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Monk allowed a few moments before prompting her to continue.
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“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I still keep expecting to hear his step. That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I know he’s dead. Every inch of my body knows it, every thought in my mind is filled with it. And yet when I go to sleep I forget, and in the morning I wake up, and for a second it is as if he hasn’t gone. Then I remember again.”
Monk tried to imagine what his own house would be like if Hester never returned. It was unbearable, and he forced the idea out of his mind. His job was to learn who had killed Zenia Gadney. There was nothing he could do to change the fact of the suicide of Joel Lambourn. How did anyone deal with such a painful tragedy, find the answers that allowed them to continue on? Daily life must seem absurd and completely meaningless after such a thing. He supposed having children both hurt and helped. You would force yourself to keep going, for their sakes, even if the sight of them was a reminder of what you had lost.
But what about at night when you lay alone in the bed you had shared, and the house was silent? What could you think of then that allowed you live with pain?
“Mrs. Lambourn, please go on.”
She sighed. “Joel was very clever; in fact, he was brilliant. He worked for the government on various kinds of medical research.”
“What was his latest work?” Monk was not really interested; he just wanted to keep her talking.
“Opium,” she replied without hesitation. “He was passionately angry about the harm it is doing, when it isn’t labeled properly. And he said that happens almost all of the time. He had an enormous amount of facts and figures on the number dead because of it. He used to sit in his study and go over and over them, weighing every story against the evidence, checking to make sure he was always correct and exact.”
“To what purpose?” In spite of himself Monk was now curious.
For the first time she looked up at him. “Thousands of people die of opium poisoning, Mr. Monk, among them many children. Do you know what a ‘penny twist’ is?”
“Of course I do. A small dose of opium powder you can buy at a corner shop or apothecary.” He thought back to Mr. Clawson and his general hardware shop with all its remedies, and his fierce defense of Zenia Gadney.
“How much is in a dose?” Dinah Lambourn asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Monk admitted.
“Neither has the man who sells it, or the woman who buys it to give to her child, or to take herself for her headache, or a stomachache, or because she can’t sleep.” She gave a little gesture of helplessness with her beautiful hands. “Neither have I, for that matter. That is what Joel was concerned about. He knew of thousands of cases over the whole country where this lack of knowledge led to death. Especially children. That was only part of his work, but that was what he did.”
Monk was still trying to imagine the man who had gone to Limehouse to visit Zenia Gadney, who paid her every month. So far, the picture was so incomplete and contradictory as to be almost meaningless. And why had he taken his own life? So far that made no sense, either.
“Was he a successful man, financially?” he asked, feeling as if he were poking at an open wound.
“Of course,” she said, as if the question were a little foolish. “He was brilliant.”
“Scientific brilliance is not always financially rewarded,” he pointed out. Was it possible she had no idea of his business affairs? Could he have gambled and lost badly? Or was it possible someone had blackmailed him over his visits to Limehouse, and when he could no longer pay, he had committed suicide rather than face the shame, and the ruin of his family? Other men, outwardly just as respectable, had done so.
“Look around you, Mr. Monk,” Mrs. Lambourn said simply. “Do we appear to be in difficult times as far as money is concerned? I assure you, I am not ignorant of my situation. Joel’s man of affairs has advised me very thoroughly in exactly what we have, and how to both use it and conserve the principal, so that we shall not fall into difficulty. We are more than comfortably provided for.”
That at least would be easy enough to check, and he would have someone do so.
“I’m glad,” he said sincerely. “Mrs. Gadney was not so fortunate. She lived very much from one month to the next.”
“I’m sorry for her, but that is not my concern,” Dinah replied. “Indeed, since the poor woman is dead, you say, it is not anyone’s now.”
He could not let it go. “Are you sure you did not know that your husband visited her every month?” he repeated. “It seems an extraordinary breach of trust, especially for a man who hated liars.”
The color washed up her face and she drew in her breath sharply. She opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it when she quite clearly realized she did not know what to say.
Monk leaned forward a little and his voice was gentle. “I think it is time for the truth, Mrs. Lambourn. I promise you I’ll find out either way, but it would be easier if you would just tell me. I give you my word that if your husband’s relationship with Zenia Gadney has no connection with her murder, I will not make it public. So now I’ll ask you again: Did you know about his visits to Zenia Gadney?”
“Yes,” she said in a whisper.
“When did you learn?”
“Years ago. I don’t remember how long.”
He did not know whether to believe her or not. Certainly there was no shock or surprise in her now; but then if she had discovered it only two months ago, grief at Lambourn’s suicide would have outweighed any other emotion in her. If she had known for years, how had she lived with it so happily, according to her? Perhaps a woman’s acceptance of such an arrangement was something a man would never understand. He could not imagine how he would ever endure it if Hester were to betray him in that way. The idea was one he could not even look at.
