Bawtry gave a slight shiver. “You paint a terrible picture, Sir Oliver. However, it is believable. But surely you cannot possibly find any way whatsoever to suggest that she then killed herself? Whatever her remorse afterward, to have inflicted those mutilations upon herself would surely have been impossible? And in that case, how do you explain her death?”
“Of course,” Rathbone agreed. “Anyway, the surgeon is of the opinion that the mutilation happened after she was already dead, thank God. No, I think she may have tried to blackmail Herne for more money, and he realized that he had to kill her, not only for financial reasons, but because if he did not, he would never be safe from her. Possibly he always intended to finish her off.”
Bawtry’s lips were tight, but he nodded his head very slightly. “It is hideous, but I admit I can see how it might be true. What is it that you wish from me?”
“Do you know anything at all that would disprove the outline I have just given?” Rathbone asked. “Anything about Lambourn, or more probably, about Barclay Herne?”
Bawtry sat silently for some time, concentrating intently. Finally he looked up at Monk, then at Rathbone.
“No, Sir Oliver, I know of nothing. I don’t know whether your theory is true or not, but there is nothing within my knowledge that makes it impossible. You have created more than reasonable doubt as to Dinah Lambourn’s guilt. I think both judge and jury will be obliged to grant as much.”
Rathbone felt the ease come through him at last.
“Thank you, Mr. Bawtry. I am most grateful for your time, sir.”
Bawtry inclined his head in acknowledgment, then rose to his feet and left the room.
Monk looked across at Rathbone. “Ready for the next step?” he said softly.
Rathbone took a deep breath. “Yes.”
When the court resumed in the early afternoon, Rathbone called his final witness, Amity Herne. She took the stand with dignity and remarkable composure. She was wearing a very elegant dark dress, which was not quite black, the color of wine in shadow. It became her, a dramatic contrast with her fair hair and skin. She gave her name, as before, and was reminded that she was still under oath.
Rathbone apologized for recalling her. Coniston objected and Pendock overruled him, directing Rathbone to proceed.
“Thank you, my lord.” He turned to Amity. “Mrs. Herne, you testified earlier that you and your brother, Joel Lambourn, did not know each other well in your early adulthood, because you lived some distance apart. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she said calmly.
“But in the last ten years or so you both lived in London, and therefore were able to visit far more frequently?”
“Yes. Perhaps once a month or so,” she agreed.
“And of course you were aware of his marriage to Zenia Gadney?”
“Yes. But I have been forced to be discreet about it, for reasons that must be obvious to you.”
“Of course. But you knew, and you were aware that Dinah Lambourn also knew?” he asked, forcing himself to be polite, even gentle.
“Yes. I have said as much.”
“And your brother, he knew where Zenia lived once they were no longer … together?”
“Yes.” She looked puzzled and a trifle irritated.
Rathbone smiled. “Had he ever mentioned the address to you?”
She hesitated. “Not … not specifically, that I recall.”
“Generally? For example, that it was in the Limehouse area?”
“I …” She gave a slight shrug. “I am not certain.”
“I ask because it appears that Dinah knew Zenia’s whereabouts closely enough to ask for her in Copenhagen Place. She did not wander around searching half London for her; she went almost immediately to the right street.”
“Then Joel must have mentioned it,” Amity replied. “You appear to have answered your own question, sir.”
“It appears that he made no secret of Zenia’s whereabouts,” Rathbone agreed. “Are you certain you were not aware? Or your husband, perhaps? Might your brother have confided in your husband, possibly in case something should happen to him, and he would need someone he could rely on to take care of Zenia if he were not able to?”
Amity drew in her breath sharply, as if some terrible thought had suddenly come into her mind. She gazed at Rathbone in horror.
“He … he might’ve.” She licked her lips to moisten them. Her hands tightened on the railing in front of her.
The tension in the courtroom crackled like the air before a thunderstorm. Every single one of the jurors was staring at Amity.
“But he was dining at the Atheneum on the night your brother was killed,” Rathbone went on.
“Yes. Yes, any number of gentlemen will testify to that,” she agreed, her voice a little husky.
“Just so. And on the night Zenia Gadney was killed?” he asked.
“I …” She bit her lip. Now she was trembling, but her eyes did not waver from his even for an instant. “I have no idea. He was not at home, that’s all I can say.”
Now there was rustle and movement everywhere. In the gallery people coughed and shifted position, each straining to move left or right so their view of the witness was uninterrupted. The jurors fidgeted.
Coniston was staring at Rathbone as if he had suddenly changed shape in front of his eyes.
“You don’t know where he was, Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone repeated.
“No …” Her voice wavered. She put her hand up to her mouth. She gulped, staring almost helplessly at Rathbone.
“Mrs. Herne-”
“No!” Her voice rose and she was shaking her head violently. “No. You cannot make me tell you any more. He is my husband.” She swiveled around in the witness box and pleaded with Pendock. “My lord, surely he cannot force me to speak against my husband, can he?”
It was the desperate cry of a wife in defense of the man to whom she had given her life and her loyalty, and it utterly condemned him.
Rathbone looked at the jurors. They were frozen in horror and sudden, appalling understanding. There was no doubt left anymore, only shock.
Then he swung round to the gallery and saw Barclay Herne, ashen-faced, eyes like black sockets in his head, trying to speak. But no words came.
On either side of him people moved away, grasping at coats and shawls, pulling them closer in case even a touch should contaminate them.
Pendock demanded order, his voice cracking a little.
Herne was on his feet, staring wildly as if seeking some rescue. “Bawtry!” he shouted desperately. “For God’s sake!”
Behind him, facing the judge and witness stand, Bawtry also rose to his feet, shaking his head as if in awful realization.
“I can’t help you,” he said in perfectly normal tones, but the sudden silence from the gallery made his voice audible.
Everyone was now staring at these two men, but no one could have missed seeing the doors swing open. Hester Monk came in, the gaunt figure of Alvar Doulting a step behind her.
Sinden Bawtry turned toward them as the sound of their entry caught his attention.
Doulting stared at Bawtry. Hester seemed to be half supporting him as he lifted one arm awkwardly to point at Bawtry.
“That’s him!” he said, gasping for breath. His body was shaking so badly he looked in danger of collapse. “That is the man who sold the opium and syringes to me, and to God knows how many others. I’ve watched too many of them die. Buried some of them in paupers’ graves. I’ll find one myself soon.”
The crowd erupted as pent-up terror and fury at last found release, people rising to their feet, crying out.
“Order!” Pendock shouted, also rising to his feet, his face scarlet.
But no one took any notice of him. The ushers tried to push their way through the crowds to help Bawtry, or at the very least to make sure he was not trampled.