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She sat down at last. “I know some people eat opium whom you wouldn’t necessarily expect to. Artists and writers we admire.”
He shook his head, his lips pursed. “It isn’t the eating of it that’s the big, ugly thing you’re going to uncover, girl. It’s the nice, respectable fortunes that were built on deceit, and the deaths of a lot of soldiers sent in to fight a filthy war, not for honor but for money. And God knows how many Chinese. Tens of thousands of them. Nobody’s going to like you for showing them that. It’s all right for foreign savages to behave like savages, but we don’t want to hear that we did it-that Englishmen were without honor.”
“Those of us with any knowledge of history already know it,” Hester said very quietly. Even though she meant it, it was still painful to admit. Perhaps that, as much as the senseless death, was what infuriated her still about the Crimea.
He nodded. “Those of us who’ve seen it, and had to try to clear it up, not the rest. Did you ever meet anyone else who wanted to learn about it anymore, because as sure as hell’s on fire, I didn’t.”
“Is that what was in Dr. Lambourn’s report?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s what would be in mine, if I made one. Some of the things we did out there would shame the devil.” He glared at her, angry because he was afraid for her. “Leave it alone, Hester. You can’t save Lambourn, God rest him. And it didn’t have anything to do with this poor woman’s death. She’s just one more incidental victim.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him bleakly.
“Don’t thank me!” he roared. “Just tell me you’ll leave it alone!”
“I never make promises I don’t mean to keep,” she answered. “Well, hardly ever. And not to people I like.”
He groaned, but knew her too well to argue.
CHAPTER 8
The newspapers were still writing black headlines about the murder of Zenia Gadney and the police failure to solve the crime. Monk walked briskly past one paperboy after another, ignoring them as much as it was possible. But he could not close his ears to the singsong voices calling out the headlines in an attempt to lure people into buying the whole paper.
“ ‘Terrible murder in Limehouse still unsolved,’ ” one gap-toothed boy cried out, thrusting the paper at Monk. “ ‘Police doing nothing!’ ”
Monk shook his head and walked on, increasing his pace. He and his men were doing everything he could think of. Orme was busy in the Limehouse area. Others were questioning lightermen and dockworkers, anyone regularly on the water, asking if they had noticed anything strange, or someone acting in an unusual manner. Nothing had been revealed so far. No one else in Copenhagen Place or its surrounding streets admitted knowing Zenia Gadney. To them she was an interloper, someone who disturbed the safe ordinariness of their lives and brought police questioning them. Worse than that, by being so viciously murdered, she had frightened away prospective customers. Who wanted to look for a prostitute with the police hanging around? If there were a madman on the loose, it was wiser to curb your appetites, or satisfy them elsewhere. It was only a ferry crossing to Deptford and Rotherhithe, or there was always the possibility of going west to Wapping, or east to the Isle of Dogs.
For the prostitutes there was nowhere else. Every street corner or stretch of pavement already belonged to someone. Interlopers were run off, as a strange dog is driven from the territory of another pack.
The only people everyone agreed to blame for the inconvenience were the police. It was their job to catch such lunatics and hang them. No one, decent or indecent, was safe until they did.
Monk had just that day received a summons from Barclay Herne, junior government minister and brother-in-law of the late Joel Lambourn. He wished to speak to Monk on the matter of Zenia Gadney?
?s death, and requested that Monk be good enough to call upon him in his offices so that they might speak discreetly. Monk was curious to know what Barclay Herne might have to say. Surely it could only concern Joel Lambourn. What other connection could Herne possibly have with Zenia Gadney?
Monk caught a hansom. After half an hour’s slow progress through the wet, busy streets of government buildings, he alighted outside Herne’s offices in Northumberland Avenue. He was shown into a comfortably furnished waiting room, then spent fifteen minutes standing impatiently, wondering what Herne wanted.
When he eventually appeared, Monk was surprised. He had expected someone more impressive, less genial-at least superficially. Herne was barely average height, stocky in build, and with a face that was, at first glance, very ordinary. Only when he closed the door behind himself and stepped forward, hand held out, did that impression alter. His smile changed his whole aspect. His teeth were strong and very white, and there was a bright intelligence in his eyes.
He shook Monk’s hand with a grasp so firm it bordered on being painful. It was a tangible intimation of the man’s power.
“Thank you,” he said with every aspect of sincerity. “I appreciate your time. A little early for whisky.” He shrugged. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Monk would have loved a hot drink after the long, cold ride, but he did not want to waste time with formalities. “What can I do for you, Mr. Herne?”
Herne gestured to Monk to sit down in front of a good, brisk fire, and immediately placed himself in the green leather armchair opposite.
“Rather a disturbing situation,” he said ruefully. “It has come to my notice that you are looking into the death of my late brother-in-law, somewhat further than has already been done. Is that really necessary? My wife puts on a very brave attitude, but as you may imagine, it is most unpleasant for her. Are you married, Mr. Monk?”
“Yes.” Monk pictured Amity Herne’s cool, totally composed face, and agreed with her husband that if she was indeed distressed, she hid it remarkably well. But he chose his words carefully. “And if my wife were to sustain such a loss, I would be proud of her if she could keep so dignified a composure.”
Herne nodded. “I am, I am indeed. But I still would greatly prefer it if we might offer whatever assistance we can now, and have the matter settled as soon as possible. Poor Joel was …” He gave the slightest shrug and lowered his voice a little before continuing. “… less settled in his mind than others seem to believe. One does not tell every Tom, Dick, and Harry of one’s family difficulties. It is natural to try to protect … you understand?”
“Of course.” Monk was curious to know what it really was that Herne wanted. He found it hard to believe that it was merely to avoid Monk distressing his wife with further questions. Monk hadn’t even considered returning to speak to Amity; he doubted she would say anything different from her original statement: that Dinah was naïve as to Lambourn’s weaknesses, and perhaps the pressure of her idealistic view of him had been difficult for him to uphold.
Herne seemed to be finding it hard to choose the right words himself. When he finally looked up at Monk he had an expression of candor.
“Some of our relationships were a little difficult,” he confided. “When my wife and I were first married we lived in Scotland. To be honest we hardly ever saw Joel and Dinah. My wife was not close to Lambourn. There were several years between them so they grew up separately.”
