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“I can’t help you,” he said in perfectly normal tones, but the sudden silence from the gallery made his voice audible.
Everyone was now staring at these two men, but no one could have missed seeing the doors swing open. Hester Monk came in, the gaunt figure of Alvar Doulting a step behind her.
Sinden Bawtry turned toward them as the sound of their entry caught his attention.
Doulting stared at Bawtry. Hester seemed to be half supporting him as he lifted one arm awkwardly to point at Bawtry.
“That’s him!” he said, gasping for breath. His body was shaking so badly he looked in danger of collapse. “That is the man who sold the opium and syringes to me, and to God knows how many others. I’ve watched too many of them die. Buried some of them in paupers’ graves. I’ll find one myself soon.”
The crowd erupted as pent-up terror and fury at last found release, people rising to their feet, crying out.
“Order!” Pendock shouted, also rising to his feet, his face scarlet.
But no one took any notice of him. The ushers tried to push their way through the crowds to help Bawtry, or at the very least to make sure he was not trampled.
Amity Herne, still in the witness stand, could do nothing. Her anguish was naked in her face. She cried out Bawtry’s name in a howl of despair, but it was hardly audible above the din, and no one listened to her or cared.
Coniston looked like a lost child, searching this way and that for something familiar to hold on to.
Pendock was still shouting for order. Gradually the noise subsided. Ushers had helped Bawtry out and stood guarding the doors. Hester eased Doulting into a seat at the back where people made ample room for him, sitting apart, as if his private hell were contagious.
At last Pendock had restored some kind of sanity and was able to continue.
“Sir Oliver!” Pendock said savagely. “Was that outburst contrived by you? Did you arrange for that … that appalling scene to take place?”
“No, my lord. I had no idea that Dr. Doulting would know by sight the man who has dug his grave, so to speak.” That was something less than the truth. At the time he had arranged it with Hester, he had expected Doulting to reveal Barclay Herne as both the seller and an addict.
Pendock started to speak again, and then changed his mind.
“Have you anything further to ask of Mrs. Herne?” he said instead.
“Yes, my lord, if you please,” Rathbone said humbly.
“Proceed.” Pendock barely lifted his hand, but the gesture was unmistakable.
“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone turned to Amity, who was now looking as if she had heard the news of her own death. Her eyes were unfocused, her entire body sagging.
It was all up to him now. He must make it plain to the jury. Reasonable doubt was no longer the verdict he sought; it was a clear and ringing “not guilty.” What happened to Bawtry was up to a different jurisdiction, and would perhaps only happen on the stage of public opinion. Dinah Lambourn’s life, and Joel Lambourn’s reputation, were Rathbone’s responsibility. And maybe he would also achieve some measure of justice for Zenia Gadney.
“Mrs. Herne,” he began. The silence in court was absolute. “Mrs. Herne, you have heard the evidence making it seem highly likely that your brother, Joel Lambourn, was murdered by a woman he trusted, who arranged to meet with him on the night of his death? Together they walked up into Greenwich Park, he totally unsuspecting of any violence. On One Tree Hill they stopped. It is possible she somehow managed to inject him with a needle, but more likely she offered him a drink that was extremely heavily laced with opium. He became dizzy, then unconscious within a very short space of time. She then slit his wrists with a blade she had brought with her, leaving him to bleed to death alone in the dark.”
Amity swayed in the witness box, gripping the rail to stop herself from falling.
“It was suggested that this woman he trusted was his first wife, in law his only wife, known as Zenia Gadney,” Rathbone went on. “And that she did it because she was paid to by your husband.”
“I know,” Amity whispered.
Coniston half rose, then sat back again, his face pale, eyes wide in fascination.
“Why would your husband do such a thing?” Rathbone asked.
Amity did not answer.
“To protect his superior, Sinden Bawtry?” Rathbone answered for her. “And of course his own supply of opium. He is addicted, isn’t he?”
She did not speak, but nodded her head slightly.
“Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “I can well believe that Bawtry asked this of him. Your husband is a weak and ambitious man, but he is not a murderer, either of your brother, or of Zenia Gadney.”
