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“A quarrel?” Rathbone suggested. “Someone giving her a better offer, but he wouldn’t let her go? Who knows? Did he die of natural causes?”
“No. Suicide-apparently.”
Rathbone leaned forward a little farther, more interested now. “Apparently? You doubt it? His wife killed him, do you think?”
“No, she adored him, and now she is without means as well, except what he left. Not quite sure what that is yet, but probably not inconsiderable.” He stopped. “Actually it’s far more complicated than that. I have no idea what lay ahead for him. He had suffered a degree of professional disgrace. His prospects may not have been as good as before. On the other hand, he was determined to fight his way back, according to his wife.”
Rathbone was intrigued. The story was full of passion, violence, and total inconsistency.
“Monk, there’s something missing in this, something crucial that you are not telling me. Stop playacting and give me all of it,” he demanded.
“The man was Dr. Joel Lambourn,” Monk replied.
Rathbone was stunned. He knew the name. The man had been highly respected. More than once he had even been called as an expert witness in court regarding certain medical facts. Rathbone could picture him in his mind: grave, softly spoken, but with the kind of authority that would not be shaken by even the most stringent cross-examination.
“The Joel Lambourn?” he said with a sudden and deep sadness.
“I don’t think there are two,” Monk answered. “It is his wife, Dinah, who appears to have killed Zenia Gadney in revenge for her part in Lambourn’s suicide. Dinah is convinced that the research that was touted as a failure was actually totally correct, and that Lambourn was innocent of professional error. She also-” He stopped abruptly, his face tight with anxiety. “It would be better if you went to see her yourself rather than my telling you secondhand what she said, and its inconsistencies.”
Rathbone sat back in his chair, turning the matter over in his mind, very aware of Monk watching him, and the urgency of his emotions.
“Why are you so anxious about this, that you come to me at this time in the evening, rather than waiting to visit my chambers tomorrow?” he asked thoughtfully. “What is it that intrigues you so much? Is it pity for a widow who has been betrayed, bereaved, and now awaits trial and almost certainly the hangman? Is she handsome? Brave? And these are not idle questions, so give me the truth!”
“Yes, she’s handsome,” Monk said with a wry smile. “But I suppose the truth is that I’m not sure she’s guilty. The evidence is strong against her, and so far we’ve found no one else at all to suspect, not even a suggestion. There’s no other crime on the records like it, solved or unsolved. Limehouse is certainly a rough area, but Zenia Gadney had lived there for years without coming to any harm.”
“Years?”
“Fifteen or sixteen at least.”
“Supported by Joel Lambourn the entire time?” Rathbone said sharply. “That’s a lot of money going from his household to her. Did the wife know about this? I mean, clearly you think she did at the end, but when did she discover it?” Perhaps the case was not as commonplace, or as sordid, as it first appeared?
“Her story’s inconsistent,” Monk answered. “At first she denied her husband’s affair, then said she knew of it, but not the woman’s name or where she lived.”
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “And she didn’t want to find out? A remarkably incurious woman! Most women would want, at the very least, to see the competition.”
“It is hardly competition in the ordinary sense,” Monk told him. “Dinah Lambourn is, in her own way, beautiful. But what is far more attractive than that, she is unusual, full of character, emotion, and a remarkable dignity. Zenia Gadney was pleasant, but as ordinary as a boiled potato.”
“Staple diet for most,” Rathbone observed drily. “Does the wife have children?”
“Two daughters. At present still at home with the housekeeper.”
Rathbone sighed. More victims of the tragedy. “I suppose I can go and speak to this woman, see what her account is. What does she say?”
Monk bit his lip. “I think I’ll leave her to tell you that.”
“So bad?” Rathbone asked.
“Worse.” Monk drank the last of his port. “Worse as to what she thinks happened to Lambourn, and who killed Zenia Gadney and why. But at least listen to her, Oliver. Make your own judgments. Don’t go on mine.”
Rathbone stood up also. “I would welcome a challenge, as long as it’s not absurd.”
“It might be absurd,” Monk answered him. “It certainly might be.”
The next morning was cold. Winter was closing in.
Rathbone heard the prison door clang shut, steel on stone, and looked at the woman who stood alone in the cell in front of him. There was a table in the center of the floor with a chair on either side; apart from that, nothing at all.
“I am Oliver Rathbone,” he said. “Mr. Monk said you would like to see me.” He looked at her with curiosity. Monk had said she was handsome, but that hardly conveyed the degree of individuality in her face or her bearing. She was tall, within an inch or two of Rathbone’s own height, and the way she carried herself, even here in this wretched place, gave her a dignity that was remarkable, as Monk had claimed. She was not truly beautiful in a classical sense-maybe there was too much character in her face, the mouth too generous-but there was charm, a power, even a rare kind of balance that was unusually pleasing.
