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“Only a few more, my lord.” Without waiting for Pendock to grant him permission, Rathbone turned to Monk again. “You believe that her sudden decision to look for Zenia Gadney had something to do with her husband’s death?” he demanded.
“Not his death so much as the ruin of his reputation,” Monk replied. “And she did not believe he had taken his own life.”
Again Coniston rose to his feet. “My lord, the tragic suicide of Joel Lambourn-”
Pendock raised his hand. “I am quite aware of it, Mr. Coniston.” He turned sharply to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, Dr. Lambourn had already been dead for two months by the time Mrs. Lambourn began to look for Zenia Gadney. If she believed Mrs. Gadney in some way responsible for Dr. Lambourn’s suicide, then you must show some evidence to that effect. Have you any?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then please move on.” It was an order.
Rathbone drew in his breath to find some other question. He hated to retreat now; it looked as if in some way he were surrendering. And that was also how it felt. He had nothing else to ask Monk. Clearly, whatever he said that raised the issue of Joel Lambourn’s death, or any area of his work related to the report on opium, was going to be disallowed, unless he could make it so clearly relevant that to refuse it would be grounds for appeal.
“Nothing further, thank you, my lord,” he said with as good grace as he could manage, and retired to his seat.
After the luncheon adjournment, Coniston called evidence regarding the death of Joel Lambourn and its effect on his widow. Rathbone’s interest sharpened. Perhaps he would have an opportunity to open up the subject in such a way that Lambourn’s suicide could be questioned after all. Monk had certainly given him sufficient evidence to debate, if he could get a toe in the door. It would need only the smallest error of judgment on Coniston’s part, one slip by his witnesses, and the subject could be raised.
Rathbone glanced behind him and noted how many journalists were sitting attentively, pencils in hand. They would not miss the slightest inflection, even if the jury did.
Then, as Rathbone was turning back to face the judge and the witness box, his eye caught sight of a face he knew. He had even met him half a dozen times at one function or another. It was Sinden Bawtry, an ambitious man in the government with a reputation for philanthropy. His fortune was built on the manufacture of patent medicines, particularly one known as Doctor’s Home Remedy for Pain.
Rathbone avoided catching his eye, without being certain as to why. He did not want Bawtry to know that he had seen him, at least not yet, although he was a handsome man, and would not go unnoticed by the press. By tomorrow every newspaper reader would know he had been here.
Now Rathbone’s attention was needle sharp. Bawtry’s interest in Lambourn’s connection to the case was obvious. Was he here privately, or as a representative of the government’s interest?
Rathbone watched carefully as a policeman he did not know climbed the steps to the witness
box. Monk had told him that Runcorn had been in charge of the investigation into Lambourn’s death. So who was this man, Appleford, and why had Coniston chosen him?
“Commissioner Appleford,” Coniston began smoothly, “I believe the tragic death of Joel Lambourn was referred from regular police inquiry, up to your command. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.” Appleford was of average height, slim although running very slightly to fat around the waist. His light brown hair was thinning drastically, but he was smart and appeared very confident, as if he were here only to be helpful and clear up difficulties lesser men might find beyond them.
“Why was it not left to the superintendent of the nearest police station? That would be Mr. Runcorn, at Blackheath, would it not?” Coniston said with every appearance of being casual.
“Mr. Runcorn did deal with the first evidence,” Appleford replied with a slight smile. “When it was realized that the dead man was Joel Lambourn, a fine man, an excellent scientist, who had had some recent …” He hesitated, as if looking for a suitably delicate word. “Emotional distress,” he continued. “Her Majesty’s Government wished to be discreet about as much of his personal affairs as was possible, without any perversion of the law. There was no way to avoid admitting that his death was suicide, but the more immediate facts were not made public. There was no purpose to be served, and his family could be protected. It seemed a merciful thing to do for a man who had served his country so well.”
“Indeed.” Coniston bowed his head, then looked up again. “Was anything pertinent concealed from the law? I mean was there any possible question whatever that his death might not have been self-inflicted?”
“None at all,” Appleford replied. “He took opium, quite a heavy dose, presumably to deaden the pain, and then slit his wrists.”
“Thank you, Commissioner.” Coniston turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver?”
Rathbone knew even before he began that he would achieve nothing with Appleford. But he refused to be cowed into not trying.
“Is it particularly painful, slitting one’s wrists?” he asked. “I mean sufficiently so that one requires opium to bear it?”
“I have no idea!” Appleford said with a touch of sarcasm.
“I apologize,” Rathbone said, with an equally cutting edge to his voice. “I thought you had been called upon as an expert, more so than Superintendent Runcorn. Is that not the case?”
“I was called in to take on the responsibility of keeping the matter discreet,” Appleford snapped. “That was not within Runcorn’s power.”
“Apparently not,” Rathbone agreed. “Yet every man and his dog seems to know that Joel Lambourn was profoundly discredited and, in despair because of it, he committed suicide in Greenwich Park. It did happen in Greenwich Park, didn’t it? Or is that where the discretion comes in?”
Coniston stood up, exasperation clear in his face and his manner. “My lord, Sir Oliver is simply trying to embarrass the witness because he has no useful questions to ask him. May we not, in decency, leave Dr. Lambourn’s final tragedy in the little privacy it has left? It has no bearing on Zenia Gadney’s murder.”
Rathbone swung around. “Has it not? Then it appears you have been given a great deal of information about it that I have not. Your whole prosecution rests on the fact that you believe Mrs. Lambourn killed Zenia Gadney over something to do with Dr. Lambourn.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Are you suggesting some other connection between the two women, one of whom is a highly respected doctor’s widow in Greenwich, the other a middle-aged prostitute across the river in Limehouse?”
