A Sunless Sea (40 page)

“A doctor,” Hester said very slowly. “Or a member of the family.”

“Or his wife,” Orme said sadly.

No one argued.

“Now we’ve got until the day after Boxing Day to prove it,” Runcorn said, looking from one to the other of them. “If Sir Oliver can make the trial last that long.”

R
ATHBONE LAY AWAKE A
good deal of that night, his mind in turmoil. Monk had sent him regular notes to keep him aware of what he had discovered. But as yet there was no proof that could be presented in court.

Dinah’s only defense was that she believed her husband had been murdered because he discovered something that would ruin the reputation of someone, someone who would commit murder rather than be exposed. And she, in turn, was willing to risk her own life on the gallows in order to force the police and the court to find the truth.

When should Rathbone tell that to the jury? If he told them too soon it would have lost its power by the time he summed up. If he waited too long it would look like a desperate, last-minute invention.

He stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the total darkness, and felt as if he had lost control of the case. He must get it back. Even if he was actually working on trust that Dinah was innocent, and hope that Monk would find a thread of proof that he could unravel, he could not let Coniston know that. Above all he must not let the jury see it.

Monk’s note had spoken quite clearly of an opium addiction far more profound than even that of those who smoked it, one where the substance was injected directly into the bloodstream through a vein.
Someone was deliberately introducing people to it, in a time of their weakness because of physical or emotional agony, and then when they were dependent, exploiting that desperation.

It was an evil of almost limitless proportion, but it was not technically a crime in the eyes of the law. Monk had acknowledged that himself. So why kill Lambourn? What had he discovered that he must die for?

Rathbone had to guess the answer, and guess correctly. Then he could hope to spin out the trial until Monk found the beginning of proof. Rathbone would have built up the foundations of a case, and would have to add only the final piece that tied it all together and name the man behind the murders of both Lambourn and Zenia Gadney.

Would he be able to do that? He fell asleep at last with only the outline of a plan in his mind.

W
HEN THE TRIAL RESUMED
in the morning, Rathbone looked across at Sorley Coniston and saw the smooth pleasure in his face. As things were now, he could hardly lose.

Rathbone must begin to take control of the pace and the temper of the evidence now. The end of the week was Christmas. As it stood, the best verdict he could hope for was reasonable doubt, and looking across the room to the twelve men in the jury box, he could not see even one doubter among them. They sat motionless, grim-faced, as if steeling themselves to answer levelly that they were prepared to condemn a woman to death for what they believed she had done.

Rathbone had no other suspect even to suggest to them, but he had to create one. In his own mind it was a nameless, faceless assassin employed by someone guilty of wanting to destroy Lambourn’s credibility and see his report buried. Repeated like that, it sounded as desperate to Rathbone as it would to anyone else. He must give this person reality, ambitions, fear of loss, greed—evil.

Everyone came to order for Judge Pendock. Coniston rose to his feet and called his final witness. Rathbone had been advised who it was, as the law required, but he had no defense against what he knew the man would say. He had been hoping Coniston would not think to look for
him, but considering Amity Herne’s knowledge, and her loathing of Dinah Lambourn, it was to be expected.

Rathbone had managed to raise just a shadow of doubt as to whether Lambourn had taken his own life or whether, in view of the absence of a weapon or anything in which to dilute or drink the opium, there had been someone else present. No one had yet suggested the use of a syringe.

The new witness swore as to his name and occupation, and to tell the truth.

“Mr. Blakelock,” Coniston began, “you are a registrar of births, deaths, and marriages?”

“Yes, sir,” Blakelock answered. He was a handsome man, prematurely gray but otherwise wearing his years well.

“Did you register the marriage, eighteen years ago, of Dr. Joel Lambourn?”

“I did.”

“To whom?” Coniston asked.

There was no interest in the courtroom. Only Rathbone sat stiff, his eyes on the jury.

“Zenia Gadney,” Blakelock replied.

“Zenia Gadney?” Coniston repeated, his voice ringing out, high and sharp, as if the answer astonished him.

Even Pendock jolted forward, his jaw slack.

In the jury box there was a ripple of amazement. One man gasped and all but choked.

Coniston waited for the full impact to sink in, and then with a very slight smile he continued.

“And was that marriage dissolved, sir?”

“No,” Blakelock answered.

Coniston shrugged and made a wide, helpless gesture with his hands. “Then who is Dinah Lambourn, the mother of his children, and with whom he has lived for the last fifteen years, until his death?”

“I presume ‘his mistress’ would be the most appropriate term,” Blakelock replied.

“Then when Lambourn died, Zenia … Lambourn would be his widow, not the accused?” Coniston went on.

“Yes.”

“And so heir to his estate?” Coniston added.

Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, that is an assumption that Mr. Blakelock is not qualified to make, and indeed it is an error. If you wish it, I can call Dr. Lambourn’s solicitor, who will tell you that his estate is left to his daughters, Adah and Marianne. There was a small bequest, an annuity, to Zenia Gadney. It would amount to approximately the same amount as he gave her when he was alive.”

Pendock glared at him. “You were aware of this, Sir Oliver?”

“I was aware of the provisions of the will, my lord. It seemed a fairly obvious inquiry to make,” Rathbone answered.

Pendock drew in his breath to add something further, and then changed his mind. It would have been improper to ask what Dinah had confided in Rathbone, and the jury would draw their own conclusions anyway.

Coniston realized as much; he certainly had no need to win such minor skirmishes as this. “I apologize, my lord,” he said with a slight smile. “It was an assumption, and as my learned friend has pointed out, in this case, unjustified. Perhaps for the defense, he will call someone to prove that the accused was aware that her children would inherit? Then her very natural fear of being left destitute by her husband’s suicide would be set aside, leaving only the motive of an equally natural jealousy.”

Rathbone allowed a look of incredulity to cross his face.

“Is the prosecution suggesting that the accused was jealous of the woman she so obviously supplanted in Dr. Lambourn’s affections?” he asked. “Or perhaps that Zenia Gadney was so jealous, after all these years, that she attacked Dinah Lambourn? In which case the mutilation is repellent and unnecessary, but the blow that caused Mrs. Gadney’s death may very well be considered self-defense!”

“This is preposterous!” Coniston said with disbelief, but no apparent ill humor. “My lord—”

Pendock held up his hand. “Enough, Mr. Coniston. I can see for myself the absurdity of it.” He glared at Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, I will not have this grave and very terrible trial turned into a farce. The accused went to seek the victim where she lived. Whatever happened after she
found her ended in the victim’s death by violence, and then her hideous mutilation. These facts are beyond dispute. Is that the end of your case for the prosecution, Mr. Coniston?”

“Yes, my lord, it is.”

“Have you any questions for Mr. Blakelock?” Pendock turned to Rathbone.

“No, thank you, my lord.”

“Then we shall adjourn for luncheon. After that you may call your first witness for the defense.” Pendock turned to Blakelock. “Thank you. You may leave the stand.”

R
ATHBONE STOOD IN THE
center of the floor feeling as if he were in an arena waiting for lions, naked of armor and without a sword to attack. He had never felt so vulnerable before, even in cases where he knew his client was guilty. He realized with a shock that it was not his faith in Dinah that was wounded, perhaps critically, but his belief in himself. His confidence, and some of his hope, had bled away.

Now he must lay very careful suggestions of a powerful figure bent on protecting himself. And all the time, in everything, he must believe that Dinah was innocent, no matter how far against reason that seemed to be. It must be in his mind always that Lambourn discovered something in his research that imperiled a man of power, and he was murdered to silence him. It was made to look like suicide to discredit him. Zenia Gadney was murdered to destroy Dinah and her crusade to save Lambourn’s reputation, and therefore his cause.

He made himself smile, feeling as if it were ghastly on his face.

“I call Mrs. Helena Moulton.”

Helena Moulton was called by the usher. A moment later, she appeared and rather hesitantly climbed the steps up to the witness stand. She was clearly nervous. Her voice shook as she swore to tell the truth.

“Mrs. Moulton,” Rathbone began gently, “are you acquainted with the accused, Dinah Lambourn?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Moulton avoided looking up at the dock. She stared straight ahead of her at Rathbone as if her neck were fixed in a brace.

“Were you friends?” he pursued.

“I … yes. Yes, we were friends.” She gulped. She was very pale and her hands were locked together on the rail of the stand. The light glinted on the gems in her rings.

“Think back to your feelings during that friendship,” Rathbone began. He was painfully aware that Helena Moulton was embarrassed now about owning to having been Dinah’s friend, afraid the society in which she lived would then associate her with Dinah, as if testifying were somehow condoning what Dinah was accused of having done.

Rathbone did not believe her testimony would sway the case in Dinah’s favor, even that it would necessarily make any difference at all, but he needed every extra hour he could to stretch out the testimony of the few witnesses he had to create the outline of someone else to suspect. Perhaps even now Monk would find something that would prove this person’s existence. And curiously enough, Rathbone had almost as much faith in Runcorn as he did in Monk. There was stubbornness in the man that would cling on to the very end, especially because he was angry at having been used and misled in the first place.

Mrs. Moulton was waiting for the question, as was Pendock, who was beginning to be irritated.

“You spent time together?” Rathbone continued. “You went to afternoon parties, exhibitions of art and photographs of travel and exploration, soirées, dinner parties at times, even the theater, and of course garden parties in the summer?”

“I did with many people,” she replied guardedly.

“Of course. Without lots of people, it is hardly a party, is it?” he said smoothly. “You enjoyed each other’s company?”

It was a question to which she could hardly say no. That would be to suggest some ulterior motive.

“Yes, yes, I … did,” she agreed a shade reluctantly.

“You must have spoken of many things?”

Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, this is wasting the court’s time. The prosecution concedes that Mrs. Moulton was friends with the accused.”

Rathbone wanted to object, but he had no grounds on which to argue the point. If he lost, it would be only one more defeat for him in the minds of the jury.

Pendock looked at Rathbone with annoyance. “You have some point, Sir Oliver? If so, please proceed to make it. The social comings and goings of Mrs. Moulton and the accused seem totally irrelevant.”

“I am trying to establish, my lord, Mrs. Moulton’s standing in her ability to comment on the accused’s state of mind.”

“Then please consider it established and ask your question,” Pendock said tartly.

“Yes, my lord.” Rathbone had hoped for more time, but there was nothing with which to argue. “Mrs. Moulton was the accused anxious or worried in the week or so before Dr. Lambourn’s death?”

She hesitated. She looked up for an instant, as if to meet Dinah’s eyes in the dock above the courtroom gallery, then changed her mind and stared fixedly at Rathbone.

“As I recall, she was just as usual. She … she did mention that he was working very hard and seemed rather tired.”

“And after his death?” he asked.

Her face filled with compassion, the tension vanishing as all consciousness of herself and the courtroom was swallowed up by her pity. “She was like a woman walking in her sleep,” she said huskily. “I have never seen anyone more numbed with grief. I knew they were close. He was a very gentle man, a good man …” She gulped and composed herself again with difficulty. “I felt for her deeply, but there was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do.”