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Monk began the next morning by telling Orme what he was about to do. Then he went back to Greenwich determined to speak directly to the people who had seen Lambourn’s body. He had not previously been given the name of the man who had discovered Lambourn, but now he had it from Runcorn. This time he would also persist until he found Constable Watkins, the first policeman on the scene, wherever he was on duty, or off.
He would also go back to Dr. Wembley. He could say it was to protect his own case against any accusations Dinah might make. He half acknowledged to himself that he hoped to find that Lambourn had not committed suicide, either over his failure to produce a report that the government would be obliged to accept, or because his personal life had crumbled to pieces around him. But that acknowledgment annoyed him-he was made of better fiber than to be so sentimental.
He walked briskly in the pale sun, but it was nearly ten o’clock when he reached the quiet, well-ordered office of Mr. Edgar Petherton, just off Trafalgar Road. This was the man who had found Lambourn’s body, and Monk introduced himself and explained to him immediately who he was.
Petherton was in his fifties, but already silver-haired. His eyes were unexpectedly dark, his features showing both humor and intelligence. He invited Monk to sit down in one of the two handsome, leather-upholstered chairs by the fire, while he took the other.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked. His voice was quiet and full of curiosity. “Are you sure it is me you wish to speak to, and not my brother? He works in the N
aval College. His name is Eustace. We are occasionally confused.”
“I might be in error,” Monk admitted. “Was it you or your brother who was walking your dog very early in the morning about two and a half months ago, and found the body of Dr. Joel Lambourn?”
Petherton made no attempt to disguise his pain at the memory.
“No error, I’m afraid. It was I. I have already answered all the questions the police asked me at the time, and those of a gentleman from the government. Home Office, I believe.”
“I’m sure.” Monk now gave the explanation he had been planning. “I dare say you read of the very violent murder of the poor woman found on Limehouse Pier, at the beginning of this month?”
Petherton’s shock was transparent. “What on earth has that to do with Lambourn’s death? The poor man was gone long before then.”
“Lambourn’s widow has been arrested and charged with killing the woman,” Monk replied. “We are trying to keep down the public hysteria, in order to have some semblance of a fair trial.”
“Mrs. Lambourn?” Petherton shook his head in disbelief. “That’s preposterous! Why, in God’s name, would she do such a thing? You have to have made some hideous mistake.”
“Possibly,” Monk conceded, wondering if it really was possible, or if he was just mouthing conciliatory words. “Because of the nature of her likely defense, I am rechecking all the facts so they cannot be twisted to support a story that is not the truth.”
“And if it is the truth?” Petherton challenged.
“Then she may well be innocent, and we shall have to look further to find whoever butchered this poor woman,” Monk answered.
Petherton frowned. “Can you really believe any woman, never mind a civilized and dignified lady, could do such a thing to another of her own sex?” He looked at Monk as if he were some curiosity of nature, not quite human.
“I’ve been in the police for a long time,” Monk told him. “I can believe a lot of things that I wouldn’t have ten or fifteen years ago. Even so, I find it hard to believe it of Mrs. Lambourn. That is why I need to learn the details of the case for myself. Perhaps another explanation is possible.”
“I can only say what I have already said.” Petherton looked as if he wished very much that he could find the imagination or the courage to lie.
“Do you often walk your dog so early?” Monk asked him. “And is it usually to Greenwich Park that you go?”
“Quite often in the park,” Petherton answered. “Far more often than not. But to answer your first question, no, not usually so early. I could not sleep and it was a fine morning. I went a good hour earlier than is my habit.”
“And you usually go to One Tree Hill?”
“Not often. I wanted to think that day. A certain personal matter had been causing me concern. I wasn’t really paying much attention to where I was. I only became aware of my surroundings when Paddy-my dog-started to bark, and I was afraid he was bothering someone. It was an unusual sort of sound, as if he were troubled by something. Which of course he was. I ran after him and found him bristling, hackles raised, staring at a man sitting with his legs out in front of him, his back against the tree. He had lolled a bit to one side, as if he were asleep. Except, of course, he was dead.”
“Was that immediately clear?” Monk asked quickly.
“I …” Petherton hesitated, clearly thinking back with some distress. “I rather think I did know it right away. His face was very pale indeed, almost bloodless. He looked dreadful. And of course his wrists were scarlet with blood, and there was blood on the ground. I didn’t touch him at first. I was rather … shaken. When I gathered my wits I bent down and touched his forearm, above the slashes-”
“His sleeve was rolled up?” Monk interrupted.
“Yes. Yes, his shirtsleeve was quite high.”
“Jacket?”
“I … as I recall he had no jacket on. No, he definitely was in a shirt only. I touched his arm and the flesh was cold. His eyes were sunken. I could find no pulse at his neck. I didn’t try his wrists-the blood.” He took a deep breath. “And I didn’t want to … to leave a mark where I … I admit, I didn’t want to put my fingers in his blood. It seemed not only repellent, but intrusive. The poor man had already reached the lowest hell a living person can. His despair should be treated with … with some decency.”
Monk nodded. “Certainly that was the right decision. And where was the knife?”
