“I wondered afterward if perhaps he had indulged in the use of opium far more than we guessed at the time.” Herne was answering the next question. “I’m sorry to say that. I feel very guilty that I did not take his whole breakdown far more gravely than I did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Herne.” Again Coniston bowed to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone thanked him and took his place in the center of the floor, like a gladiator in the arena-exposed. “You mentioned opium, Mr. Herne. Were you aware that Dr. Lambourn was using it?”
“Not until after his death!” Herne said quickly.
“But you just said that you blamed yourself for not having realized that he was using it so much. How could you be expected to do that, if you were not aware that he was using it at all?”
“I meant that maybe I should have been aware,” Herne corrected himself.
“Could he have used more than he was aware of himself?” Rathbone suggested.
Herne looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Wasn’t his research into the issue of opium being available in patent medicines, purchasable on any high street in the country, but without labeling to allow the person buying to know-”
Coniston jerked up to his feet. “My lord, Dr. Lambourn’s work was confidential. This is not an appropriate place to debate what has not yet been proved as to its accuracy.”
“Yes, your objection is noted, Mr. Coniston.” Pendock turned to Rathbone. “This kind of questioning is irrelevant, Sir Oliver. You cannot connect it with the murder of Zenia Gadney. Are you suggesting that Mrs. Lambourn was somehow affected by taking opium incorrectly labeled, to the extent that she is not guilty for her acts?”
“No, my lord. But my learned friend raised the question of taking opium-”
“Yes,” Pendock said quickly. “Mr. Coniston, Sir Oliver did not object to your reference, but I do. It has nothing to do with the murder of Zenia Gadney. Please restrict yourself to that subject. You are wasting the court’s time and patience, and run the risk of confusing the jury. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have anything more to ask the witness that has bearing on the issue at trial.”
Rathbone stood in the middle of the floor and stared up at Pendock in his magnificent seat. His full-bottomed white wig and scarlet robes marked him out as a man set apart, a man with superior power. He saw in Pendock’s face that he was immovable on the subject. It was a strange, chill moment of understanding. Pendock was not impartial; he had his own agenda, perhaps even his orders.
“No more questions, my lord,” Rathbone replied. He turned and walked back to his seat. It was at that moment, facing the gallery, that he saw Sinden Bawtry staring across the heads of the people in front of him, directly at Pendock.
At the end of the day Rathbone went to see Dinah in the prison. As her lawyer, he was allowed to speak to her alone. As soon as the cell door clanged shut, closing them into the narrow space with its echoing stone and stale smell, he began. Time was short, and precious.
“When did you first know about your husband and Zenia Gadney?” he asked. “You are fighting for your life. Don’t lie to me now. Believe me, you cannot afford it.”
She looked ashen pale, her eyes hollow, her whole body tense, but there was no wavering in her. He could not imagine what effort that cost her.
“I don’t remember exactly. About fifteen years ago,” she replied.
“And is what your sister-in-law said true? He wanted certain practices from you that you were not prepared to give?”
A quick anger flared up in her eyes. “No! Joel was … gentle … perfectly normal. He would never have said anything like that to Amity. One does not discuss such a thing, even if it were true!”
Rathbone looked at her closely. She was angry, defensive-but of Joel, or of herself? Did she deny it so fiercely because it was a lie, or because it was horribly and painfully true? He wanted to believe her.
“Then why did he go to her for all those years, and pay her?” he asked. Everything might hang on that answer.
She blinked, but she did not lower her eyes. “She was a friend. She … used to be respectable, married. She had an accident, and was in a lot of pain. She became addicted to opium. She …” Dinah drew in a deep breath, and began again. “Her husband was a friend of Joel’s. When Zenia took to the streets, Joel helped her, financially. He did not tell Amity because she was living elsewhere at that time, and it was none of her concern. Anyway, she and Joel were never close, even growing up. He was seven years older than she and they had little in common. He was always studious, she was not.” She shook her head briefly. “And why would he tell her such a thing? He was a doctor. He kept confidences. He told me only to explain why he went to Limehouse, and why he gave her money to live on.”
He almost believed her. But there was something in the tension of her neck, the way her eyes never wavered from his, that left him fearing it was only part of the truth, and there was something vital that she had deliberately left out.
Yet Hester had told him that Zenia had said to Gladys that she had been married at one time, and her drinking had ended it. If the problem had been opium, why had she not said so? Or had Gladys simply assumed it was drink because of Zenia’s pity for the woman drunk in the street?
It fitted together perfectly-almost!
“Mrs. Lambourn,” Rathbone said earnestly, “you have no more time left to keep secrets, no matter how painful. You are fighting for your life, and believe me, the fact that you are a woman will not save you. If you are found guilty, three Sundays after the verdict is passed, you will walk to the gallows.”
She was so white he thought she was going to faint. He felt brutal, and yet she left him no choice if he was to have any chance at all of saving her.
“For God’s sake, tell me the truth!” he said desperately.
“That is the truth!” Her voice was so strangled in her throat he could barely hear it. “Joel took money to her every month, so she could survive without resorting to prostitution.”
“Can you prove that? Any part of it?” he demanded.
“Of course not. How could I?”
“Did you know the money went regularly?” He was clutching at straws.
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Yes. It was paid on the twenty-first of every month. It was in the household ledger.”
“Entered as what?”
“Under her initials-Z.G. He did not lie to me, Sir Oliver.”
He could see that that was what she believed. But then how could she bear to believe differently? What woman in her place would?
“Unfortunately there is no proof of that which we could show the court,” he said quietly. “The fact that he told you he gave her the money as an act of friendship does not prove that that was the truth. What happened to Zenia’s husband? Why did he not provide for her?”
“He’s dead,” she said simply, an unexpected finality of grief in her face.
“What was his name?”
“I … I don’t know.”
This time he was sure she was lying; he just could not understand why.
He changed the subject. “Why did you tell the police that you were at a soirée with Mrs. Moulton when you knew she would not support that? It was not only a lie; it was one you were bound to be caught in.”
She looked down at her hands. “I know.”
“Did you panic?” he asked more gently.
“No,” she whispered.
“What on earth did you hope to gain by speaking to Zenia?” he persisted. “What did you think she would tell you about your husband? Did you think he left papers from his report with her? Or that somehow she had helped him? Did she know something about opium that would have validated his findings?”
She faced him again. “I didn’t go to Copenhagen Place. I don’t know who that woman was. Clearly she tried to look like me. There’s not much point in bringing the shopkeeper and other people in to testify, because they’ll say what everybody expects them to-and what they will now believe is the truth. But I did not go. That I know as well as I know I’m sitting here.”