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“To sum up, Commander Monk, your evidence is that the accused, Mrs. Dinah Lambourn, knew that her husband had visited the victim for many years, and paid her money on a regular basis. On the day before the murder she went to the street on which the victim lived, searching for her, asking people where she could find her. Several people told you that she was in a state of great distress, almost hysterical. When you asked her about this, she lied to you and said she was somewhere else, which you have proved to be untrue. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Monk said miserably.
“At that point, did you arrest her and charge her with the murder of Zenia Gadney?”
“Yes. She said she had not killed her, and insisted that she had not been to Copenhagen Place,” Monk replied.
“Thank you, Commander Monk,” Coniston said with visible satisfaction. He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone walked out slowly into the center of the open space and looked up at Monk. He was aware that every person in the courtroom was watching him, waiting to see what he could possibly do. He had a sudden vision in his mind of a Christian entering an arena full of lions. He was hoping for a miracle, and not at all sure that he believed in them.
“Mr. Monk, you said that Mrs. Lambourn admitted to knowing that her husband had been visiting Mrs. Gadney for many years. By the way, was she married, or are we using the title as a courtesy?”
“Neighbors said that she claimed to have been married,” Monk answered. “But we found no trace of anyone called Gadney, nor any record of him.”
“And Dr. Lambourn had been supporting her financially all the time she had been there?” Rathbone continued.
“Approximately fifteen years,” Monk agreed.
“I see.” Rathbone frowned. “And you say that apparently Mrs. Lambourn knew of this all that time, or at least most of it? Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Because she admitted it? And of course you believed her?” Rathbone allowed a small lift of incredulity into his voice.
Monk looked at him with a flash of humor, there an instant and then gone again. “Because another witness also told me,” he corrected him.
“Ah. So you have no doubt that she did indeed know of Mrs. Gadney for some considerable time, probably years?”
“That’s right.”
“And Dr. Lambourn had been dead how long when Mrs. Gadney was murdered?”
“Nearly two months.”
Rathbone could see in Monk’s face that he knew exactly what the next question was going to be. Their eyes met. “And what reason did you find that caused Mrs. Lambourn, two months into her widowhood, suddenly to go to Copenhagen Place searching for Zenia Gadney, hysterical with emotion, allowing even shopkeepers and their customers to see her in such a state? What did she want with Zenia Gadney then, and so urgently, after years of knowing all about her? There was no more money going to her, was there?”
Several jurors leaned forward as if to be certain of catching every word of the answer. One frowned and shook his head.
There was a rustle of movement in the gallery and a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.
Pendock was staring at Rathbone, his face furrowed with apprehension.
Monk did not seem perturbed. Rathbone wondered for a moment if perhaps he had walked into a trap. He calmed himself by remembering that while it was Monk who had arrested Dinah, it was also Monk who had sought out Rathbone to defend her, and worked in his own time to find new evidence about the case.
“She claimed that she did not go to Copenhagen Place,” Monk said slowly and distinctly. “She believes that her husband, Dr. Joel Lambourn, was murdered because of his work to prove that opium is sold in this country-”
Coniston shot to his feet. “My lord!” he said loudly. “This is absolutely irrelevant and misleading. Opium is a common medicine prescribed by doctors and available in every apothecary in England, and thousands of ordinary shops. If Mrs. Lambourn took it, for pain or any other reason, it does not excuse what she did. Millions of people take opium. It relieves distress and sleeplessness; it does not drive to insanity or give any excuse for murder.”
“Taken too heavily, too often, it can cause addiction, especially if smoked,” Rathbone said tartly. “And taken in overdose, it kills.”
Coniston turned to him. “Zenia Gadney was not addicted and she did not die of an overdose of opium, Sir Oliver! She was beaten over the head with an iron pipe and then obscenely mutilated. Her intestines were torn out and-”
“Order,” Pendock barked furiously. “We are aware of how she died, Mr. Coniston! Sir Oliver! Are you suggesting that Mrs. Lambourn took opium, and that it in any way excuses this terrible crime?”
“No, my lord, I-”
“Good,” Pendock snapped. “Then please proceed with your questions to Mr. Monk, if you have any more. Otherwise we are adjourned for luncheon.”
