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Rathbone felt suddenly uncomfortably alone again. “You think she’s guilty?”
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “I suppose I think she seems to be, and I wish very much that I were wrong. I accept ’we.’ ”
“Have you the authority to look into it?” That was Rathbone’s real concern. He could attempt to do that legwork himself, in his standing as Dinah’s lawyer, but he knew Monk’s skills were far superior to his, both in seeking evidence and in knowing exactly what to look for and how to interpret it.
Monk debated within himself before replying. “I doubt it, but I can try. It’s not my territory and, as far as I can see, it has no connection with the river. It’s already been ruled a suicide, so it is not an unsolved crime. In fact it’s hardly a crime at all, except in the eyes of the Church, and even that leaves some latitude, depending on the sanity of the person concerned.”
“Opium?” Hester suggested.
They both looked at her.
“Well, a lot of opium comes in through the Port of London, a great deal of which ends up in Limehouse,” she pointed out. “You could say that his report is of concern to you, particularly its reliability.” She grimaced very slightly. “You could stretch the facts a little, and say that you heard he had information that would be of great use to you regarding smuggling?” She made it a question. “Couldn’t you? It’s probably true.”
Monk smiled at Hester, amusement bright in his eyes. “I could,” he agreed. “In fact I will. All in the interest of catching smugglers on the river, of course.” He looked back at Rathbone again. “The evidence of suicide was noticeably missing when I asked before. And nobody seems to be able to account for his report. It’s been condemned, but never shown.”
“What about Lambourn and Zenia Gadney?” Rathbone continued, feeling that at last there was something he could work with. “Why did he go to her in the first place? It’s all rather sordid, but her death itself is extremely violent. It suggests a hatred of an acutely personal nature, a sexual hatred. How hard have you looked for a lunatic who hates women in general, or prostitutes in particular?”
“Very hard,” Monk replied. “And Orme is an extremely good man. There’s been no crime at all that’s comparable. The last prostitute murder we had was strangulation, and before that a beating that went too far. It was over money, and we got him. There was one knifing, but it was a single stab wound that was closer to the heart than the killer intended. It was her pimp and we got him, too.”
Rathbone pursed his lips. “In your experience, have you ever seen a crime of this specific brutality toward a woman committed by another woman?”
“A few slashings by rival prostitutes,” Monk answered. “They can be pretty vicious, but no, not one that cut open the stomach and hauled out the intestines and the womb. It’s hard to imagine one woman doing that to another. That’s partly why the outrage against Dinah is going to be so intense. Honestly, I have no idea how you’re going to defend her. The public wants to see someone hanged. Have you looked at the newspapers?”
Rathbone winced. “Of course I have. You can hardly miss the headlines, even if you wish to. Doesn’t that make it all the more important that we should be absolutely certain we have the right person?”
“Come on!” Monk said wearily. “You know as well as I do that most people don’t think like that. They’d say of course they want the right person, but they already believe they have her, and to question that only makes them more defensive. For them to admit that she might not be the perpetrator means they have prosecuted an innocent victim, the police are incompetent, and worst of all, the guilty party is still out there and they are all still in danger. Nobody wants to hear all that.”
Rathbone could not argue. He changed the subject. “I also need to know everything I can about Dinah Lambourn, so the prosecution doesn’t spring any ugly surprises on me in court. If she is guilty, then it means she has a temper that’s close to insanity. This can’t be the first time she’s shown at least signs of it. I’ll find out what I can, but I need help.”
Hester looked at him, puzzled and concerned. “And if she is guilty, Oliver, do you want to save her? That would mean she didn’t just kill Zenia Gadney; she mutilated her in an obscene way. That’s not excusable. There could be no provocation that would justify her actions.”
“Hester-”
She overrode him. “And if she gets away with it, what will happen to the next person who crosses her? Added to that, if she is judged to be innocent, then the police will continue to look for someone else, someone who doesn’t exist. The people of Limehouse will walk in fear, suspecting each other, because they think the murderer was never caught.”
“You think she did it?” he asked bluntly.
“I have no idea,” she answered. “But you need to decide now what you are going to do if you find she did.”
He had not considered it. He had come to Paradise Place in the heat of emotion, ready for an almost impossible crusade. In part because it would absorb his mind and energy so he would, for a while, be oblivious to his own pain.
He turned to Monk. “Hester is right. I have to be sure. Will you help me?”
“You want me to help prove the innocence of the woman I’ve just arrested for one of the most brutal murders I’ve ever investigated?” Monk said softly.
“Are you certain she’s guilty?” Rathbone asked.
“No. You know I’m not certain. But there’s no other reasonable suspect.”
“Then I just want you to help me find the truth, so we can be certain, one way or the other,” Rathbone told him. He looked at Hester.
“William?” Hester in turn looked at Monk.
Monk shr
ugged, and conceded. “Yes, of course I will. I have to.”
CHAPTER 11
