A Sunless Sea (7 page)

“Do you know where she is now, Mr. Clawson?” Monk asked gravely.

“No I don’t. Nor I wouldn’t tell yer if I did.” Clawson was defiant. “She in’t ’urting no one.”

Monk persisted. “Do I understand correctly, she used to have one friend who came to see her regularly, until about two months ago, and after that she fell on hard times and had to go out and find the odd bit of business, just to pay her way—but she was discreet about it?”

“Yes. What of it?” Clawson demanded. “There’s ’undreds o’ women like ’er, do the odd favor, to make ends meet. Fancy bastard like you
comes round ’ere, wi’ yer swank clothes and shiny boots, askin’ questions. I don’t know where she is, an’ that’s all I’m saying.”

“Did you learn about the body that was found on the pier, the day before yesterday?”

Clawson’s response was instant. “She wouldn’t know anything about that, an’ neither do I.”

“I imagine you don’t,” Monk agreed, sorry for what he was about to say to this little man who was so quick to defend a woman he barely knew. “But if Mrs. Gadney is not at home, and we don’t find her alive and well, then we will know that the body was hers.”

Clawson went white and grabbed the counter to steady himself. He stared at Monk, unable to find words.

“I’m sorry,” Monk said sincerely. “Now perhaps you understand my need to know more about her. I have to find out who did that to her, and to be frank, Mr. Clawson, I very much want to. The more I hear of her, the more I want to find him.”

Clawson closed his eyes, his fingers still white-knuckled. “She were a quiet little woman ’oo came in ’ere an’ bought a penny twist of opium for ’er ’eadaches, an’ ter pass the time o’ day, because she were lonely,” he said. “When ’er one … customer … stopped coming by, she were all on ’er own. If she went out there to make a few shillings for ’erself, or even for a bit o’ comfort, it don’t mean she should get cut up an’ murdered! You find that animal wot did it an’ cut ’im up the same! There’s a few folk around ’ere as’ll be glad ter ’elp yer.” He opened his eyes and glared at Monk.

“I’ll find him,” Monk promised rashly.

Clawson nodded slowly, happy to believe. “Good.” He nodded again. “Good.”

Monk left him and finished inquiring along the rest of the road, and in one or two local shops in the nearby streets. But by the end of the day he was tired and hungry, and he had learned nothing more that was of any value.

As he stood on Limehouse Pier waiting for the ferry, he went over what he knew in his mind. Was that what had got her killed? Inexperience and desperation caused by the sudden death of her solitary supporter?
Had he died, or merely abandoned her? Or had some domestic crisis meant he could no longer indulge himself in keeping a mistress? It seemed tragically likely.

Who was he? No one had given a description of him that would identify him out of thousands of outwardly respectable, middle-aged men in London, or even beyond it. Perhaps he saw her so infrequently because he lived some distance away and came to London on business? Then he could be as far as Manchester, Liverpool, or Birmingham. It would be almost impossible to find him.

“W
E
’
D BETTER FIND THIS
man who knew her,” Orme said the next morning as they stood by the riverside on the dock at Wapping New Stairs. The tide was high and the river was running fast, just after the turn. The wind was rising again and there was a keen edge to it. There usually was when it came from the east, and the open water.

Monk pulled his coat collar a little higher. “I’ll do what I can to find him. He could have come from anywhere.”

“Hansom cab,” Orme suggested. “Sounds from what you say as if he wasn’t local. He wouldn’t come by omnibus. Want me to help? I got nothing to follow up or down Narrow Street. All blind, or she never went there, except with a woman friend once or twice. Mostly she were just alone.”

“No. You’ll do better with the locals around Limehouse Pier up to Kidney Stairs,” Monk replied. “Somebody saw her, and they must have seen him, too. They’d notice anyone not local. We just need to waken their memories.”

“They’re terrified,” Orme replied grimly. “Papers aren’t helping. They’ve got everyone in such a sweat they’re looking for a monster, something raving and slavering like an animal with a kill.”

“Only on the inside,” Monk said, shaking his head. “On the outside he probably looks like anyone else. How long does it take people to learn that? Poor woman probably thought he was perfectly ordinary, maybe just awkward.”

“What a trade,” Orme stared across the water. “God know how many of them get beaten or killed.”

“Not as many as die of disease,” Monk said grimly, thinking of all those whom Hester had helped in her clinic on Portpool Lane.

“I’ll start looking,” Orme promised, fastening his coat. Giving a little salute, he turned and walked along the dockside, hunched against the wind, then down the steps to the boat.

I
N THE END IT
took Monk only two days to trace the man who had visited Zenia Gadney every month. He began with asking all the local hansom cab drivers, but they were unable or unwilling to help. They did not look closely at faces, and early October was a long time ago. It seemed that the man Monk was looking for had picked cabs at random, sometimes on Commercial Road East, at other times on the West India Dock Road, or even walking east to Burdett Road. It was painstaking and time-consuming to find out even this much, but finally he narrowed down his search to half a dozen people and eliminated them one by one.

In the end he was left with Joel Lambourn of Lower Park Street in Greenwich.

Rather than approach him at home, Monk decided to ask a little about him at the local police station, and thus face the man armed with at least a degree of knowledge.

The desk sergeant looked up at Monk as he came in. His round face was politely blank. “Morning, sir. Can I help you?”

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Monk replied, introducing himself. “I am making inquiries about an event that may involve a Mr. Joel Lambourn, who lives in your area.” He saw the man’s face crease in sudden, sharp sadness.

“I’m not sure as I can ’elp you, sir,” the sergeant said coldly. “Don’t really know nothing about it, sir. Sorry to be a bit formal, like, but may I see summink as proves to me ’oo you are? Can’t go talking about people without knowing.” He did not bother to hide his hostility.

Puzzled, Monk produced his warrant card as proof of who he was.

“Thank you, sir.” The chill remained. “What is it you think we may be able to ’elp you with, Mr. Monk?” Deliberately he omitted the courtesy of rank.

“Do you know Mr. Lambourn?”

“Dr. Lambourn, sir,” the sergeant corrected him smartly. “Yes, I did know ’im to speak to.”

“You did? You don’t any longer?” Monk was puzzled.

“Seein’ as ’e’s dead, may God rest ’im, no I don’t,” the sergeant snapped.

“I’m sorry.” Monk felt clumsy. He could not have known, but perhaps he should have guessed. “Would that have been about two months ago?”

The sergeant winced. “Are you tellin’ me as you didn’t know?” Clearly that was incredible to him.

“No, I didn’t,” Monk answered. “I’m inquiring into the murder of a woman whose body was found on Limehouse Pier, five days ago. It was likely that Dr. Lambourn knew her. I was hoping he might be able to tell us something more about her.”

The sergeant looked startled. “That poor soul what was cut up by some bleedin’ butcher? Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you got that wrong. Dr. Lambourn was a quiet, very respectable gentleman. Wouldn’t ’urt anyone. An’ ’e wouldn’t know any woman in that way o’ business.”

Monk wished to point out that many people appeared different in public from the way they might be in private, in the darkness of a backstreet far from where they lived. However, he could see in the man’s face that he was not open to any such suggestion about Lambourn.

“What kind of a doctor was he?” he asked instead. “I mean, what sort of patients did he treat?”

“ ’E din’t treat patients,” the sergeant replied. “ ’E studied, learned things about sickness an’ medicines an’ such.”

“Do you know what kind of illnesses?” Monk persisted. It might not matter at all, but so far Dr. Lambourn was the only person who seemed to have known Zenia Gadney as more than just a casual neighbor. So he would take any details he could get.

“No,” the sergeant replied. “But he asked a lot of questions about medicines, especially opium and laudanum, and stuff like that. Why? What’s that got to do with this poor creature you got in Limehouse?”

“I really don’t know, except that she took opium sometimes, for headaches and things.”

“So does ’alf England,” the sergeant said derisively. “ ’Eadaches, stomachaches, can’t sleep, baby’s crying, cutting its teeth, old folks got rheumatics …”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Monk conceded. “What was Dr. Lambourn studying that he asked about opium and the medicines containing it? What sort of questions did he ask, do you know?”

“No, I don’t. He was always a very quiet gentleman, with a good word for everyone. Not meaning any disrespect, Mr. Monk, but you must ’ave been misinformed some’ow. Dr. Lambourn was as decent a man as you’ll find anywhere.”

Until he had further information on the subject, he would gain nothing by arguing. He thanked the sergeant and walked outside into the street. Lambourn may well have paid Zenia Gadney sufficient money to live on, but he could tell them nothing now, and he could not possibly be responsible for her death, since he himself had apparently died two months earlier. Still, Monk would like to know more about him, even if only for the light it would throw on Zenia Gadney’s life.

“Sir!” the sergeant said abruptly from the doorway.

Monk turned back. “Yes?”

“Don’t go botherin’ Mrs. Lambourn, sir. It was all ’ard enough at the time. Leave the poor lady alone.”

So there was a Mrs. Lambourn. Monk wanted to ask more about her, but something in the sergeant’s expression troubled Monk, an anger that seemed out of place.

“What did Dr. Lambourn die of?” he asked instead.

The sergeant looked down at his hands. “ ’E took ’is own life, sir. Cut ’is wrists. Leave ’er alone … sir.” It was a warning, as much as he dared make it.

M
ONK HAD NO CHOICE
but to go and speak to Joel Lambourn’s widow. If she knew nothing about her husband’s relationship with Zenia Gadney, this would be a very hard time to learn about it. If she did know, perhaps that was part of the reason he had taken his life. Monk did not want to hurt the poor woman any further, but Zenia Gadney also deserved some justice. It was urgent that Monk catch the butcher who had killed her and see him hanged; the newspapers were spreading the panic with their wild articles. There were rumours of half-men, half-beast creatures prowling the dockside area. Monk had even seen some irresponsible fool suggesting that a monster had arisen from the river, come in on the tide from some deepwater lair.

Half an hour later he was at the Lambourns’ front door in Lower Park Street, a few hundred yards from Greenwich Park, with its trees and walks, and of course the Royal Observatory, from which the world’s time was taken. The street was an area of quiet, solid houses for people who lived hardworking and private lives. He hated doing this, but he knew there was no choice so he did not hesitate.

The door was opened by a parlor maid dressed in a plain, stiff blouse and skirt and a crisp white apron. She looked at him inquiringly. “Yes, sir?”

He introduced himself and asked if he might speak to Mrs. Lambourn. He apologized for intruding on her privacy, and quickly mentioned that it was a matter of importance, or he would not have come.

He was shown to a pale green morning room overlooking the street. The curtains were half drawn, leaving the chairs in shadow and one warm patch of sunlight on the patterned carpet. There was no fire lit, but it was likely that Mrs. Lambourn was not receiving many visitors at the moment.

Monk thanked the maid. When she had gone and the door was closed, he looked around the room. The walls were lined with bookcases, all of them full. He walked over to read the titles. They covered all sorts of subjects, not merely medical texts and histories, but general British history, Chinese history (which he had not expected to see), and some very recent texts on the modern history of the United States of America.

On the opposite wall he found philosophies, the complete works of Shakespeare, Milton’s
Paradise Lost
, and Gibbon’s
The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
. There were even a number of novels.

He was still looking at them when Dinah Lambourn came in. The slight sound of her closing the door startled him and he turned to face her.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You have a most interesting selection of books!”

“My husband’s,” she said quietly.

Under normal circumstances she would have been a striking woman. She was tall, and had high cheekbones and a strong face, which now looked vulnerable, almost bruised with grief. She wore black unrelieved by any jewelry at all. Her rich, dark brown hair was the only color about her, apart from the dark blue hue of her eyes.