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Monk realized the truth of this the moment he spoke. “So Zenia Gadney was the legal heir to whatever he possessed. She was still his wife. Dinah is the mistress, and the children are illegitimate. What a bloody mess!”
“It is,” agreed Runcorn soberly.
“Maybe Dinah went to Copenhagen Place to keep up the payments?” Monk suggested, grabbing desperately for any straw at all.
“A bit late, wasn’t she?” Runcorn said drily. “Zenia’d already taken to the streets.”
“Had she?” Monk questioned him. “We only assumed that because she was killed in the street, and other people hadn’t seen Lambourn in the area. They assumed she was out of money because she was later than usual with a few bills, and because she had taken in bits of sewing and mending. But she’d always done that.
“Dinah was devastated by Lambourn’s death,” he went on. “She must have had a lot of other things on her mind more urgent than seeing that Zenia was all right. And she would not have had much money to spare, until the estate was probated-maybe no more than she needed to feed herself and her children. Her children would come first, long before Zenia.”
“We need to find out how much estate there is,” Runcorn said unhappily. “You’ll have the right to ask that.”
Monk nodded. “I’m going to ask quite a lot of things-including how much did Amity Herne actually know about her brother, and she lied on the stand saying that he told her Zenia was a prostitute he went to because Dinah refused to meet his needs.”
“Maybe she knows a great deal,” Runcorn said with disgust. “Like the fact that Dinah won’t inherit and Zenia would, if she were still alive. But since she isn’t, Amity Herne herself is the next of kin!”
Monk stared at him. “I don’t even know if this makes it better or worse!” he said hoarsely.
“Depends on the estate.” Runcorn stared at him, his face bleak. “Both what it really is, and what either Dinah or Amity Herne thought it was.”
“Herne is already wealthy enough,” Monk pointed out.
“What’s wealthy enough?” Runcorn asked. “For some people there’s no such thing. You don’t always kill because you’re desperate-sometimes you kill because you want more than you have.” He stood up slowly. “I’ll get you a pint. You should have something to eat. They have really good pork pies.”
“Thank you,” Monk said with profound gratitude. “Thank you very much.”
Runcorn gave him a sudden smile-there and then gone again-before he turned to make his way over to the bar with its gleaming tankards and the well-polished handles for pumping up the ale from the barrels.
“Yes, sir,” the solicitor said grimly to Monk’s inquiry the following day. “A very considerable amount. Can’t tell you exactly, but very wise, very prudent, Dr. Lambourn was. Always lived within his means.”
“To whom did he leave his estate, Mr. Bredenstoke?” Monk asked.
Bredenstoke’s face did not change in the slightest, nor did his blue eyes blink. “To his natural daughters, sir. Marianne and Adah.”
“All of it?”
“Less a few small bequests, yes, sir.”
“Not to his wife?”
“No, sir. She has only sufficient to care for her children.”
Monk felt an unexpected glow of warmth. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 16
It was a Saturday morning and the court was not sitting, a fact that gave Rathbone a most welcome respite. He wrote several letters with good wishes for Christmas, now only days away, and put them in the hall for Ardmore to post.
The silence of the house did not trouble him as much as usual. He was not even conscious of the thought that it was not the peace of hopeful waiting, temporary before the return of one he loved. It was an emptiness that stretched before him endlessly, and now that disillusion had bitten so deep, in some way it stretched behind also.
Had he and Margaret ever been as happy as he had imagined? Or had he loved only who he believed she was-as it turned out, so terribly wrongly? Did she feel the same: that she had given her life and herself to a man who was so much less than she thought, and whom she had trusted blindly-and mistakenly also?
Surely neither of them had intended deception, just made assumptions? Had they seen what they wanted and expected to see? If he had really loved her, would he have acted the same way or not? He had thought so at the time, but with hindsight, and the reality of loss, he questioned it now. Did love require more generosity than he had? Did it forgive regardless?
If it had been Hester, would he have forgiven her for acting the same way? For what? Weakness because she could not face the truth about her father? The sheer inability to see the truth in the first place? Or simply that she was not what he had believed her to be, had needed her to be for his own happiness?
But Hester would not have placed anyone before what she knew was right. It would have bruised her emotions, even broken her heart, but she would have expected people to answer for their mistakes, whatever they were, whoever made them. She would not have withdrawn her love, but she would have been honest with herself and to the best she knew and believed.
