Page 87 of A Sunless Sea (William Monk 17)

“Mr. Bawtry is joining us for luncheon,” he said a little breathlessly. “He said he would if he was able. I’m sorry. I appreciate that this is a family matter, but he is my superior, and I cannot refuse him.”

Rathbone made a small, gracious gesture to dismiss the matter. “Of course not. And we have already discussed the more personal side of the subject. Should there be anything more that concerns the report, or Dr. Lambourn’s reactions to its rejection, Mr. Bawtry will be as much involved with it as you are. I shall be as brief as I can.”

He looked at Amity, expecting to see ice in her eyes, and saw instead a vitality that completely took him aback. Then she blinked and stood up, turning toward the door as the footman opened it. An instant later Sinden Bawtry came in. Clearly he had been warned of Rathbone’s presence. He came forward, smiling at Amity, then held out his hand to Rathbone.

“Good afternoon, Sir Oliver. Very agreeable to see you, but I imagine you are here to gain any last-minute knowledge you can in order to get this very wretched trial over with as decently as is possible, and if we may, before Christmas.”

Rathbone took his hand, which was firm and cool, his grip powerful but without any attempt to crush. He had no need to. This was not his house, but he dominated the room as naturally as if he had been the host and the other three of them friends.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Herne said with a rising note of desperation. “We’ve already explained that poor Joel was rather losing his grip, overemotional, and all that. Couldn’t accept the report. Not professional.”

Amity shot a glance of irritation at him but was prevented from saying anything by Bawtry’s intervention.

“I think the least said about poor Joel the better,” he observed, smiling at Rathbone. “It would be most unfortunate for your case to be trying to justify the murder of that woman by suggesting there was some kind of cause for it. Frankly the only hope I can see for Mrs. Lambourn is to raise some reasonable doubt that Mrs. Gadney was desperate for money and tried her somewhat unpracticed hand at prostitution.”

He smiled bleakly, almost as an apology. “You could do it easily enough without soiling her name too badly. For heaven’s sake don’t suggest she deserved it, only that she was unlucky enough not to be able to defend herself because she was alone at the time of the attack. If she screamed, no one heard her. A woman who was accustomed to life in the streets might have been careful enough not to frequent such a place without a … whatever they are called … a pimp.”

Herne looked wretched. “She was once a decent woman!” he protested.

“So was Dinah!” Amity said sharply. “For heaven’s sake, Barclay, let us have it over with. There is only one way it can end. We are deluding no one by making all this pretense that it was some kind of mischance, and nothing to do with Dinah’s jealousy or her desperation to make sure that she inherited Joel’s money. The fairy story that he didn’t take his own life but was killed by some mysterious conspiracy in Greenwich Park is absurd. No one believes it.” She turned to Rathbone. “If you have any-”

Bawtry put his hand on her arm, very gently, almost in a caress.

“Mrs. Herne, it is only natural, and speaks to bot

h your honesty and your humanity, that you wish to see an end to the torture of the mind that this trial forces upon us, but we must wait it through to the end, in silence if necessary.”

He turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver will do the best he can for your sister-in-law, but it is a doomed effort, and he is as aware of that as we are. It is a matter of the law being seen to be done.” He gave Rathbone a brief smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

Amity seemed to relax and a kind of ease washed through her face. Her eyes became bright again. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Of course. I don’t mean to contest the inevitable. I suppose it would be unnatural not to find it distressing.”

“Indeed it would,” Bawtry agreed. He moved his gaze from her to her husband. “I know you were fond of him, Barclay, and therefore must find these revelations about his wife shocking. It is natural to wish to deny them, but I am sure you will find your strength in your own wife, and gratitude that you are not losing control of your skills or your professional reputation, as poor Lambourn was.”

Herne made a painful and quite visible effort to compose himself, to stand up straight with his shoulders back and his eyes forward.

“Of course,” he agreed. Then he turned to Rathbone. “I’m sorry we could not be of more help, Sir Oliver. I’m afraid the facts are beyond argument. Thank you for calling.”

Rathbone had no choice but to depart gracefully, his mind seething with impressions, none of them even remotely helpful.

CHAPTER 19

At mid-afternoon of the following day, Monk stood by the dockside in the wind as the ferry drew near the steps and Runcorn climbed out. He looked tired and cold, but there was no hesitation as he came forward, his eyes meeting Monk’s.

Monk gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, then turned to walk with him toward the River Police Station. They knew each other too well to need the unnecessary niceties.

Inside they went to Monk’s office, and a moment later a constable brought them tea. Monk thanked him, and he and Runcorn faced each other across the desk. There had been a short note from Rathbone, delivered by messenger. Monk passed it to Runcorn to read. It brought them up to date with both the trial and Rathbone’s own thoughts, and his visit to Barclay Herne.

Runcorn looked up, his face even grimmer than before.

“The more I think of it, the less certain I am that Lambourn killed himself,” he said unhappily. “It looked clear at the time, and the government people were absolutely certain.” He shook his head. “I believed them. All I could think of was the widow and the daughters, and trying not to make it any worse for them than it had to be. I used not to be so … sentimental!” He said the word with disgust.

Words of denial, even comfort, came to Monk’s mind, but he knew they would sound patronizing.

“I’m not any better,” Monk said wryly. “If Dinah had been plain and timid, I might not have gone to Rathbone for her, and for that matter, I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t have taken the case.”

Runcorn gave a quick, bleak smile. “I’ve been supposing Lambourn told the truth about the opium and the damage it does without proper labels. Suppose they’ll have to be pretty clear, too. Lots of people don’t read. They’ll need figures. It will cost. But I don’t see any of the people who import the stuff killing him for that.”

His face took on a vulnerable, almost bruised look. “And I have to accept that what we did in China was horrible, a betrayal of all that most of us think we stand for. We think we’re civilized, even Christian, for that matter. Seems like when we’re out of sight of home, some of us at least are bloody savages. But is anyone going to murder Lambourn because he knew that? We all know at least part of it.” He sighed. “And whoever killed that poor woman qualifies as a savage, in my mind.”

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