Runcorn looked stunned. He shook his head. “You want me to testify to something about her? I can’t. She seemed to me one of the sanest women I ever met: a woman who loved her husband very deeply indeed and was shattered by his death. She could hardly believe it.” His own face was crumpled with grief. “I can’t imagine how anyone deals with the fact that the person they love most in the world, and trust, has taken their own life, without even letting you know they were hurting, let alone wanted to die.”
“Neither can I.” Monk refused to think of Hester. “Imagine what it did to her to hear of his fifteen-year affair with a middle-aged prostitute in Limehouse.”
“Did she know?”
“Yes. Her sister-in-law says she did, and Mrs. Lambourn herself admits it.”
Runcorn sat motionless in his chair as if part of him were paralyzed.
“Does she admit to killing this … Gadney woman?”
“No. She says she didn’t. She swore she was with a friend of hers at the time, a Mrs. Moulton, at a soirée …”
“There you are!” Runcorn was overcome with relief. Finally he relaxed, easing himself in the chair.
“And Mrs. Moulton says she was at an art exhibition, and under pressure, she admitted that Dinah Lambourn was not with her,” Monk told him.
Runcorn stiffened again.
“What do you want from me? I can’t testify against her. I know nothing about her but her dignity and her grief.” Runcorn met his eyes with frankness, and quite open pity.
This was the most difficult part. Monk found himself uncharacteristically
reluctant to offend Runcorn. It surprised him. In the past he had been happy enough actually to seek opportunities to quarrel.
“She begged me to ask Oliver Rathbone to defend her,” he began a little awkwardly. “He agreed. Now he’s asked me to help him. I don’t know if he thinks she could be innocent. Nothing in the facts so far supports that. But the whole issue is full of ambiguities, and it matters far more than merely finding justice for Zenia Gadney.”
“ ‘Merely’?” Runcorn asked, his eyes wide.
Monk did not defend his choice of word. “It is a matter of justice for Dinah Lambourn also, and for Joel Lambourn, and it pertains to the whole question of the Pharmacy Act.”
Runcorn frowned. “Joel Lambourn? I don’t understand.”
Monk plunged in. “Dinah says he did not take his own life. She says he was murdered because of the report he made on the sale of opium and the damage it does, particularly the deaths of so many babies and small children. She also claims that the same people who murdered him murdered Zenia Gadney, and framed her, in order to prevent her from raising questions about Lambourn’s death, or raising too much interest in his report. The report itself seems to have vanished—all copies, and his notes.”
Runcorn did not interrupt, just sat forward a little in his chair, tense and puzzled, his body slightly hunched.
“And, of course, if his affair with Zenia Gadney were to become public, which obviously it will,” Monk went on, “then that provides an excellent motive for his suicide.” He watched Runcorn’s face and saw the revulsion, the anger, and then the pity. This was a Runcorn he did not know, a man of gentleness he had never seen before. Was it because Runcorn was utterly changed, or because something in Monk had changed, and he only now perceived what had always been there?
Runcorn thought for several moments before he answered. When he did, his words were carefully chosen, and his eyes did not leave Monk’s face.
“I wasn’t really happy about the verdict on Lambourn,” he admitted. “I wanted to look into it more carefully, tie up all the ends.” He shook his head very slightly. “Not that I could see any other answer. He
was up there by himself, sitting on the ground half tumbled over, his back against that tree. His wrists were slashed and covered in blood. His clothes, too. I don’t even know why I wanted to look any further, just that it’s such a hell of a thing for a man with a family to do to himself.” He stopped, as if he needed a space to weigh what he meant to say next.
Monk thought of Runcorn’s solitary life and wondered if he had imagination of what it would be like to have a woman love him as Dinah Lambourn had loved her husband.
“The government was eager to close the whole thing as quickly as possible,” Runcorn continued. “They said his work was sensitive just at that time, and that he had made some very serious errors of judgment. I don’t know what errors precisely.” He looked puzzled. “We know he was collecting facts about the import and sale of opium, where it is available, and the way it is labeled, that type of thing. So what error in judgment could he have made?”
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “Perhaps as to how much proof he needed before he accepted a story? Whether records of doctors were accurate or properly kept? Did they say?”
“No.” Runcorn shook his head. “Just that for the sake of his reputation, and his family, it needed to be closed as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. I wasn’t happy about the details, but I could understand their wishes, and the need for compassion. Are you saying there is a strong chance it is themselves they were protecting, not Dinah and her daughters?”
“I’m not sure.” Monk was compelled to be honest. “And I need to be. Did you ever see this report of his?”
“No. They searched his house. I never did. The report would be government property anyway. They commissioned it and paid him for it. They said it was based on his emotional beliefs rather than scientific gathering of evidence, but that’s all: no details.” Runcorn sighed. “They suggested, without actually saying so, that it was evidence of the imbalance of his mind. They didn’t seem surprised that he had taken his life.”
“Did they mention his affair with Zenia Gadney?”
Runcorn shook his head. “No. They said he was eccentric in several
ways. Perhaps that is what they were hinting at.” He looked grieved. “What do you want to do?”
“Go over the evidence again,” Monk answered. “See if there is any sense at all in Dinah Lambourn’s story, anything that raises questions, or doesn’t fit in with suicide, or the theory that he was losing his mind or was emotionally unbalanced.”
“Are you sure he had an affair with this woman in Limehouse?” Runcorn’s face still mirrored his disbelief. Surely Runcorn had been a policeman long enough to know that such an apparent aberration was in fact quite possible?
“Dinah denied knowing about it at first, but then she admitted it,” Monk repeated.
“It doesn’t sound right,” Runcorn insisted, looking at the desk, then up at Monk again. “I’d welcome the chance to go over it all piece by piece, to see if there were mistakes, but we’ll have to do it very quietly and unofficially, or we’ll get the government stepping in and blocking us.” There was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt.
Monk was not surprised, except at his courage. The Runcorn he had known in the past would never have defied authority, either openly or behind their backs. He held out his hand.
Runcorn took it. There was no need to give words to their agreement.
“I can get away at four o’clock,” Runcorn said. “Come to my house at five.” He wrote down an address in Blackheath on a small piece of paper. “I’ll tell you everything I know, and we can plan where to begin.”
M
ONK WAS EVEN MORE
surprised when he arrived at the house at five minutes before five that afternoon. It was a respectable family home on a quiet street. The garden was well kept and from the outside it had an air of comfort, even permanence. He would never have associated it with Runcorn.
He was completely taken aback when the door was opened not by Runcorn, or a maid, but by Melisande Ewart, the beautiful widow he and Runcorn had questioned as a witness in a murder some time ago.
She had insisted on speaking to them when her overbearing brother had tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent her. Monk had realized at the time that Runcorn had admired her far more than he wished to, and that he would have been mortified with embarrassment had she guessed it. Indeed it was too sensitive even for Monk to have made any remark at the time. If the situation had been less delicate, Monk would have joked about it. Runcorn was the man least likely to fall in love, let alone with a woman of superior social rank and position, even though she had had no money and was dependent upon a brother she found oppressive.
Now she smiled at him with slight amusement and perhaps the faintest flush of color in her cheeks. “Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How nice to see you again. Please do come in. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea while you discuss the case?”
He found his tongue and thanked her, accepting the offer of tea. A few moments later he was sitting with Runcorn in a small but charming parlor with all the signs of well-accustomed domestic peace. There were pictures on the walls; a vase of flowers on the sideboard, arranged with some artistry; and a sewing box stacked neatly in one corner. The books on the shelf were different sizes, chosen for content, not effect.
Monk found himself smiling. He could not remark on the difference he saw in Runcorn, the inner peace that had eluded the man all his life until now, and was suddenly so overwhelmingly present. Monk could not remember their early friendship, or how it had changed to become so bitter. That was part of his lost past. But he had found enough evidence of his own abrasiveness, the quickness of his tongue, the searing wit, the physical grace, the ease of manner Runcorn could never emulate. Runcorn was awkward, had always been in Monk’s shadow and increasingly lacking in self-confidence with each social failure.
Yet now none of it mattered. Runcorn had taken the past off like an ill-fitting coat and let it drop. Monk was far happier for him than he would have imagined possible. He would probably never know how Runcorn had wooed and won Melisande, who was beautiful, more gracious and infinitely more polished than he. It did not matter.
Runcorn shifted a little self-consciously, as if guessing his thoughts.
“These are my notes from the case.” He offered Monk a sheaf of neatly written papers.
“Thank you.” Monk took them and read. Melisande brought the tea, with hot buttered toast and small cakes. She left again with only a word of consideration, no attempt to intrude. They both started to eat.
Runcorn waited patiently in silence until Monk had finished reading and looked up.
“You saw Lambourn where they found him?” he said to Runcorn.
“Yes,” Runcorn agreed. “At least, that’s what the police said.”
Monk caught the hesitation. “You doubt it? Why?”
Runcorn spoke slowly, as if re-creating the scene in his mind. “He sat a little to one side, as if he had lost his balance. His back was against the trunk of the tree, his hands beside him, and his head lolling to one side.”
“Isn’t that what you’d expect?” Monk said with a whisper of doubt. “Why do you think they might have moved him?”
“I thought at first it was just that he didn’t look comfortable.” Runcorn was picking words with uncharacteristic care. “I haven’t seen many suicides, but those who have done it relatively painlessly looked … comfortable. Why would you sit so awkwardly for such a thing?”
“Perhaps he fell awkwardly as he was dying?” Monk suggested. “As you said, as his strength ebbed away, he lost his balance.”
“His wrists and forearms were covered with blood,” Runcorn went on, his face puckered a little at the memory. “And there was some on the front of the thighs of his trousers, but more on the ground.” He looked up at Monk, his eyes steady. “The ground was soaked with blood. But there was no knife. They said he must have thrown it somewhere, or even staggered and dropped it. But there was no trail of blood leading to where he lay. And why on earth would you throw a knife away after you’ve cut your wrists? Would you even have the strength to hold it, let alone hurl it far enough so no one would find it?”
Monk tried to imagine it, and could not.
“What time was it?” Monk asked.
“Early morning, about nine when I got there.”
“Then whoever found him must have found him very early,” Monk
observed. “About seven or so. What were they doing in the park on One Tree Hill at seven on an October morning?”
“Out walking,” Runcorn answered. “Exercise. Hadn’t slept well and went out to clear his head before the day, so he told us.”
“Could he have taken the knife?”
“Not unless he’s a lunatic,” Runcorn said drily. “Come on, Monk! What sane man steals the knife a suicide has just slashed his wrists with? He was a respectable middle-aged man. Worked for the government at something, I don’t remember what, but he told us.”
“For the government?” Monk said quickly.
Runcorn caught his meaning. “I looked for blood leading to the place. There wasn’t any. And the knife wasn’t ever found. I looked for it everywhere within a hundred yards of where he was. It’s open ground. If it had been there we’d have seen it.”
“An animal carried it away?” Monk suggested without conviction.
Runcorn curved his lips down. “Taking the knife but not disturbing the blood on the corpse? You’re slipping, Monk!”
“So who took the knife, and why? What were they doing there? Was it at the time of this death, or afterward?” Monk gave words to what he knew they were both thinking. “That’s where we begin. There’s a lot to follow.”
“I’ll go back over the witnesses,” Runcorn offered, his face bleak. “We’ll have to be discreet, as if we’re trying to close any door in the face of this new trial. The government men were …” He shrugged. “I assumed they were strong-arming me out of compassion for the Lambourns, but now it’s beginning to look as if that was their guise for keeping me out.”
Monk nodded. “I’m taking some time off. It’s overdue. Give me the names and addresses of witnesses, and I’ll say exactly that: I’m trying to make certain that Dinah Lambourn’s defense doesn’t open anything up.” He was not certain if the excuse would be believed, or if he would be fobbed off with the same stories, but he could think of no better way to start their investigation.
He bade Runcorn farewell, and thanked Melisande. Then he went out into the darkness of the quiet street, prepared to walk until he could
find a hansom to take him home, although in truth it was not so very far.