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Pendock leaned forward a little. “Mrs. Herne, I realize this must be appallingly difficult for you, but I must ask you to speak a little more loudly, so the jury may hear you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I find this … most embarrassing to mention in public. Joel was a very quiet man, very private. I am not sure how to put this delicately.” She stared at Coniston; never once did her eyes stray to Rathbone. It was as if she were not aware that he was there, and would question her next. In fact, it seemed as if she was deliberately excluding the rest of the court altogether.
“His personal life?” Coniston prompted her. “He was your brother, Mrs. Herne. If he confided in you, even indirectly, you must tell the court. I am sorry to force you, but this is a murder case. One woman has lost her life, hideously, and another stands accused of her murder, and if found guilty will assuredly also lose hers. We cannot allow ourselves the luxury of being delicate at the expense of truth.”
With an immense effort Amity Herne raised her head. “He implied to me that he had needs that his wife was not willing to meet, and that he visited another woman for that purpose.” She said the words clearly and distinctly, like delivering knife wounds to herself. “The pressure of living up to his wife’s vision of him as a perfect man was becoming more than he could bear.” She bit her lip. “I wish you had not made me say that, but it is true. It should have been allowed to die with him.” She could no longer stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I wish it had been possible,” Coniston said contritely. “This other woman that you speak of, did you know who she was? Did he mention her name, or anything about her? Such as where she lived?”
“He said her name was Zenia. He did not say where she lived, at least not to me.” The implication that she might have said so to someone else was left delicately in the air.
“Zenia?” Coniston repeated. “You are certain?”
Amity stood very stiffly. “Yes. I have never heard of anyone else with the name.”
“And was his wife, Dinah Lambourn, aware of this … arrangement?” Coniston asked.
“I was told that she learned of it,” Amity replied.
“How did she learn?”
“I don’t know. Joel didn’t say.”
“Did he say when she learned?”
“No. At least not to me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Herne. Again, I am deeply sorry that I had to raise this distressing subject, but the circumstances left me no choice.” He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone thanked him and rose slowly to his feet. He walked out across the floor toward the witness stand. He could feel the jury’s eyes on him, cautious, ready to blame him if he was the least bit insensitive. They were naturally predisposed against him because he represented a woman accused of a bestial crime. And now, added to that, he was about to ask pointed and cruel questions, adding to this innocent woman’s grief and very natural embarrassment.
“You have already suffered more than enough, Mrs. Herne,” Rathbone began gently. “I shall be as brief with you as I can. I commend you for being so honest regarding your brother’s … tastes. That cannot have been easy for you. You and your brother were close?” He already knew the answer to that from Monk’s questioning of her.
She blinked. In that instant he knew she was considering a lie, and as their eyes met, she decided against it.
“Not until recently,” she admitted. “My husband and I lived some distance away. Visiting was difficult. But we always kept in touch. There were just the two of us, Joel and I. Our parents have been dead a long time.” There was an ache of sadness in her voice, and a loneliness in her face. She was the perfect witness for Coniston.
Rathbone changed his tactics. There was very little, if anything at all, that he could win.
“Did you at that time also come to know your sister-in-law better?”
She hesitated again.
He felt his stomach knot. Should he have asked her that? If she said yes, then she would either defend her, or be seen to betray her. If she said no, she would have to give a reason. He had made an error.
“I tried,” she said guiltily, a slight flush in her cheeks. “I think if things had been different, we might have become close. But when Joel died, she was beside herself with grief, as if she blamed herself …” She tailed off.
In the gallery several people moved, sighed, and rustled fabric or paper.
“Did you blame her?” Rathbone asked clearly.
“No, of course not.” She looked startled.
“It was not her fault that Dr. Lambourn’s work was rejected?”
Coniston made as if to stand up. Rathbone turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. Coniston relaxed again.
“Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone prompted.
