A Sunless Sea wm-18 Page 6

  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.

  Her sadness was so palpable Monk felt a stab of guilt again for having come to her with such a wretched question to ask. What sort of a man had Joel Lambourn been that he could have left a woman like this and gone all the way across the river and west to the Limehouse area to find a drab woman like Zenia Gadney? Was he weak, and Dinah overpowered his dull personality? Did he fail to answer her needs, emotionally or physically, and he wanted some plain, ordinary woman who asked nothing of him? Or perhaps who dared not criticize?

  Or did he have a darker side that he had not wanted Dinah to know of?

  She was waiting for Monk to explain himself. How could he tell why he had come and cause her the least pain possible? And yet he must learn the truth.

  “Did you know a woman named Zenia Gadney, who lived in Copenhagen Place, in Limehouse?” he asked quietly.

  She blinked, as if the question puzzled her. She stood still for several moments, as though searching her memory. “No, the name is not familiar,” she said at last. “But you said ’did I know.’ Has something happened to her?”

  “I’m afraid it has. This is unpleasant, Mrs. Lambourn. Perhaps you would prefer to sit down.” He said it in a tone that made it more a request than merely a suggestion.

  She complied, slowly, her face going even paler, her eyes fixed on his. “How does that concern me?” Her voice trembled.

  “I regret to tell you that she is dead,” he answered.

  “I’m sorry.” It was a quiet murmur, but conveyed a feeling that went far deeper than mere good manners would require.

  “But you said you didn’t know her,” he responded, already a chill touching him.

  “What has that to do with it?” She lifted her chin a little. “I am still sorry that she is dead. Why do you come here? Limehouse is miles away, and the other side of the river. I know nothing about it.”

  “I believe your husband knew her.”

  Her grief almost slipped out of control. “My husband is dead, Mr. Monk,” she said huskily. “And I have never met Mrs.… Gadney.”

  “I know your husband is dead, Mrs. Lambourn, and I am deeply sorry for that.” He wanted to express condolences for what he was about to add to her grief, but it seemed shallow in the circumstances. “Those I spoke to said he was a remarkably fine man,” he went on. “However, it seems that he knew Mrs. Gadney quite well, and over a long period of time.”

  She had to clear her throat before she could force herself to speak. Her slender white hands were locked around each other in her lap.

  “What are you implying, Mr. Monk? When did this Mrs. Gadney die, and how? It must’ve been serious; if you came here despite the fact that you knew my husband has been dead for some little time?”

  “It appears that your husband met with Mrs. Gadney in Limehouse at least once a month,” he replied. He watched her face for shock, disgust, defensiveness, but he saw only grief that he was certain of. There were other emotions there as well, but he could not read them.

  “When did she die, and of what cause?” she asked very quietly.

  “Nearly a week ago. She was murdered.”

  Her eyes widened. “Murdered?” She could hardly say the word. Her tongue stumbled and there was horror in her eyes.

  “Yes.” He felt brutal. “You may have heard word of it, by the papers. There was a woman killed and her body mutilated, near Limehouse Pier.”

  “No. I had not heard.” Dinah Lambourn was now so pale he was afraid she might faint.

  “Would you like me to ring for your maid, Mrs. Lambourn?” he offered. “She could bring water, perhaps smelling salts. I am afraid I have brought very ugly news for you. I’m sorry.”

  “I shall … be all right.” She forced herself to sit more upright, but it was clearly an effort. Her voice wavered. “Please say whatever it is you have to say.”

  “You did not know her?” Monk asked again.

  She evaded the answer. “Do you know who did this thing?” she asked instead.

  “No, not yet.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “But you think I can help you?”

  “Possibly. So far Dr. Lambourn seems to have been her only friend. And judging by the patterns of her expenditure in the local shops, she seems to have had money each time after he visited her. Quite often she paid her bills then.” He left the implication in the air.

  “I see.” Mrs. Lambourn folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. She had long fingers with elegant nails. Her skin was unblemished.

  “Tell me something about Dr. Lambourn,” he requested. He wanted to keep her talking to make some judgment about what kind of woman she was. He still was not sure whether he believed that she had not known Zenia Gadney. And was she still so numb with grief that she had no curiosity about the other woman who had held so much of her husband’s loyalty and attention-not to mention his money?

  She spoke quietly, as if remembering for herself rather than informing Monk. He had the sudden, complete conviction that she did not expect to be believed. She never once looked up at him in any attempt to persuade.

  “He was a gentle man,” she began, struggling to find the words at once large enough and precise enough to convey what she saw in her own mind. “He never lost his temper with me, or with our daughters, even when they were young, and noisy.” She smiled briefly, but it vanished as she controlled her emotions with an obvious effort. “He was patient with people who were genuinely not very clever. And compared with him, that was very many. But he couldn’t abide liars. He was quite stern with the girls if they lied to him.” She shook her head slightly. “It only happened about twice. They loved him very much.”

  Outside in the street a carriage passed, the sound of it barely penetrating the quiet room.

  Monk allowed a few moments before prompting her to continue. />
  “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I still keep expecting to hear his step. That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I know he’s dead. Every inch of my body knows it, every thought in my mind is filled with it. And yet when I go to sleep I forget, and in the morning I wake up, and for a second it is as if he hasn’t gone. Then I remember again.”

  Monk tried to imagine what his own house would be like if Hester never returned. It was unbearable, and he forced the idea out of his mind. His job was to learn who had killed Zenia Gadney. There was nothing he could do to change the fact of the suicide of Joel Lambourn. How did anyone deal with such a painful tragedy, find the answers that allowed them to continue on? Daily life must seem absurd and completely meaningless after such a thing. He supposed having children both hurt and helped. You would force yourself to keep going, for their sakes, even if the sight of them was a reminder of what you had lost.

  But what about at night when you lay alone in the bed you had shared, and the house was silent? What could you think of then that allowed you live with pain?

  “Mrs. Lambourn, please go on.”

  She sighed. “Joel was very clever; in fact, he was brilliant. He worked for the government on various kinds of medical research.”

  “What was his latest work?” Monk was not really interested; he just wanted to keep her talking.

  “Opium,” she replied without hesitation. “He was passionately angry about the harm it is doing, when it isn’t labeled properly. And he said that happens almost all of the time. He had an enormous amount of facts and figures on the number dead because of it. He used to sit in his study and go over and over them, weighing every story against the evidence, checking to make sure he was always correct and exact.”

  “To what purpose?” In spite of himself Monk was now curious.

  For the first time she looked up at him. “Thousands of people die of opium poisoning, Mr. Monk, among them many children. Do you know what a ‘penny twist’ is?”

  “Of course I do. A small dose of opium powder you can buy at a corner shop or apothecary.” He thought back to Mr. Clawson and his general hardware shop with all its remedies, and his fierce defense of Zenia Gadney.

  “How much is in a dose?” Dinah Lambourn asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Monk admitted.

  “Neither has the man who sells it, or the woman who buys it to give to her child, or to take herself for her headache, or a stomachache, or because she can’t sleep.” She gave a little gesture of helplessness with her beautiful hands. “Neither have I, for that matter. That is what Joel was concerned about. He knew of thousands of cases over the whole country where this lack of knowledge led to death. Especially children. That was only part of his work, but that was what he did.”

  Monk was still trying to imagine the man who had gone to Limehouse to visit Zenia Gadney, who paid her every month. So far, the picture was so incomplete and contradictory as to be almost meaningless. And why had he taken his own life? So far that made no sense, either.

  “Was he a successful man, financially?” he asked, feeling as if he were poking at an open wound.

  “Of course,” she said, as if the question were a little foolish. “He was brilliant.”

  “Scientific brilliance is not always financially rewarded,” he pointed out. Was it possible she had no idea of his business affairs? Could he have gambled and lost badly? Or was it possible someone had blackmailed him over his visits to Limehouse, and when he could no longer pay, he had committed suicide rather than face the shame, and the ruin of his family? Other men, outwardly just as respectable, had done so.

  “Look around you, Mr. Monk,” Mrs. Lambourn said simply. “Do we appear to be in difficult times as far as money is concerned? I assure you, I am not ignorant of my situation. Joel’s man of affairs has advised me very thoroughly in exactly what we have, and how to both use it and conserve the principal, so that we shall not fall into difficulty. We are more than comfortably provided for.”

  That at least would be easy enough to check, and he would have someone do so.

  “I’m glad,” he said sincerely. “Mrs. Gadney was not so fortunate. She lived very much from one month to the next.”

  “I’m sorry for her, but that is not my concern,” Dinah replied. “Indeed, since the poor woman is dead, you say, it is not anyone’s now.”

  He could not let it go. “Are you sure you did not know that your husband visited her every month?” he repeated. “It seems an extraordinary breach of trust, especially for a man who hated liars.”

  The color washed up her face and she drew in her breath sharply. She opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it when she quite clearly realized she did not know what to say.

  Monk leaned forward a little and his voice was gentle. “I think it is time for the truth, Mrs. Lambourn. I promise you I’ll find out either way, but it would be easier if you would just tell me. I give you my word that if your husband’s relationship with Zenia Gadney has no connection with her murder, I will not make it public. So now I’ll ask you again: Did you know about his visits to Zenia Gadney?”

  “Yes,” she said in a whisper.

  “When did you learn?”

  “Years ago. I don’t remember how long.”

  He did not know whether to believe her or not. Certainly there was no shock or surprise in her now; but then if she had discovered it only two months ago, grief at Lambourn’s suicide would have outweighed any other emotion in her. If she had known for years, how had she lived with it so happily, according to her? Perhaps a woman’s acceptance of such an arrangement was something a man would never understand. He could not imagine how he would ever endure it if Hester were to betray him in that way. The idea was one he could not even look at.

  Dinah was regarding him with the outward calm of one who has already faced the worst she can think of and has no energy left to fear anything more.

  There had been a passionate hatred in whoever had ripped open Zenia Gadney and left her on the pier like so much rubbish.

  “Was Zenia Gadney the only woman your husband visited and paid, Mrs. Lambourn?” he asked. “Or were there others?”

  She froze, as if he had slapped her. “She was the only one,” she replied with such certainty that he found it hard to disbelieve her. “I don’t know if she … dealt with others. But you say she didn’t.”

  “Not while Dr. Lambourn was alive,” he agreed. “And after that there appeared to be no one regular.”

  She looked down at her hands again.

  “Why did Dr. Lambourn take his own life?” Monk asked, feeling like a torturer.

  She sat still for so long that he was about to repeat the words when finally she looked up. “He didn’t, Mr. Monk. He was murdered.” She took a long, deep breath. “I told you he was engaged in a work of great importance. If he had succeeded it would have saved thousands of lives, but it would also have cost certain businesses a good portion of their profit. Joel could not be bought. He would not bend the facts to suit them, nor hide the truth. The only way they could silence him was to mock his work, deny its validity. Then, when he still would not be silent, they made it look as if he had realized he was wrong and, in despair and shame, killed himself.” She stared at him intently, her eyes brilliant, her face tense and passionately alive with the power of her feelings.

  He did not believe her, and yet it was impossible not to accept that she believed it herself.

  He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice and keep his incredulity out of it. “What happened to his report?”

  “They destroyed it, of course. They couldn’t afford for it to remain.”

  Some vague mention of such a report stirred in his mind. It had been discredited, put down to one man’s mistaken crusade, a man whose grasp on reality had finally snapped. The whole situation had been regarded as a tragedy.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Dinah said quietly. “But it is the truth. Joel would never have killed himself, and certainly
not over poor Zenia Gadney. Perhaps they killed her, too.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Someone with a deep interest in the import and sale of opium,” she answered.

  “And why would they have killed Mrs. Gadney?” It made no sense. Surely even through her grief she could see that?

  Her face looked bruised, desperately vulnerable. “Perhaps to make sure of his disgrace, so no one can resurrect his work,” she answered.

  “Did she have something to do with his work?”

  She gave a helpless little gesture. “I don’t see how she could.”

  Monk tried to imagine Joel Lambourn, disgraced in his profession because his colleagues thought his work worthless, coming home to a wife who believed in him so totally she had not even considered the possibility of his failure being real. Perhaps the one person who did not demand perfection from him was Zenia Gadney. Maybe that was what he saw in her: no standards to meet, nothing to live up to, simply accepted for who he was, both the strength and the weakness.

  Maybe the pressure of it all had finally become unbearable, and he had taken the only escape he knew of.

  It was possible, maybe even probable, that the murder of Zenia Gadney had nothing to do with Joel Lambourn, or even with opium. She was merely like hundreds of thousands of others who took the drug to relieve their pain. And perhaps Lambourn was wrong, and it did no true harm, apart from the occasional accidental overdose. But that wasn’t a crime; after all, one could overdose on almost anything, including alcohol, which was sold and consumed just as freely.

  Monk asked about any other family, just to finalize his inquiries, and she gave him the address of Lambourn’s sister, Amity Herne.

  He apologized again for disturbing her, and went out into the sun and the hard, cold wind. A sadness weighed heavily on him, as if he carried the fading light of the year within.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monk was fortunate to find Lambourn’s sister at home when he called in the early evening. The house was in highly fashionable Gordon Square. He had passed several carriages on his way here, some with crests on the doors, and liveried footmen, and all with perfectly matched horses.