A Sunless Sea wm-18 Read online

  The coroner offered no further comment. The matter was closed.

  “Thank you,” Monk said to the clerk, giving him back the papers. “There must be a police report. Where is that?”

  The clerk looked blank. “Not really a police matter, sir. No one at fault. Stands to reason.”

  “Who found the body?” Monk asked. He expected the man to say it was Dinah, and he tried to picture her horror-the initial disbelief.

  “A man out walking his dog,” the clerk said. “Might not have been seen for ages, except for the dog smelling it. They do … smell death, I mean.” He shook his head, shivering a little.

  “Where was he found?” Monk asked, somewhat surprised. He had assumed Lambourn would either have been at home or at work.

  “Greenwich Park,” the young man replied. “One Tree Hill. There’s more than one tree on it, actually. He was in a bit of a dip, up near the top. Sitting there, with his back leaned against the trunk.”

  Monk was silent for a moment. What had happened to this man that he had abandoned his wife and daughters and gone by himself into the park, in the cold and the dark, then taken opium, waited for it to take effect, then cut his wrists so he bled to death where he would lie until some stranger found him? Forcing someone he knew, who cared, to be called in to identify what remained of him, and carry the news to his family. By all the accounts Monk had heard so far, Lambourn had been a gentle and considerate man. What had made him do something so unbearably selfish?

  “The coroner’s report doesn’t mention his health,” he said to the clerk. “Could he have had some terminal illness?”

  The clerk looked taken aback. “No idea, sir. The cause of death was perfectly obvious.”

  “The immediate cause, yes, but not the reason,” Monk pointed out.

  The clerk raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps that isn’t our concern, sir. Poor man obviously had something happen in his life so bad that he felt he couldn’t live with it. Nothing we can do to help, except afford him a little privacy. It can’t matter now, anyway.” The implied criticism was clear in his tone as well as his choice of words.

  Monk felt a flicker of anger. “It matters because Dr. Lambourn seems to have been the only person well acquainted with the victim of a very violent and obscene murder in Limehouse,” he replied a little abruptly. “I need to know if he was aware of anything that led up to it, or if someone at least believed that he did.”

  He saw the clerk’s look of alarm with momentary guilt. He had no evidence that understanding Joel Lambourn’s death would help him know who had murdered Zenia Gadney, or why. It bothered him because there were so many aspects of their relationship that did not make sense-but perhaps it was part of a greater whole he wasn’t seeing yet. And so far he had nothing else to follow, unless Orme found something, or a witness came forward.

  The clerk was shaking his head as if to get rid of the idea that was forcing itself upon him. “Dr. Lambourn was a scientist, sir, a very respectable man. Worked for the government trying to get information for them. Nothing personal, not that sort of thing. It was about medicines, not about people. He wouldn’t have cared in the slightest about murders, or the sort of people who get involved in such affairs. You said the crime was ‘obscene.’ That wouldn’t be Dr. Lambourn, sir.”

  “How long had he been dead before he was found?” Monk asked.

  The clerk looked at the papers again, then up at Monk. “Doesn’t say, sir. I imagine it didn’t affect the verdict, and they wanted to be as discreet as possible. Details distress the family. Doesn’t help any.”

  “Who was the police surgeon?”

  “Ah … Dr. Wembley, sir.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “Don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask at the police station.” The clerk’s disapproval was now undisguised. He clearly considered Monk to be reopening a case that was decidedly closed, and believed that decency required it to remain so.

  Monk noted the facts he needed, thanked the man, and left.

  At the police station they gave him Wembley’s address, but it took him another hour to find the man’s surgery and then gain the opportunity to speak to him alone. Then Monk was introduced to a man well into his sixties, handsome, with thick gray hair and mustache.

  “Thank you.” Monk accepted the seat Wembley offered him, relaxing back into the chair and crossing his legs.

  “What can I do for the River Police?” Wembley asked curiously. “Don’t you have your own medical people?”

  “There is a case of yours that may have relevance to one of ours,” Monk answered. “I dare say you’ve heard of the woman who was murdered and mutilated on Limehouse Pier?”

  “Good God, yes! The newspapers are full of it. Giving you chaps a hard time.” There was commiseration in both his face and his voice.

  Monk decided to be frank about it. He judged Wembley would be offended by anything less.

  “The only person we can find who knew the woman is unfortunately himself dead,” he began. “It seems he supported her financially. He was her only known client, and saw her regularly once a month.”

  “She was a prostitute,” Wembley concluded. “One client only? That’s unusual. But if he’s dead already then he can’t have killed her. Isn’t it reasonable to assume she picked up someone else, and was unfortunate enough to run into a lunatic?”

  “Yes, that’s a fair deduction,” Monk agreed. “My men are following that line of inquiry, from the little there is to go on. So far it’s a solitary case. No reports of anyone unusually violent or disturbed in the area. No other women attacked lately. No previous crimes similar enough to this one to assume it’s the same perpetrator.”

  Wembley bit his lip. “Have to start somewhere, I suppose, but it does sound pretty violent for a first crime.”

  “Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The alternative is that it was someone she knew, and the hatred was personal.”

  “Who the devil did the poor woman know to hate her enough to rip her entrails out?” Wembley’s face creased with revulsion. “And why in such an open place as the pier? Wouldn’t he risk being seen by any passing ferry, or lighterman?”

  “Yes,” Monk agreed. “Which all makes him sound more and more like a complete lunatic, someone possessed by a sudden, insane rage. Except he had the knife with him, or possibly an open razor. According to the surgeon, it was quite long, and very sharp indeed. If anyone saw them-which so far no one will admit to-then they took them for acquaintances, or if it was in the act, for a prostitute and client on the pier.”

  “A bit unusual, isn’t it?” Wembley asked. “Why not an alley? There must be plenty more private places around there.”

  “Perhaps she thought she was safe with him in such a visible place,” Monk replied.

  Wembley pursed his lips. “Or he had some power over her. He could force her to go with him. God, what a mess!”

  “Indeed.” Monk smiled bleakly. “And it becomes more complicated. The man who supported her was Dr. Joel Lambourn, who apparently took his own life in Greenwich Park, just over two months ago.”

  Wembley took a deep breath, and let out a sigh. “A connection with him? That is a surprise. I suppose you’re certain?”

  “Yes, there seems to be no doubt. Both his widow and his sister, Mrs. Herne, say that they were aware of the relationship. They may not have known the woman’s name, but they knew she existed.”

  Wembley shook his head. “I … I really am amazed. He is the last man I would have expected to do such a thing.” He looked profoundly unhappy. “But then he is the last man I would have expected to commit suicide. So I have to grant that my judgment is pretty poor. You say Mrs. Lambourn knew about it?”

  “She says so.”

  “But you doubt it?” Wembley pressed.

  Monk gave a faint smile. “I find my judgment floundering also. I’ve missed something crucial, I fear, because the situation, this relationship, his death-none of it seems to fit with what I hear of the man
. Did you know Lambourn personally?”

  “Yes, but not well.”

  “But well enough to be surprised that he killed himself?”

  There was no hesitation in Wembley’s voice. “Yes.”

  “But you have no doubt that he did?” Monk persisted.

  “Doubt?” Wembley was startled, then his eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that he didn’t?”

  “Mrs. Lambourn is convinced he was murdered,” Monk replied. “But that may be because she cannot bear to accept that he wanted to die. I don’t think I could bear to believe that my wife would kill herself, and that I hadn’t even been aware that she was desperate, let alone suicidal. Could you?”

  “No,” Wembley said immediately. “What did his sister say? Or is she in the same category?”

  “Not at all.” Monk recalled Amity Herne’s utterly different face, voice, and even more her attitude and mind-set. It was distasteful to repeat her words. “She seemed to find no difficulty in believing he killed himself,” he replied. “She said he was a professional failure and something of a personal one as well. He could never live up to the perception of him that his wife held, and the strain of trying to do so, the pretense, finally overwhelmed him.”

  “I have no idea about his personal life,” Wembley said with heat, as if he were offended by Amity’s words. “But professionally he was outstanding. He had one of the finest minds in his field. It’s true he held himself to a high standard. But I don’t believe he ever fell short of it, and he was certainly robust enough to deal with a degree of failure. Good heavens, man, there’s no doctor on earth who doesn’t deal with failure every week!”

  He jerked his hands apart in a gesture of frustration. “People die; people fail to throw off a disabling disease. You do your best. You might solve every case, I suppose, but you certainly don’t prevent every crime!” It was something of an accusation. Monk’s implied criticism of Lambourn had obviously angered Wembley.

  Monk found himself perversely pleased. “So you cannot believe that he killed himself over a sense of professional failure?”

  Wembley’s face was tight and angry. “No, I cannot.”

  “Then over what?”

  “I don’t know!” He glared at Monk. “I am forced to go along with the evidence. He was found alone, in the early morning, in an out-of-the-way part of Greenwich Park. He had taken opium, enough to make him drowsy and lessen any physical pain and fear. He had slit his wrists and bled to death.”

  Monk leaned forward a little. “How do you know he took the opium himself, and cut his own wrists?”

  Wembley’s eyes widened and he leaned forward a little. “Are you suggesting that someone else did it, and left him there to die? Why, for God’s sake? And why wouldn’t he have fought back? He wasn’t a small or weak man, and there was no evidence he was bound or restrained. The opium in his body was considerable, but it would not render him insensible immediately. He must have acquiesced in what was going on.”

  Monk’s mind raced. “But his wrists were cut. Could the injuries have hidden signs of having been bound?”

  Wembley shook his head slowly. “They were cut on the inside, to get the artery. If they had been bound, the marks would be on the outside.”

  Monk was not ready to give up. “Any other bruises?” he asked.

  “None that I could see. Certainly nothing on his ankles.”

  “His face?”

  “Of course not. I could hardly have missed that!”

  “What sort of hair did he have?”

  “Gray, thinning on top a little. Why?” But Wembley had hesitated.

  “And at the back?” Monk asked.

  “Thick still. Are you thinking there may have been a bruise hidden by his hair?”

  “Could there?”

  Wembley took a long, slow breath and let it out in a sigh. “I didn’t think to look. It’s possible. But there was no blood. I would have seen that.”

  “How did he take the opium?”

  “I’ve no idea. What difference does it make?”

  “Powder in a twist?” Monk asked. “And water to drink it down? Or a solution of some sort? Something like laudanum or some other patent medicine?”

  “Why does it matter now?” Wembley spoke more slowly, his curiosity awakened.

  “You can’t carry opium loose,” Monk pointed out. “And you can’t take powder without something to wash it down with. Laudanum would’ve been carried in a bottle.”

  Wembley pursed his lips. “I saw no bottle, packet, or anything else. The police must have taken it away. I suppose I should have asked. It didn’t seem important. It looked obvious what had happened. I admit, I was shaken.” His tone was apologetic. “I admired his work, and insofar as I knew him, I liked him.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. The sound of footsteps echoed outside in the passage, and then faded away.

  Monk did not prompt Wembley to go on. He felt touched by the same sense of regret, even though he had never known Dr. Lambourn.

  “He had a very nice sense of humor,” Wembley went on quietly. “He had a keen amusement at the absurd, with a kind of affection, as if oddities pleased him.” He stared into the distance, into the past, it seemed to Monk. “If there was something wrong, something strange about his death,” he went on after a moment, “I’d be happy if you found it. It is one of those cases about which I would much rather be mistaken.”

  Monk returned to the local police station in Greenwich but was not surprised when a young sergeant told him that the case was closed, and that such tragedies were best left alone.

  “Dr. Lambourn was a very well thought of gentleman, sir,” he said with a tight smile. “It shakes the whole neighborhood when something like that happens. Not really River Police business.”

  Monk struggled to think of a reason why he could ask if anyone had moved a bottle of water or alcohol, or something that could have contained a solution of opium, but the sergeant was right. It was not River Police business.

  “I would like to speak with the policeman first on the scene,” he said instead. “It may have a connection with a case that is our business. A murder,” he added, in case the young man was inclined to take it lightly.

  The constable’s smooth face yielded nothing. He met Monk’s eyes blandly.

  “Sorry, sir, but that’d probably be Constable Watkins, and he’s out Deptford way right now.” He smiled very slightly. Monk did not know if it was meant to be charm, or insolence. He thought the latter.

  “Not be back here until tomorrow,” the young man continued. “Couldn’t tell you anything anyway. Poor gentleman’d been dead for hours, so the doctor told us. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  Monk hid his irritation with difficulty.

  “Who was in charge of the case?”

  “Some senior man the government brought in, Dr. Lambourn being an important person,” the young man replied. “Kept it … discreet.” He loaded the last word with importance.

  “And you don’t know the name of this man?”

  “That’s right, sir, I don’t.” Again he smiled and met Monk’s eyes boldly.

  Monk thanked him and left, feeling thwarted, but also that he was wasting his time. Perhaps Lambourn had taken his opium in alcohol, possibly a lot of it, and it was a small kindness to conceal the fact. Grudgingly he acknowledged that those who found him might well have hidden it, for compassion’s sake. He might have done the same himself.

  He spoke to Orme the next morning at the River Police headquarters in Wapping. They were standing on the dockside in front of the station, staring across the river, watching the lighters as they made their way upstream in long strings, ten to fifteen of them carrying cargo to the Pool of London ready to be loaded and sent to every port in the world.

  “Been through all the records I can find,” Orme said unhappily. “Asked everyone. No crime similar enough to this to make it worth comparing, thank the Lord. Can’t find anyone who’s even been at
tacked in the last couple of years, except for the ordinary beatings or stranglings. No one sliced open and torn to pieces.” His mouth pulled thin in distaste. “There’s no trace of him doing this before, either side of the river.” He shook his head. “I think this is a one-off, sir. And I don’t know if it had anything to do with Dr. Lambourn or not. But I can’t find anyone else she knew, except the odd local people to talk to. Shopkeepers, a laundress, old man a couple of streets away, but he’s eighty if he’s a day, and can hardly walk, let alone get himself to the pier.”

  “And Lambourn was two months dead by that time,” Monk added. “Then we’re left with someone connected to Lambourn. What could someone think he said or confessed to Zenia Gadney that was worth killing her for-and killing her like that?”

  “To make us think it was a lunatic, and to do with Limehouse and her profession, not with Lambourn,” Orme answered.

  Monk did not argue. “And what made Lambourn kill himself when he did? Why not sooner, or later?” he asked, as much to himself as to Orme. “What changed so terribly?”

  Orme said nothing. He knew he was not expected to reply.

  That was also what Monk asked Lambourn’s assistant a couple of hours later. He was a young doctor named Daventry, somewhat unhappy at now working for Lambourn’s replacement, who was a stiff, busy man who had no time to speak with Monk himself, and was only too happy to find an excuse to send him to someone else.

  Monk did not phrase his question quite so boldly. He was standing in a brightly lit laboratory full of jars and bottles, vials, burners, basins, and retorts. All kinds of glass and metal equipment stood around on surfaces. One complete wall was obscured by stacks of files.

  “You worked closely with Dr. Lambourn before his death?” Monk began.