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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, Superintendent,” 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.
“Sir Oliver,” Pendock said with evident relief, “you are risking becoming absurd. This is all a rather desperate attempt to waste time, I don’t know for what purpose. Who are you imagining will ride to your rescue? You have provided absolutely nothing to support this fantasy of conspiracy that you are asking us to believe in. Either produce it, sir, or provide us with some credible defense. If you have none,
then save this fruitless distress to your client and allow her to plead guilty.”
Rathbone felt the blood burn up his face. “My client has told me she is not guilty, my lord,” he said, the bitterness harsh in his voice. “I cannot ask her to say that she beat to death and then eviscerated a woman, in order to save the court’s time!”
“Be very careful, Sir Oliver,” Pendock warned, “or I shall hold you in contempt.”
“That would only delay the trial even longer, my lord,” Rathbone retorted, then the instant after regretted it, and knew it was too late. He had made an irrevocable enemy of Pendock.
There was a ripple of excitement in the gallery. Even the jurors were suddenly intensely alive, their eyes moving from Rathbone to Pendock, then to Coniston, lastly to Runcorn, still waiting for further questions.
Dinah Lambourn was not the only one on trial. Perhaps in one way or another, everyone in the court was. They each had a part to play in finding justice.
Rathbone now chose his words with meticulous care. Dinah Lambourn’s life might hang on his skill, and his ability to forget his own vanity or temper and think only of her, and whatever truth he could force the jury to hear.
He had no idea what else Runcorn knew. Staring at his face now, he wondered what on earth the man wanted him to ask. What could it concern that he could not raise without Pendock stopping him again? What tied Zenia Lambourn to the sale of opium and needles, except Lambourn and his research?
“Mr. Runcorn, did you have occasion to consider the possibility that Zenia Gadney might have known something of Dr. Lambourn’s research into crimes involving, or following from, the sale of opium pure enough to inject into the blood, and the degeneration into madness or death that can result from it?”
Now the jurors were craning forward to listen, faces tense, fascinated and frightened.
Runcorn seized the chance. “Yes, sir. We thought it possible that Dr. Lambourn made more than one copy, at least of the most controversial parts of his report. Since it was not found in his own home, we thought he might well have left it with his first wife, Zenia Gadney. He may have believed that no one else, apart from Dinah Lambourn, knew of her existence.”
Coniston stood. “Then the poor woman cannot have been murdered for it, except by Dinah Lambourn, which is our contention. All Sir Oliver has done is provide the accused with a second motive, my lord.”
