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“Largely courtesy, I think, although people around her neighborhood thought she might be a widow.”
“Supported by Joel Lambourn? A colleague’s wife fallen on hard times?” Winfarthing still looked incredulous.
“Possibly,” Hester replied with some doubt. “When Dr. Lambourn died, it looks as if she might have taken to the streets to survive.”
“How old was she?”
“Middle forties, roughly.”
“There’s something wrong in this,” Winfarthing said, shaking his head. “Somebody’s lying. Has to be. Are you suggesting this poor woman was somehow connected with Lambourn’s death?”
Hester evaded the question slightly, answering with one of her own.
“If he wouldn’t kill himself because his report was rejected, and he doesn’t appear to have had any fatal illness-or any illness at all, for that matter-then he killed himself for another reason,” she said. “Could that have been an affair with a prostitute that was about to be exposed?”
Winfarthing’s face filled with acute distaste. “I suppose we never know people as well as we think we do. As a doctor, I have certainly learned that. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen-and heard.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps you would. But I still can’t see Joel Lambourn conducting an affair with a middle-aged prostitute in Limehouse.” His voice took on a more challenging tone, although it was the conclusion he fought, not Hester. “And if she were going to expose him, and he killed himself, that doesn’t answer your question as to who killed her, does it? Why do you care, girl? Was she one of the women in this clinic of yours?”
She shook her head. “No. I never met her, or heard of her before this. Limehouse is a distance from Portpool Lane, you know. It’s the manner of her death that is the worst. It’s my husband’s case.”
“Of course.” He grimaced, irritated with himself. “I should have worked that out. Well, I still find it hard to believe that Lambourn killed himself at all, over anything. I don’t mind some of life’s surprises, but I don’t like this one.”
“The alternative is that Dr. Lambourn was murdered as well, by someone who wanted his report suppressed,” she said, watching his expression to judge what he thought of the idea.
He nodded very slowly. “Possible, I suppose. There are fortunes made and lost in opium. I …” He hesitated.
“What?” she said quickly.
He looked at her, his face creased with sadness. “I would hate to think there is corruption deep enough to have a man like Joel Lambourn murdered, and labeled as a failure and a suicide, in order to cover up the misuse of opium and prevent a regulating bill that is much needed, not only for opium but for the sale of all pharmaceuticals.”
“Does that mean you won’t consider the possibility?”
He jerked forward in his chair, glaring at her. “No, it does not! How dare you even ask?”
She smiled at him with rare charm. “To make you angry enough to help me,” she answered. “But discreetly, of course. I … I don’t want someone to find you on One Tree Hill with your wrists cut.”
He sighed gustily. “You are a manipulating woman, Hester. Here am I thinking you were the only daughter of Eve who hadn’t the art to twist a man around your fingers. I’m a wishful fool. But I’ll help with this-for Joel Lambourn, not because you backed me into it!”
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “If you were looking for information to make the kind of report he did, what would you look for? Can you write it down for me, please?”
“No I cannot!” he said with sudden vehemence. “One Tree Hill is quite big enough for both of us. I’ll do most of it. I’ve got excuses, reasons. You can try the ordinary apothecaries and common shops, midwives-peddlers in the street. Just see what you could buy. Ask, do you understand? Don’t get it.”
Hester nodded, and left him a quarter of an hour later with their plans made and agreed.
SHE BEGAN THAT DAY, walking the busy streets of the Rotherhithe area in the sharp winter sun. She was close to the river and she could smell the salt and fish odors on the wind, and hear the cry of the gulls. Occasionally as she turned north she saw the light on the water, glinting sharp between the rows of houses, or the dark lines of masts and spars against the sky.
She asked at small grocery shops, apothecaries, and tobacconists, and was surprised at the number of people who sold some preparation that contained an unspecified amount of opium. Of course she herself had used it at the clinic in Portpool Lane, but they had bought it in pure form and given it out very carefully measured, and as sparingly as possible. She would not have argued with anyone that it was not only the best remedy for pain, but in most cases the only one.
She began to ask the shopkeepers for advice as to how much to take, and how often. She inquired whether age or weight of the patient made any difference, and what other circumstances might alter its effect. Was there anything that would make it dangerous, such as taking other medicines at the same time, or having certain illnesses?
“Look, lady, either take it or don’t,” one busy man said to her exasperatedly, glancing at the queue of customers behind her. “Please yerself, just don’t stand ’ere arguing wi’ me. I in’t got time. Now do yer want it or not?”
“No thank you,” she replied, and went out of the cramped shop, past several strings of onions, dried herbs, and bins of flour, wheat, and oatmeal.
She did not need to spend a second day walking up and down the streets and calling at every likely shop. If it was so easy to buy opium in Rotherhithe, it would be the same anywhere else in London, and probably in every other city and town in England.
She did not mention her activities to Monk when he came home late in the evening, having spent most of the day on the river dealing with thefts, and the murder of a sailor during a brawl. It was one of those senseless, drunken arguments that got out of hand. Abuse had been shouted, tempers high and out of control. The next moment a broken bottle had slashed a man’s artery and he had bled to death before anyone could gather their wits and even think of helping him. The guilty man had run, and it had taken Monk and three of his officers most of the afternoon to catch him and arrest him without any further injury.
It had been late when he joined Orme, still searching for the “Limehouse Butcher,” as the newspapers were calling him.
