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“No, sir, but ’e went white like ’e were going ter faint,” she replied.
“Could that be the very natural horror of a decent man told of abominable human crime and suffering?”
“Course it could,” she said tartly.
“Did he say that he had either the wish or the power to ruin this man? For example, send him to prison?” Coniston continued.
“I went ter get ’im brandy. ’E didn’t say much at all, ’ceptin’ ter thank me.”
“I see. Did he at any time tell you that he was going to face this man, accuse him, or otherwise bring him to answer for his terrible trade? Did he tell you this man’s name?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Miss Nisbet. That is all I have to ask you.”
Rathbone was on his feet ye
t again. “May I re-direct, my lord?”
“Of course,” Pendock told him.
Rathbone looked up at Agatha. “Miss Nisbet, did you form the opinion that Dr. Lambourn was deeply horrified by what you told him?”
“Course ’e was,” she said witheringly.
“Because of the suffering, the crime of it?”
“I think it were ’cos ’e ’ad an idea ’oo it were,” she said slowly and distinctly. “But ’e never told me.”
There was an immediate ripple of amazement and horror through the room. Rathbone turned to look at the gallery, and at that moment saw the door open and Hester come in. Their eyes met and she gave a very slight nod. Relief washed through Rathbone like a wave of heat. He turned to the judge, the smile still on his lips.
“I would like to call Dr. Alvar Doulting to the stand, my lord.”
Pendock glanced at the clock on the far wall.
“Very well. You may proceed.”
Alvar Doulting came up the aisle between the seats in the gallery and across the open floor. He climbed the steps of the witness stand with difficulty. When he reached the top and faced Rathbone, suddenly all that Agatha Nisbet had said of a living hell became real to Rathbone’s eyes. Doulting looked like a man who lived in a nightmare. His skin was gray and sheened with sweat. In spite of the fact that he clung to the rail, he was trembling violently. A muscle in his face twitched and he was so gaunt the bones of his skull seemed to stretch his skin.
Rathbone felt a searing guilt that he had compelled the man to come here.
Doulting swore to his name and his professional qualifications, which were impressive. He had clearly once been a great doctor in the making. The man who stood in front of them now was the more horrifying because of it.
Based upon what Agatha Nisbet had told him, Rathbone began his questioning, urged on by the feeling that Doulting might not stay well long enough to say much. If the diarrhea, vomiting, and cramps that Winfarthing described in the withdrawal symptoms of addiction were to strike him, he would be unable to continue, no matter how critical his evidence was to the case. And yet still Rathbone felt brutal doing it.
“Thank you, Dr. Doulting,” he said with profound sincerity. “I appreciate your coming. Since you are clearly unwell, I shall be as brief as I can. Did you speak with Dr. Joel Lambourn, shortly before his death in early October?”
“Yes, I did.” Doulting’s voice was steady, in spite of his physical distress.
“Did he ask you about the sale and use of opium, in the course of his investigation into the possible Pharmacy Act prepared by Parliament?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him, if anything, beyond the dangers of people overusing it because of the fact that it was inadequately labeled?”
Doulting gripped the railing more tightly and took a deep breath.
“I told him about the relief opium gave to agonizing pain when it was administered directly into the bloodstream using the recent invention of a hollow needle attached to a syringe. I also told him how much more deeply addictive it is, acting within a matter of days to make someone so dependent upon it that it is almost beyond a person’s ability to stop using it. It takes over their lives. The hell of being without it is almost as bad as the pain it relieved.”
