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“And this woman, Nisbet?” He realized when he heard the harshness in his voice how deeply afraid he was that in his own sense of loss and disillusion he would let Dinah Lambourn down, and she would pay with her life.
Hester smiled. “There are no certainties. We’ve been here before. We play the best hand we have. We’ve never been certain of winning. That’s not the way it is.”
He knew she was right; he was simply less brave than he used to be, less certain of the other things that mattered. Or maybe at the heart of it, he was less certain of himself.
Rathbone went back across the river by ferry, perversely enjoying the hard, cold wind in his face, even the discomfort of the choppy water. There seemed to be a lot of traffic in the Pool of London today, big ships at anchor waiting to unload cargo from half the ports on earth, lighters carrying freight down from the waterways inland, up from the sea, ferryboats weaving in and out, even a River Police boat making its way over to St. Saviour’s Dock. Everyone seemed to be working twice as hard, hurrying along the streets, laden with parcels, calling out good wishes, making ready for Christmas.
On the northern side he alighted and paid his fare. Then he walked quickly to the Commercial Road and caught a hansom back toward the Old Bailey, and the prison where Dinah Lambourn was housed.
Before he faced her he stopped at a quiet inn and had a large luncheon of steak and kidney pudding, with oysters and a thick suet crust, and a half bottle of really good red wine. He was too worried for the richness or the flavor of it to please him, but afterward he felt warmer and had a renewed sense of determination. A great deal of this was fueled by anger within himself that he was so nearly beaten.
He had thought hard about what to say to Dinah, and as he walked the last couple of hundred yards he made his final decision. At the prison he gave the jailer all the necessary information, identifying himself for the umpteenth time, as if they did not know him.
He was escorted along to the familiar stone cell where he waited alone until they brought Dinah to him. She looked thinner and even paler than the last time he had seen her here, as if she knew the fight was over, and she had lost. He felt the guilt of failure like a wound deep in his gut.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Lambourn,” he said. Then, as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him, he sat down also. He realized, watching her awkwardness, that she was stiff with fear.
“I have just been speaking with Mr. Monk,” he told her. “He and Mr. Runcorn have discovered many things about Dr. Lambourn, all of them bearing out what you yourself have told me. However, I cannot raise your hopes more than a little, because we have no proof that will stand up in court. To call those people who might be of help will be a very great risk, and I need to be certain that you understand that.”
“You’ve found people?” There was a sudden, wild, infinitely painful leap of hope in her face, her eyes almost feverishly brilliant.
He swallowed hard. “People who may not be believed, Mrs. Lambourn. One is a doctor who is, I am told, something of a renegade. The other is a self-proclaimed nurse running an unofficial clinic for dockworkers in the Rotherhithe area. She says that Dr. Lambourn consulted her when he was gathering information about the uses and dangers of opium. So far we have nothing whatever to substantiate what she says, and she is hardly a reputable person. However, she did tell these things to Dr. Lambourn, and as a result he then sought out others, who said the same things.”
Dinah was confused. “To do with opium? I don’t understand.”
“No, not merely to do with opium. That is the point. What she says is to do with the new invention of a hollow needle, and a syringe that can deliver pure opium directly into the blood. It is very much more effective for dealing with pain, but also it can create an addiction to opium that is terrible in its effects.” He grimaced. “A brief heaven, bought at the price of a life of hell afterward.”
“What does that have to do with Joel?” she asked. “Or with poor Zenia’s death? All Joel was reporting on was the need to label the quantity and dosage of opium in patent medicines.”
“I know,” Rathbone said gently. “We think he found out about the syringe and its effects by accident, and included it in his report. If that were so, then it might well have made its way into the Pharmacy Act; then sale in that way would probably be made illegal.”
“If it is as terrible as you say, then it has to be made illegal,” she said slowly, understanding filling her eyes, and then horror.
He nodded. “They destroyed the report, but in case he had told anyone, such as you, for example, he had to be discredited as well.”
Her eyes widened. “They killed him, so he couldn’t repeat it,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes.”
“And poor Zenia?”
“That was probably as you said, to get rid of you, and anything you might have been told.”
“Who is the doctor you spoke of?”
“Dr. Winfarthing? I don’t know him. Mrs. Monk says Dr. Lambourn consulted him. I want to question him mostly to hold the court’s attention until Monk can persuade Agnes Nisbet, the woman who runs the clinic, to come forward and testify. That might take a whole day. In fact I need to call someone on Tuesday morning immediately after Christmas and Boxing Day, until Winfarthing can be spoken to and forewarned, in fairness, that the prosecution will try to discredit him on the witness stand.”
“And then he might not testify?” she said shakily.
“Apart from being unfair, it might be very much against our interest to have him testify before I have had the opportunity to find out exactly what he will say, and possibly what to avoid asking him. Don’t forget, Mr. Coniston will have the chance to question him after I do. I think you have seen enough of Coniston to know that he will give Winfarthing, or anybody else, a very hard time indeed. He’ll try everything he knows to destroy his credibility, even his reputation, if he can.”
He lowered his voice, trying to be as gentle as he could. “It is not only your life or freedom that may rest on the outcome of this case. If you are not guilty, then someone else is.”
“I don’t know who.” She closed her eyes and the tears escaped under her lids. “Don’t you think I would tell you if I did?”
“Yes, of course I do,” Rathbone said softly. “All I have to do now is to make the jury see that there is such a person. But you have to decide if you want me to do this. It will be very rough. And before I can get Winfarthing on the stand, I shall have to fill Tuesday morning with something else, or the judge will declare the defense closed, and it will be too late. If I call you, you are all I have left, except your daughters. Believe me, Coniston will crucify them before he allows the truth to come out. I believe he really thinks you are guilty, and he won’t spare your children.”
“I’ll testify,” she said, cutting across everything else he might have added, although in truth there was nothing more. He had always known what she would say.
