A Sunless Sea Read online

  Surely Coniston, standing gracefully and even a little deferentially, realized that the jury would not take kindly to anyone who was unnecessarily rough with Amity Herne. He would begin gently, set a pattern Rathbone would have no choice but to follow.

  “Mrs. Herne,” Coniston began, “were you aware of the nature of the work that your brother, Dr. Lambourn, was doing for the government?”

  Rathbone sat up a little straighter. Surely Coniston was not going to allow that subject to be raised?

  “Only in the vaguest terms,” Amity replied calmly, her voice soft and very precise. “It was a medical investigation of some kind, that is all he would say.”

  “Confidential?” Coniston said.

  “I imagine so,” she agreed. She kept her gaze fixed on him, never allowing it to wander toward the gallery and not once even glancing over to the dock, where Dinah sat between her jailers.

  “But I did not ask him further anyway,” she continued. “I do know that it troubled him. He felt very deeply about it, and I was concerned that he was allowing himself to become too involved in it.”

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, Mrs. Herne has just said that she has very little idea what the work was concerned with. How, then, could she judge whether his involvement was too great?” He would like to have argued that it was also completely irrelevant to Zenia Gadney’s death, but he intended to introduce the exact point later on, and this opened the door for him nicely.

  Coniston smiled. “She might not have known specifically what the work was, but she can judge if it had bearing on the state of his mind. And if it bears on his state of mind, my lord, it will automatically bear on the state of mind of the accused.”

  “My lord!” Rathbone was still on his feet. “How can Dr. Lambourn’s concern for his work have been on the accused’s state of mind two months after he was dead? Is my learned friend suggesting there was some kind of communicable madness involved?”

  There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the gallery. One juror sneezed and put his handkerchief up to his face, hiding his expression.

  “I will permit this kind of questioning,” Pendock said, clearing his throat, “on condition that you reach some relevance very soon, Mr. Coniston.” He did not look at Rathbone.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Coniston turned again to Amity Herne. “Mrs. Herne, was Dr. Lambourn more involved with this task, whatever it was, than was usual for him?”

  “Yes,” she said decisively, a look of grief shadowing her face. “He became completely absorbed in it.”

  “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Herne? What is unusual about a doctor being absorbed in his work?” Coniston was still overly polite.

  “When the government did not accept his conclusions he was distraught. At times he was almost hysterical. I …” She looked uncomfortable. Her hands gripped the rail in front of her and she gulped, as if to control tears. “I believe that was why he took his own life. I wish I had been more aware how serious it was. Perhaps I could have said or done something! I didn’t realize that everything he valued in his life was disintegrating in front of him. Or he believed it was.”

  Coniston stood perfectly still in the middle of the floor, an elegant figure, even kindly. “Disintegrating, Mrs. Herne? Isn’t that rather extreme? Because the government did not accept his views on … whatever it was?”

  “That and …” Her voice dropped so low it was difficult to hear her. No one in the room moved. The crowd in the gallery were still, as if frozen.

  Coniston waited.

  “That, and his personal life,” Amity finished in no more than a murmur.

  Pendock leaned forward a little. “Mrs. Herne, I realize this must be appallingly difficult for you, but I must ask you to speak a little more loudly, so the jury may hear you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I find this … most embarrassing to mention in public. Joel was a very quiet man, very private. I am not sure how to put this delicately.” She stared at Coniston; never once did her eyes stray to Rathbone. It was as if she were not aware that he was there, and would question her next. In fact, it seemed as if she was deliberately excluding the rest of the court altogether.

  “His personal life?” Coniston prompted her. “He was your brother, Mrs. Herne. If he confided in you, even indirectly, you must tell the court. I am sorry to force you, but this is a murder case. One woman has lost her life, hideously, and another stands accused of her murder, and if found guilty will assuredly also lose hers. We cannot allow ourselves the luxury of being delicate at the expense of truth.”

  With an immense effort Amity Herne raised her head. “He implied to me that he had needs that his wife was not willing to meet, and that he visited another woman for that purpose.” She said the words clearly and distinctly, like delivering knife wounds to herself. “The pressure of living up to his wife’s vision of him as a perfect man was becoming more than he could bear.” She bit her lip. “I wish you had not made me say that, but it is true. It should have been allowed to die with him.” She could no longer stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “I wish it had been possible,” Coniston said contritely. “This other woman that you speak of, did you know who she was? Did he mention her name, or anything about her? Such as where she lived?”

  “He said her name was Zenia. He did not say where she lived, at least not to me.” The implication that she might have said so to someone else was left delicately in the air.

  “Zenia?” Coniston repeated. “You are certain?”

  Amity stood very stiffly. “Yes. I have never heard of anyone else with the name.”

  “And was his wife, Dinah Lambourn, aware of this … arrangement?” Coniston asked.

  “I was told that she learned of it,” Amity replied.

  “How did she learn?”

  “I don’t know. Joel didn’t say.”

  “Did he say when she learned?”

  “No. At least not to me.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Herne. Again, I am deeply sorry that I had to raise this distressing subject, but the circumstances left me no choice.” He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”

  Rathbone thanked him and rose slowly to his feet. He walked out across the floor toward the witness stand. He could feel the jury’s eyes on him, cautious, ready to blame him if he was the least bit insensitive. They were naturally predisposed against him because he represented a woman accused of a bestial crime. And now, added to that, he was about to ask pointed and cruel questions, adding to this innocent woman’s grief and very natural embarrassment.

  “You have already suffered more than enough, Mrs. Herne,” Rathbone began gently. “I shall be as brief with you as I can. I commend you for being so honest regarding your brother’s … tastes. That cannot have been easy for you. You and your brother were close?” He already knew the answer to that from Monk’s questioning of her.

  She blinked. In that instant he knew she was considering a lie, and as their eyes met, she decided against it.

  “Not until recently,” she admitted. “My husband and I lived some distance away. Visiting was difficult. But we always kept in touch. There were just the two of us, Joel and I. Our parents have been dead a long time.” There was an ache of sadness in her voice, and a loneliness in her face. She was the perfect witness for Coniston.

  Rathbone changed his tactics. There was very little, if anything at all, that he could win.

  “Did you at that time also come to know your sister-in-law better?”

  She hesitated again.

  He felt his stomach knot. Should he have asked her that? If she said yes, then she would either defend her, or be seen to betray her. If she said no, she would have to give a reason. He had made an error.

  “I tried,” she said guiltily, a slight flush in her cheeks. “I think if things had been different, we might have become close. But when Joel died, she was beside herself with grief, as if she blamed herself …” She tailed off.
/>   In the gallery several people moved, sighed, and rustled fabric or paper.

  “Did you blame her?” Rathbone asked clearly.

  “No, of course not.” She looked startled.

  “It was not her fault that Dr. Lambourn’s work was rejected?”

  Coniston made as if to stand up. Rathbone turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. Coniston relaxed again.

  “Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone prompted.

  “How could it be?” she answered. “That isn’t possible.”

  “Should she have … complied with his needs? The ones for which he went to the woman named Zenia?” he suggested.

  “I … I …” At last she was stuck for words. She did not look to Coniston for help but lowered her gaze modestly.

  Coniston stood up. “My lord, my learned friend’s question is embarrassing and unnecessary. How could Mrs. Herne be—”

  Rathbone gave a gracious little wave. “That’s all right, Mrs. Herne. Your silence is answer enough. Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  Coniston next called Barclay Herne, and asked him to give the briefest possible account of Lambourn’s being asked by the government to make a confidential report on the use and sale of certain medicines. Herne added the now-accepted fact that, to his profound regret, Lambourn had become too passionately involved in the issues and it had warped his judgment to the degree that the government had been unable to accept his work.

  “How did Dr. Lambourn take your rejection of his report, Mr. Herne?” Coniston said somberly.

  Herne allowed grief to fill his expression. “I’m afraid he took it very badly,” he answered, his voice soft and a little husky. “He saw it as some kind of personal insult. I was worried for the balance of his mind. I profoundly regret that I did not take more care, perhaps persuade him to consult a colleague, but I really did not think it would affect him so … frankly, so out of proportion to reality.” He looked miserable, forced publicly to expose his family’s very personal tragedy.

  Rathbone was surprised to feel a touch of pity for him. He turned as discreetly as he could to see if his wife had remained in the gallery, now that her own evidence was given. He saw her after a moment of searching, when a large man bent forward. Amity Herne was sitting immediately behind him, next to Sinden Bawtry. His handsome head was turned sideways, as if speaking to her.

  The next moment the man in front straightened up again, and Rathbone drew his attention back to the witness stand.

  “I wondered afterward if perhaps he had indulged in the use of opium far more than we guessed at the time.” Herne was answering the next question. “I’m sorry to say that. I feel very guilty that I did not take his whole breakdown far more gravely than I did.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Herne.” Again Coniston bowed to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”

  Rathbone thanked him and took his place in the center of the floor, like a gladiator in the arena—exposed. “You mentioned opium, Mr. Herne. Were you aware that Dr. Lambourn was using it?”

  “Not until after his death!” Herne said quickly.

  “But you just said that you blamed yourself for not having realized that he was using it so much. How could you be expected to do that, if you were not aware that he was using it at all?”

  “I meant that maybe I should have been aware,” Herne corrected himself.

  “Could he have used more than he was aware of himself?” Rathbone suggested.

  Herne looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Wasn’t his research into the issue of opium being available in patent medicines, purchasable on any high street in the country, but without labeling to allow the person buying to know—”

  Coniston jerked up to his feet. “My lord, Dr. Lambourn’s work was confidential. This is not an appropriate place to debate what has not yet been proved as to its accuracy.”

  “Yes, your objection is noted, Mr. Coniston.” Pendock turned to Rathbone. “This kind of questioning is irrelevant, Sir Oliver. You cannot connect it with the murder of Zenia Gadney. Are you suggesting that Mrs. Lambourn was somehow affected by taking opium incorrectly labeled, to the extent that she is not guilty for her acts?”

  “No, my lord. But my learned friend raised the question of taking opium—”

  “Yes,” Pendock said quickly. “Mr. Coniston, Sir Oliver did not object to your reference, but I do. It has nothing to do with the murder of Zenia Gadney. Please restrict yourself to that subject. You are wasting the court’s time and patience, and run the risk of confusing the jury. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have anything more to ask the witness that has bearing on the issue at trial.”

  Rathbone stood in the middle of the floor and stared up at Pendock in his magnificent seat. His full-bottomed white wig and scarlet robes marked him out as a man set apart, a man with superior power. He saw in Pendock’s face that he was immovable on the subject. It was a strange, chill moment of understanding. Pendock was not impartial; he had his own agenda, perhaps even his orders.

  “No more questions, my lord,” Rathbone replied. He turned and walked back to his seat. It was at that moment, facing the gallery, that he saw Sinden Bawtry staring across the heads of the people in front of him, directly at Pendock.

  ————

  AT THE END OF the day Rathbone went to see Dinah in the prison. As her lawyer, he was allowed to speak to her alone. As soon as the cell door clanged shut, closing them into the narrow space with its echoing stone and stale smell, he began. Time was short, and precious.

  “When did you first know about your husband and Zenia Gadney?” he asked. “You are fighting for your life. Don’t lie to me now. Believe me, you cannot afford it.”

  She looked ashen pale, her eyes hollow, her whole body tense, but there was no wavering in her. He could not imagine what effort that cost her.

  “I don’t remember exactly. About fifteen years ago,” she replied.

  “And is what your sister-in-law said true? He wanted certain practices from you that you were not prepared to give?”

  A quick anger flared up in her eyes. “No! Joel was … gentle … perfectly normal. He would never have said anything like that to Amity. One does not discuss such a thing, even if it were true!”

  Rathbone looked at her closely. She was angry, defensive—but of Joel, or of herself? Did she deny it so fiercely because it was a lie, or because it was horribly and painfully true? He wanted to believe her.

  “Then why did he go to her for all those years, and pay her?” he asked. Everything might hang on that answer.

  She blinked, but she did not lower her eyes. “She was a friend. She … used to be respectable, married. She had an accident, and was in a lot of pain. She became addicted to opium. She …” Dinah drew in a deep breath, and began again. “Her husband was a friend of Joel’s. When Zenia took to the streets, Joel helped her, financially. He did not tell Amity because she was living elsewhere at that time, and it was none of her concern. Anyway, she and Joel were never close, even growing up. He was seven years older than she and they had little in common. He was always studious, she was not.” She shook her head briefly. “And why would he tell her such a thing? He was a doctor. He kept confidences. He told me only to explain why he went to Limehouse, and why he gave her money to live on.”

  He almost believed her. But there was something in the tension of her neck, the way her eyes never wavered from his, that left him fearing it was only part of the truth, and there was something vital that she had deliberately left out.

  Yet Hester had told him that Zenia had said to Gladys that she had been married at one time, and her drinking had ended it. If the problem had been opium, why had she not said so? Or had Gladys simply assumed it was drink because of Zenia’s pity for the woman drunk in the street?

  It fitted together perfectly—almost!

  “Mrs. Lambourn,” Rathbone said earnestly, “you have no more time left to keep secrets, no matter how painful. You are fighting for your life, and
believe me, the fact that you are a woman will not save you. If you are found guilty, three Sundays after the verdict is passed, you will walk to the gallows.”

  She was so white he thought she was going to faint. He felt brutal, and yet she left him no choice if he was to have any chance at all of saving her.

  “For God’s sake, tell me the truth!” he said desperately.

  “That is the truth!” Her voice was so strangled in her throat he could barely hear it. “Joel took money to her every month, so she could survive without resorting to prostitution.”

  “Can you prove that? Any part of it?” he demanded.

  “Of course not. How could I?”

  “Did you know the money went regularly?” He was clutching at straws.

  Her eyes widened a fraction. “Yes. It was paid on the twenty-first of every month. It was in the household ledger.”

  “Entered as what?”

  “Under her initials—Z.G. He did not lie to me, Sir Oliver.”

  He could see that that was what she believed. But then how could she bear to believe differently? What woman in her place would?

  “Unfortunately there is no proof of that which we could show the court,” he said quietly. “The fact that he told you he gave her the money as an act of friendship does not prove that that was the truth. What happened to Zenia’s husband? Why did he not provide for her?”

  “He’s dead,” she said simply, an unexpected finality of grief in her face.

  “What was his name?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  This time he was sure she was lying; he just could not understand why.

  He changed the subject. “Why did you tell the police that you were at a soirée with Mrs. Moulton when you knew she would not support that? It was not only a lie; it was one you were bound to be caught in.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I know.”