Monk?”
“Yes.”
“Considering what you had learned of Dr. Lambourn’s connection with the victim, and that Mrs. Lambourn at some point or other had become aware of it, did you take steps to find out if Mrs. Lambourn had ever visited Zenia Gadney herself?”
“Yes.” Monk’s face was tight with unhappiness, but he did not evade the answer. “Several witnesses saw someone answering her description in Copenhagen Place the day before Zenia Gadney’s corpse was found on the pier. They say she was making inquiries to find Mrs. Gadney, specifically in the shops.”
Coniston nodded slowly. “She was searching to find the victim. Did anyone mention her state of mind? Please be exact, Mr. Monk.”
“She was in great distress,” Monk replied. “Two or three people described her as behaving wildly. That was why they remembered her.”
“Did you ask Mrs. Lambourn about this?”
“Of course.”
“And her answer?”
“At first she told me that she had been at a soirée with a friend. I visited the friend, who told me otherwise.”
“Is it possible that this friend was mistaken-or worse, that she lied?” Coniston pressed.
“No,” Monk said flatly. “I merely asked her where she had been at that day and time, and she told me. She was in company with many other people, and we have since verified her whereabouts. There was no such soirée as Mrs. Lambourn said she attended.”
“So she lied?” Coniston said, again loudly and clearly.
“Yes.”
Coniston smiled very slightly.
“To sum up, Commander Monk, your evidence is that the accused, Mrs. Dinah Lambourn, knew that her husband had visited the victim for many years, and paid her money on a regular basis. On the day before the murder she went to the street on which the victim lived, searching for her, asking people where she could find her. Several people told you that she was in a state of great distress, almost hysterical. When you asked her about this, she lied to you and said she was somewhere else, which you have proved to be untrue. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Monk said miserably.
“At that point, did you arrest her and charge her with the murder of Zenia Gadney?”
“Yes. She said she had not killed her, and insisted that she had not been to Copenhagen Place,” Monk replied.
“Thank you, Commander Monk,” Coniston said with visible satisfaction. He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”