A Sunless Sea Read online

  Jenkins now had no alternative but to agree. Perhaps Coniston, by interrupting, had unintentionally done the defense a favor? Rathbone did not dare to look at him to see. It would be obvious to the jury, and they would see gamesmanship behind it.

  “I … I suppose I would,” Jenkins conceded.

  “Then would you please look up at the dock and tell me if you are certain that the woman sitting there is the same woman who came into your shop and asked to know where Zenia Gadney lived? We have already heard that it was a woman tall and dark, who looked something like her, but there are thousands of such women in London. Are you sure, beyond doubt, that it was this woman? She swears that it was not.”

  Jenkins peered up at Dinah, blinking a little as if he could not see clearly.

  “My lord,” Rathbone looked up at Pendock, “may I have the court’s permission to ask the accused to rise to her feet?”

  Pendock had no choice; the request was only a courtesy. He would have to explain any refusal, and he had no grounds for it.

  “You may,” he replied.

  Rathbone turned to the dock and Dinah rose to her feet. It was an advantage. Rathbone realized it immediately. They could all see her more clearly, and every single juror was craning his neck to stare. She looked pale and grief-ravaged, and in a way more beautiful than when she had been in her own home, surrounded by familiar things. She had not yet been found guilty in the law, even if she had by the public, so she was permitted to wear her own clothes. Since she was still in mourning for her husband, it was expected she wear black, and with her dramatic features and pale, blemishless skin the loveliness of her face was startling, as was the suffering in it. She was composed, as if she had no energy left to hope, or to struggle.

  Jenkins gulped again. “No.” He shook his head. “I can’t say as it were ’er. She … she looks different. I don’t recall ’er face being like that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins,” Rathbone said, gasping with relief inside. “My learned friend may wish to question you, but as far as I am concerned, I appreciate your time, and you are free to go back to your business and your service to the community in Copenhagen Place.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jenkins turned anxiously toward Coniston.

  Coniston’s hesitation was only fractional, but it was there. At least one or two of the jurors must have seen it.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Coniston began gently, aware of the court’s sympathy with the shopkeeper. He was a man like themselves, probably with family to support, trying to do his best in a situation he hated. He was eager to be done with it and free to carry on with his quiet, hardworking life, complete with its small pleasures, its opinions that were not weighed and measured, its very limited responsibility.

  Rathbone knew all this was going through Coniston’s mind, because it had gone through his own.

  Coniston smiled. “Actually, Mr. Jenkins, I find I have nothing to ask you. You are an honest man in a wretched situation, placed there by chance, and none of your own doing. Your compassion, carefulness, and modesty are to be admired. Please accept my thanks also, and return to your business, which I’m sure must need you, most particularly this close to Christmas.” Coniston gave a very slight bow and walked back gracefully to his seat.

  Pendock’s face was tense. He glanced at the clock, then at Rathbone.

  “Sir Oliver?”

  Rathbone rose to his feet.

  “My next witness may testify at some length, my lord, and I believe Mr. Coniston is bound to wish to question some of his evidence quite closely.” He too looked at the clock. He would not like to have to admit that he could not locate Runcorn at this hour, but he would if Pendock forced him into it.

  “Very well, Sir Oliver,” Pendock sighed. “The court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  As soon as Rathbone was in his chambers he wrote a note to Runcorn, telling him that he required him to testify when the court resumed the following morning. What small chance they had of success depended upon it. He told Runcorn he would string it out as long as possible, for which he apologized, but he had little else, except Dinah herself, unless Monk had found something more to give shape to another suspect the jury could believe in. He would at least raise the subject of the syringe, and the far deeper and more terrible addiction it led to.

  As soon as he had sent the messenger with the letter folded in an envelope, and sealed with wax, he wondered if he had said too much.

  He went home tired, but unable to rest.

  IN THE MORNING RATHBONE took a hansom to the court, exhausted and worried. He did not even know if Runcorn would be there, and he had no excuses to offer. Not that he believed Pendock would accept any, however valid. He did not know for certain if Runcorn had even received his note. He had sent it to his home, in case he did not call in to the police station. But perhaps Runcorn had returned home late, tired, and had not even looked at any letters.

  The traffic was jammed at Ludgate Circus, with shoppers, friends exchanging well wishes, celebrators beginning Christmas early, calling out cheerfully to one another.

  Rathbone banged on the front of the hansom to attract the driver’s attention.

  “Can’t you find a way around this? I have to be in court in the Old Bailey!” he demanded.

  “Doin’ my best, sir,” the cabby answered. “It’s nearly Christmas!”

  Rathbone bit back the answer that rose to his lips. It was not the man’s fault and being rude would only make matters worse. Why had there been no answer from Runcorn? What on earth was he going to say to the court if the man did not appear? Who else could he call at short notice? He would look totally incompetent. His face burned at the thought of it.

  Perhaps he should have sent the note to the police station after all.

  Then the hansom stopped again. All around there were vehicles of one sort or another, drivers shouting, laughing, demanding right-of-way.

  He was too impatient to wait any longer. It was only a short walk along Ludgate Hill to the Old Bailey. The huge dome of St. Paul’s rose into the winter sky ahead of him and the Central Criminal Court to his left, Newgate Prison just beyond. He lunged out of the cab, pushing a handful of coins at the driver, and began to walk rapidly, then to run along the pavement.

  He raced up the steps and almost bumped into Runcorn just inside the doors. Why was he so overwhelmingly relieved? He should have trusted the man. There was no time or opportunity to speak to him now. It was his own fault for being late. Coniston was standing a few yards away, and Pendock was coming down the hallway. If he attempted to confer with Runcorn, he would look as if he were uncertain about what evidence Runcorn had to offer. That was a gift he could not offer Coniston.

  Fifteen minutes later he was behind his table. His notes were in front of him, a letter from Runcorn on the top. He tore it open and read the few lines.

  Dear Sir Oliver,

  All ready. Been looking into a few other things of interest. Don’t know for certain, but I think Mrs. Monk has been looking for the doctor.

  Runcorn

  Again Rathbone blamed himself for lacking in trust.

  “Please call your witness, Sir Oliver,” Pendock ordered. His voice gravelly, a little tight, as if he also had slept little.

  “I call Superintendent Runcorn of the Blackheath Police,” Rathbone replied.

  Runcorn came in, watched by every eye in the room as he walked past the gallery. He was an imposing figure: burly, exuding confidence. He took the oath and stood upright waiting for the questions. His hands were by his sides: no clinging to the railing for him.

  Rathbone cleared his throat. “Superintendent, you are in command of the police in the Blackheath area, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir,” Runcorn said gravely.

  “Were you called out when the body of Joel Lambourn was discovered on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park nearly three months ago?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Lambourn was a noted and much-adm
ired figure in the area. Because of his importance, the investigation into his death was extended to include my force in Blackheath.”

  Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, we have already heard about Dr. Lambourn’s death in some detail, and the accused’s reaction to it. I fail to see what Mr. Runcorn can add to what has already been said. My learned friend is desperate and wasting the court’s time. If it will help, the prosecution will accede to the facts as already presented.”

  Rathbone would see Runcorn’s testimony barred before he had even begun. He interrupted before Pendock could speak.

  “Since it was presented by the prosecution, my lord, it is really meaningless to say that they accede to it.”

  “It is wasting the court’s time to hear it again,” Pendock snapped. “If you have nothing new to add, Sir Oliver, I sympathize with your predicament, but it is not my place to indulge it. Mr. Coniston’s point is well taken.” He turned to Coniston. “Mr.—”

  “My lord!” Rathbone raised his voice, trying hard to keep his emotion out of it. “Mr. Coniston introduced evidence regarding Dr. Lambourn’s death, but for some reason best known to himself, he did not question Superintendent Runcorn, the man in charge of the inquiry into it. Had he not considered the matter relevant he would not have raised it at all. Indeed, your lordship would not have permitted him to. With respect, I put to the court that the defense has the right to question Mr. Runcorn about it, now, in light of further evidence discovered.”

  There was total silence in the room. No one moved.

  Pendock’s mouth was closed in a thin, hard line. Coniston looked at Pendock, then at Rathbone.

  Runcorn stared across at the jury and smiled.

  One of the jurors fidgeted.

  “Keep to the point, Sir Oliver,” Pendock said at last. “Whether Mr. Coniston objects or not, if you deviate from it, then I will stop you.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone said, keeping control of himself with an effort. Again he was sharply aware that Pendock was watching to catch him in any error at all.

  Rathbone turned to Runcorn again.

  “You were called to the death of Dr. Joel Lambourn when his body was found on One Tree Hill.” He said this to the jury, even though it was Runcorn he addressed.

  “Yes.” Runcorn took it on, adding to it. “A man walking his dog had found Lambourn’s body more or less propped up—”

  Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Runcorn is suggesting that—”

  “Yes, yes,” Pendock agreed. He turned to the witness stand. “Mr. Runcorn, please watch your language. Do not make suggestions outside your knowledge. Simply what you saw, do you understand?”

  It was patronizing in the extreme. Rathbone saw the color wash up Runcorn’s face, and prayed he would control his temper.

  “I was going to say ‘propped up by the trunk of the tree,’ ” Runcorn said between clenched teeth. “Without its support he would have fallen. In fact he was leaning over anyway.”

  Pendock did not apologize, but Rathbone saw the irritation with himself in his face, and the jurors must have seen it, too.

  Rathbone forced himself not to smile. “He was dead?” he asked.

  “Yes. Cold, in fact,” Runcorn agreed. “But the night had been chilly and there was something of a light wind, colder than usual for the time of year. His wrists had been cut across the inside and he appeared to have bled to death.”

  Pendock leaned forward. “Appeared? Are you implying that it was not the case, Mr. Runcorn?”

  “No, my lord.” Runcorn’s face was almost expressionless. “I am trying to say no more than I was aware of myself at the time. The police surgeon confirmed that. Then the autopsy afterward added that he also had a considerable dose of opium in him, but not sufficient enough to kill him. I presumed at the time that it had been taken to dull the pain of the cuts in his wrists.”

  “At the time?” Rathbone said quickly. “Did you afterward learn anything for certain? Surely the police surgeon could not tell you the reason for taking the opium, only the facts?”

  Runcorn stared back at Rathbone. “No, sir. I changed my own mind. I don’t believe Dr. Lambourn cut his own wrists, sir. I believe the opium was to make him sleepy, slow to react, possibly even unconscious, so he would not fight back. Defensive wounds would be very difficult to explain in a supposed suicide.”

  Coniston was on his feet again.

  Pendock glared at Runcorn. “Mr. Runcorn! I will not tolerate wild and unprovable assertions in this court. This is not the reopening of a case already closed and with a verdict returned, the fact of which I know you are perfectly aware. If you have something to offer pertinent to the murder of Zenia Gadney, then tell us. Nothing else is permissible here. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Runcorn said boldly. There was no defensiveness in his voice or his manner. He stood head high, his gaze straight. “But since we now know that Zenia Gadney was also Joel Lambourn’s wife, a fact we were not aware of at the time of his death, the manner of it, so shortly before her murder, seems to raise a number of questions. It is hard to be sure there is no connection.”

  “Of course there is a connection!” Pendock snapped. “It is Dinah Lambourn, the accused! Are you going to tell me that she murdered her husband also? That is hardly of service to the defense, who have called you.”

  Coniston almost hid his smile, but not quite.

  The jury members were looking completely bemused.

  “It seems likely that it was by the same person,” Runcorn answered Pendock. “At least a possibility it would be irresponsible not to look into. But after questioning Marianne Lambourn, I am satisfied it could not have been Dinah Lambourn. Marianne was awake in the night, having had a nightmare. She heard her father go out. Her mother did not.”

  Rathbone was stunned. Was Runcorn sure of what he said? What would happen if he called Marianne to the stand? Would Coniston then tear her apart and show that she could not possibly be certain she had not fallen asleep, and simply not heard her mother leave also?

  Even if that happened, it would buy him at least half a day! Had Monk found nothing further yet? Had Runcorn any ideas at all?

  Coniston was staring at Rathbone, trying to read his face.

  “Sir Oliver!” Pendock said slowly. “Were you aware of this? If you are presenting some—”

  “No, my lord,” Rathbone replied quickly, gathering his wits. “I have not had the opportunity to speak to Superintendent Runcorn since last Friday.”

  Pendock turned to Runcorn.

  “I learned this only yesterday, my lord,” Runcorn said with sudden humility. “I had occasion to reinvestigate Dr. Lambourn’s death because of certain other facts that have come to light concerning his report on the sale of opium in England, and reflecting on the opium trade in general, and in particular the means of administering it through a new kind of hollow needle attached to a syringe, which sends the drug straight into the bloodstream, making it immeasurably more addictive—”

  “This is the trial of Dinah Lambourn for the murder of Zenia Gadney!” Pendock overrode him loudly. “I will not have it turned into a political circus in an attempt to divert the jury from the issue at hand. Still less will I permit any attempt to argue the merits or otherwise of the sale or the uses of opium. They have no place in this courtroom.” He turned to Rathbone. “Evidence, Sir Oliver, not speculation, and above all I will not tolerate malicious scandal. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely, my lord,” Rathbone replied with as much semblance of humility as he could manage. “This place, above all others, is one where no one should make accusations they cannot substantiate.” He kept his face as devoid of expression as he could. Only because of the rise of color up Pendock’s cheeks did he realize he had not entirely succeeded.

  Coniston sneezed, or perhaps he choked. He apologized half under his breath.

  Rathbone looked again at Runcorn.

  “Please be very careful, Superinte
ndent,” he warned him. “Do these facts that you uncovered have any direct bearing on the murder of Zenia Gadney, or the fact that Dinah Lambourn has been charged with that crime?”

  Runcorn considered for a moment.

  Rathbone had the intense impression that he was weighing up exactly how much he could get away with.

  “Superintendent?” Rathbone felt he had better speak before Coniston could rise to his feet yet again.

  “Yes, sir, I believe it does,” Runcorn answered. “If Dr. Lambourn and Zenia Gadney were killed by the same person, and it could not have been the accused, then it was someone else, and we must find that person. It is appearing to the police more and more likely that it was someone whom Dr. Lambourn learned about in his investigations into the use of opium—someone who was making a vast profit, first causing people to become addicted to the drug by their taking it directly into the blood for the relief of pain from broken bones and the like, and then becoming so dependent on it they couldn’t live without it. Then he can charge them whatever he likes—”

  Coniston was on his feet. “My lord, can Mr. Runcorn, or anyone else, offer even a shred of proof as to this supposed poison? It’s a fairy tale! Speculation without any proof at all.” He took a hasty breath and changed the subject. “And as to anyone swearing that Mrs. Lambourn did not leave the house again that night—we have heard nothing whatever to substantiate any of this except the word, reported secondhand, of a fourteen-year-old girl, very naturally loyal to her mother. What child of this age would be willing to believe that her mother could have cold-bloodedly slit her father’s wrists and then watched him until he bled to death?”

  Rathbone felt as if the ground had suddenly lurched beneath him, pitching him off balance, and he was left struggling to regain his posture.