A Sunless Sea (10 page)

Who else could Monk ask? Amity’s husband, Barclay Herne, would be too tied by family bonds to answer freely, even if his opinion were more measured. Who had been in charge of the organization that requested Lambourn’s report? They would have at least a professional
opinion as to Lambourn’s judgment, if not his personal life. Monk resolved to speak to them.

I
T DID NOT TAKE
more than a few inquiries to learn that the government minister concerned was Sinden Bawtry, a gifted and charismatic man fast rising in political circles. He had a vast personal fortune and donated generously to many causes, especially cultural and artistic ones. His collection of fine paintings, and occasional donations of one or the other of them to museums, earned him much admiration.

But gaining half an hour of his time was less easy. It was late afternoon when Monk was shown into his office. He had had to stretch the truth a little as to the likelihood of Bawtry’s information being able to help solve the murder of the woman on Limehouse Pier. He kicked his heels for three-quarters of an hour in the outer waiting room, growing ever more impatient.

He was expecting Bawtry to be a middle-aged man of austere disposition. But when he was finally summoned into Bawtry’s office, he was met instead by a man whose vitality seemed to fill the room as he came forward and grasped Monk’s hand.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said warmly. “Some people have no idea how to put things briefly. They think the more words they use the more important you will think their business.” He smiled. “What can I do for you, Mr. Monk? Your message said it is to do with the late Dr. Joel Lambourn, and a possible connection with this appalling murder on Limehouse Pier. You have me puzzled as to what that connection could possibly be.”

“There may not be any.” Monk decided instantly not to try any deceit with this man, however slight. His handsome head and ready charm did not mask his intelligence or his consciousness of power. “But it appears that Dr. Lambourn knew the murder victim quite well,” he went on. “I have received differing opinions of Dr. Lambourn from those close to him. I need an informed but more impartial view to balance them, particularly regarding the value of his work, and thus possibly his state of mind in the last year or so of his life.”

“The opium report,” Bawtry said with a slight nod of understanding. “I didn’t know Lambourn personally. But I believe he was an unusually likable man, and affection can distort judgment, no matter how much you intend to be fair.”

“Exactly,” Monk agreed. He found himself relaxing a little. It was so much easier to deal with intellect unclouded by emotion.

Bawtry gave a tiny shrug, in a sort of wordless apology.

“A brilliant man, if a little unworldly,” he continued frankly. “Something of a crusader, and in this case, he allowed his intense pity for the victims of ignorance and desperation to color his overall view of the problem.” He lowered his voice a little. “To be honest, we do need some better control of what is put into medicines that anyone can buy, and certainly more information as to how much opium is in the medicines given to infants.”

He looked bleak. “But that is one of the main reasons we couldn’t accept Lambourn’s report. Some of his examples were extreme, and based more on anecdote than medical histories. It would have done more harm to the cause than good, because it could so easily have been discredited.”

He met Monk’s eyes with a steady gaze. “I’m sure you have the same problem preparing a criminal case for the courts. You must offer only the evidence that will stand up to cross-examination, the physical evidence you can produce, the witnesses whom people will believe. Anyone that the defense can destroy may lose you the jury.” He smiled, the question in his gesture. “He was a liability to us. I wish it had been different. He was a decent man.”

Then all the light vanished from his face. “I was stunned by his suicide. I had no idea he was so close to despair, but I have to believe there was something else far different from the failure of the report behind that. Perhaps something to do with this miserable business in Limehouse with the woman? I hope that isn’t the case—it would be so sordid. But I don’t know. My assessment of him is professional, not personal.”

“Do you know what happened to the report?” Monk asked. “I would like to see a copy of it.”

Bawtry looked surprised. “Do you think it can possibly have some bearing on the death of this woman? I find it hard to believe her connection with Lambourn is anything but coincidental.”

“Probably not,” Monk agreed. “But it would be remiss of me not to follow every lead. Perhaps she knew something? He may have spoken with her, even confided something to her concerning it.”

Bawtry frowned. “Like what? Do you mean the name of someone concerned with opium and patent medicines?”

“It’s possible.”

“I’ll find out if there is a copy still extant. If there is, I’ll see that you are given access to it.”

“Thank you.” There was nothing more that Monk could ask, and he had exhausted nearly all the time Bawtry could give him. He was not sure if it was what he had wanted to hear or hoped to discover, but he could not argue with it. It was careful, compassionate, and infinitely reasonable.

“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

Bawtry’s smile returned. “I hope it is of some use to you.”

I
N THE MORNING
M
ONK
went to the office of the coroner who had dealt with Lambourn’s suicide. The findings of the inquest were public record and he had no difficulty in obtaining the papers.

“Very sad,” the clerk said to him solemnly. He was a young man who took his position gravely. His already receding hair was slicked back over his head and his dark suit was immaculate. “Anyone choosing to end their own life has to make one stop and think.”

Monk nodded, unable to find any reply worth making. He turned to the medical section of the report. Apparently Lambourn had taken a fairly large dose of opium, then slit his wrists and bled to death. The police surgeon had testified to it succinctly and no one had questioned either his accuracy or his skill. Indeed, there was no reason to.

The coroner had had no hesitation in passing a verdict of suicide, adding the usual compassion of presuming that the balance of the dead man’s mind had been affected, and therefore he was to be pitied rather than condemned. It was a pious form of words so customary as to be almost without meaning.

The commiserations were polite but formal. Lambourn had been a man much respected by his colleagues and no one wished to speculate aloud as to what might have been the reasons behind his death. Dinah
Lambourn had not been called upon to say anything. The only witness of any personal nature had been his brother-in-law, Barclay Herne, who said that Lambourn had been depressed about the findings of his latest inquiry, and that the government’s inability to accept his recommendations had troubled him rather more than was to be expected. Herne added that he regretted the fact deeply.

The coroner offered no further comment. The matter was closed.

“Thank you,” Monk said to the clerk, giving him back the papers. “There must be a police report. Where is that?”

The clerk looked blank. “Not really a police matter, sir. No one at fault. Stands to reason.”

“Who found the body?” Monk asked. He expected the man to say it was Dinah, and he tried to picture her horror—the initial disbelief.

“A man out walking his dog,” the clerk said. “Might not have been seen for ages, except for the dog smelling it. They do … smell death, I mean.” He shook his head, shivering a little.

“Where was he found?” Monk asked, somewhat surprised. He had assumed Lambourn would either have been at home or at work.

“Greenwich Park,” the young man replied. “One Tree Hill. There’s more than one tree on it, actually. He was in a bit of a dip, up near the top. Sitting there, with his back leaned against the trunk.”

Monk was silent for a moment. What had happened to this man that he had abandoned his wife and daughters and gone by himself into the park, in the cold and the dark, then taken opium, waited for it to take effect, then cut his wrists so he bled to death where he would lie until some stranger found him? Forcing someone he knew, who cared, to be called in to identify what remained of him, and carry the news to his family. By all the accounts Monk had heard so far, Lambourn had been a gentle and considerate man. What had made him do something so unbearably selfish?

“The coroner’s report doesn’t mention his health,” he said to the clerk. “Could he have had some terminal illness?”

The clerk looked taken aback. “No idea, sir. The cause of death was perfectly obvious.”

“The immediate cause, yes, but not the reason,” Monk pointed out.

The clerk raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps that isn’t our concern, sir. Poor man obviously had something happen in his life so bad that he felt
he couldn’t live with it. Nothing we can do to help, except afford him a little privacy. It can’t matter now, anyway.” The implied criticism was clear in his tone as well as his choice of words.

Monk felt a flicker of anger. “It matters because Dr. Lambourn seems to have been the only person well acquainted with the victim of a very violent and obscene murder in Limehouse,” he replied a little abruptly. “I need to know if he was aware of anything that led up to it, or if someone at least believed that he did.”

He saw the clerk’s look of alarm with momentary guilt. He had no evidence that understanding Joel Lambourn’s death would help him know who had murdered Zenia Gadney, or why. It bothered him because there were so many aspects of their relationship that did not make sense—but perhaps it was part of a greater whole he wasn’t seeing yet. And so far he had nothing else to follow, unless Orme found something, or a witness came forward.

The clerk was shaking his head as if to get rid of the idea that was forcing itself upon him. “Dr. Lambourn was a scientist, sir, a very respectable man. Worked for the government trying to get information for them. Nothing personal, not that sort of thing. It was about medicines, not about people. He wouldn’t have cared in the slightest about murders, or the sort of people who get involved in such affairs. You said the crime was ‘obscene.’ That wouldn’t be Dr. Lambourn, sir.”

“How long had he been dead before he was found?” Monk asked.

The clerk looked at the papers again, then up at Monk. “Doesn’t say, sir. I imagine it didn’t affect the verdict, and they wanted to be as discreet as possible. Details distress the family. Doesn’t help any.”

“Who was the police surgeon?”

“Ah … Dr. Wembley, sir.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask at the police station.” The clerk’s disapproval was now undisguised. He clearly considered Monk to be reopening a case that was decidedly closed, and believed that decency required it to remain so.

Monk noted the facts he needed, thanked the man, and left.

A
T THE POLICE STATION
they gave him Wembley’s address, but it took him another hour to find the man’s surgery and then gain the opportunity to speak to him alone. Then Monk was introduced to a man well into his sixties, handsome, with thick gray hair and mustache.

“Thank you.” Monk accepted the seat Wembley offered him, relaxing back into the chair and crossing his legs.

“What can I do for the River Police?” Wembley asked curiously. “Don’t you have your own medical people?”

“There is a case of yours that may have relevance to one of ours,” Monk answered. “I dare say you’ve heard of the woman who was murdered and mutilated on Limehouse Pier?”

“Good God, yes! The newspapers are full of it. Giving you chaps a hard time.” There was commiseration in both his face and his voice.

Monk decided to be frank about it. He judged Wembley would be offended by anything less.

“The only person we can find who knew the woman is unfortunately himself dead,” he began. “It seems he supported her financially. He was her only known client, and saw her regularly once a month.”

“She was a prostitute,” Wembley concluded. “One client only? That’s unusual. But if he’s dead already then he can’t have killed her. Isn’t it reasonable to assume she picked up someone else, and was unfortunate enough to run into a lunatic?”

“Yes, that’s a fair deduction,” Monk agreed. “My men are following that line of inquiry, from the little there is to go on. So far it’s a solitary case. No reports of anyone unusually violent or disturbed in the area. No other women attacked lately. No previous crimes similar enough to this one to assume it’s the same perpetrator.”

Wembley bit his lip. “Have to start somewhere, I suppose, but it does sound pretty violent for a first crime.”

“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The alternative is that it was someone she knew, and the hatred was personal.”

“Who the devil did the poor woman know to hate her enough to rip her entrails out?” Wembley’s face creased with revulsion. “And why in such an open place as the pier? Wouldn’t he risk being seen by any passing ferry, or lighterman?”