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Coniston hesitated, then either in cowardice not to take any chances, or in mercy not to drag out the pointless ritual, he answered quietly.
“No, my lord, thank you.”
Rathbone was beaten. “I wish to call Dr. Gustavus Winfarthing, my lord, but he is not yet in court. I apologize, and ask-”
The doors at the back of the court burst open and a huge figure strode through, jacket flying, his mane of graying hair standing on end as if he had come in from a high wind.
“Don’t you dare apologize on my behalf!” he cried loudly. “I most certainly am here. Good heavens, sir, a blind man on a galloping horse could not miss me.”
There was a ripple of laughter around the gallery, perhaps as much a release of tension as any amusement. Even one or two of the jurors smiled widely, then suddenly realized that perhaps it was inappropriate, and forced their faces into expressions of gravity again.
Winfarthing walked right up to the edge of the table where Rathbone sat, and then stopped.
“Are you ready for me, Sir Oliver? Or shall I wait outside again?”
“No!” Rathbone controlled his relief and his anxiety with an effort. “We are perfectly ready for you, Dr. Winfarthing. If you would take the stand, sir, you will be sworn in.” He was not at all ready for him. He needed to speak to him alone, learn what he had to say and keep some grasp on the testimony, but he dared not try Pendock’s patience, or he might lose even this chance.
Winfarthing obeyed, climbing with some difficulty up the narrow, curving steps to the witness box, finding it awkward to get his bulk between the railings. He swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, then stood meekly waiting for Rathbone to begin.
Rathbone had never seen the man before. In fact he knew nothing of him except the little that Hester had told him, and the rather larger amount he deduced from the warmth with which she had spoken. Even the mention of his name had made her smile. Rathbone now had almost nothing left to lose. He set out with a bravado he was far from feeling.
“Dr. Winfarthing, were you acquainted with Joel Lambourn?”
“Of course I was,” Winfarthing replied, raising his eyebrows and staring at Rathbone as if he were a peculiarly inept student in front of him for some childish prank. “Excellent man, both professionally and personally.” Then, as if anticipating Coniston’s objection to the fact that he had not been asked to assess Lambourn’s character, he turned toward him and glared ferociously.
“Thank you,” Rathbone said quickly. “Did he seek your opinions or experiences regarding the use of opium when he was doing research for his report in the three or four months before he died?”
“Of course he did,” Winfarthing said with surprise in his face and his voice again, as if the question were redundant.
Already the gallery was silent. Behind him Rathbone could not hear even the rustle of movement in the seats. Please heaven, Winfarthing had something to say, more than the details, with which he could take the afternoon until Monk would find and bring Agatha Nisbet.
“Why, Dr. Winfarthing?” Rathbone prompted. “Have you some expertise in the study of infant deaths from opium overdose?”
“Tragically, yes,” Winfarthing replied. “I was able to confirm a good deal of what he had found, and add my own figures to his, which incidentally were almost exactly the same.”
Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, if it will save the court’s time, I am willing to agree that Dr. Lambourn’s figures were honestly obtained, and may well have been accurate regarding the misuse of opium in dosing children. Whether that is a tragedy that can be overcome by better dispensing is not within our remit. But since Sir Oliver himself has implied, properly or not, that the reason for Dr. Lambourn’s death had nothing to do with his report on opium labeling, I do not see how it has even the remotest relevance to the murder of Zenia Gadney, even in the unlikely, and totally unproven, event that she was privy to any part of this report. Or, for that matter, that she could have had a copy of part of it in her keeping.”
“Your point is well taken, Mr. Coniston,” Pendock replied. “Sir Oliver, you are wasting time again. I will not allow it. If Dr. Winfarthing has nothing to add except his opinion that Lambourn was a good doctor, then we have heard it, and it is, as Mr. Coniston has said, irrelevant. If Mr. Coniston has no questions of this witness, call your next witness, whoever it is, and let us proceed.”
Winfarthing’s eyes widened and his large face flushed red with anger. He swung around in the confines of the witness box with some difficulty, and glared at the judge in his scarlet robes and white, full-bottomed wig.
“Sir, I have a great deal of evidence to give,” he thundered, “though I am very aware that it may not be pleasant to hear, since it concerns the most exquisitely degrading and painful ways of abusing the human body and spirit known to man. It concerns the abuse of the relief for pain, turning it into blood money in another’s hands. But if we want to be counted as men of virtue, or even of honor-indeed, to be included in the bonds of humanity-then we do not have the luxury or the right to say we prefer not to distress ourselves by listening to the truth.” Then he swiveled around a quarter turn, gripping the rails, and glared equally fiercely at the twelve men of the jury.
The jury gave him not only their attention but their obvious respect.
Pendock was very clearly taken aback. He avoided looking at Winfarthing, glanced at Coniston and saw nothing that helped him, and turned at last to Rathbone.
“Will you keep your witness in order, Sir Oliver,” he said angrily. “I will not have chaos in my courtroom. If you have something to ask that is relevant to the murder of Zenia Gadney, and I warn you to be careful that it is so, then please get to it without further rambling or delay.”
“Rambling?” Winfarthing hissed a stage whisper so loud it must have been audible at the back of the gallery.
Rathbone could feel the last shred of control slipping out of his grasp. He looked back at Winfarthing. He could see why Hester liked the man; he was totally ungovernable. That would appeal to her own anarchic nature.
“Dr. Winfarthing,” he said sternly, “did you give Dr. Lambourn any information that he might have included in his report, and with which, at that point, he was unfamiliar? I am asking specifically about something that might have disturbed him sufficiently to account for his deep concern shortly before his death, but which he refused to confide in the accused, because it was too distressing?”
Winfarthing regarded him with amazement. “Of course I did!” he said loudly. “I told him that opium you swallow, even the damn stuff you smoke, is less than half your problem. The Pharmacy Act, if it sees the light of day, will be a toothless hag to deal with the problem that is now beginning-”
Pendock leaned forward, his hatchet face pale. “Sir Oliver, if you cannot keep your witness to the point, then I-”
