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He realized with only momentary surprise that if he had betrayed himself to do what Margaret wanted of him, he would have forfeited Hester’s respect and a level of her friendship he would perhaps never regain. He knew also that that was a price he was not willing to pay: not at the time, and not now.
Monk’s friendship he would miss also, but in a different way, and a little less.
He was still turning these thoughts over in his mind when the maid came to tell him that Monk was in the morning room. He put away the pen and closed the inkwell, then stood up and went across the hall to meet Monk.
Monk was facing the door. He looked grave and tense, and a little out of breath, as if he had hurried.
“What is it?” Rathbone asked without bothering with the usual niceties.
“You were right,” Monk replied. “She was lying, by omission at the very least.”
Rathbone’s stomach lurched. He realized how much he had wanted Dinah to be innocent, and this was a blow he had not prepared himself to meet.
“There was nothing wrong with Lambourn,” Monk went on. “No peculiar tastes at all, so far as I know. In fact, in all respects except one, he was a highly honorable man, more than he needed to be.”
Rathbone forced the words out. “And the one?”
“He did not divorce his wife in order to marry Dinah. Dinah must have accepted it, because there is no record of a marriage between Lambourn and her.”
“What …? You mean …?” Rathbone stammered, still not really understanding.
“His only marriage on record was to Zenia Gadney,” Monk replied. “More accurately, Zenia Lambourn. That’s why he supported her out of loyalty, and compassion. It seems that for a while she was addicted to opium, because of the pain of some old injury. If Dinah went to Copenhagen Place at all, looking for Zenia, it may well have been to continue supporting her. If she missed the first month after Joel’s death, that would have been from grief, or the practical difficulty of obtaining the finances while the will was still in probate.”
Rathbone’s relief burst out in anger. “Then why the devil are you standing there looking like a funeral director?” he demanded. “That means she’s innocent, for God’s sake! She has no motive!”
“Of course she has!” Monk snapped, his face flushed, equally angry. “With Lambourn dead, she has nothing! Zenia was the widow, and the estate is apparently very considerable.”
Rathbone’s mind raced to make sense of it, and to salvage some kind of redeeming solution from the tangle. “Did she know that?” he asked.
“She must have known the estate was considerable,” Monk replied. “And she certainly knew she wasn’t married to Lambourn. Whatever she wanted for herself, or didn’t, she would have needed money to provide for her children. Actually the question is, did she know what was in his will at all?”
“Do you?” Rathbone shot back.
“Yes. After a few small bequests, the bulk of his estate is left to his two daughters, Adah and Marianne.”
“Damn it, Monk! Why didn’t you say that?” Rathbone snapped.
“Because I don’t know whether Dinah knew that or not,” Monk answered him. “It depends on whether he told her. She was no party to the will, according to the lawyer. Whether he asked Lambourn what he was doing, or why he was not leaving any money to Dinah, he wouldn’t tell me.”
Rathbone sat down hard, the deep upholstery of the chair enveloping him. “So what are we left with? Lambourn wasn’t keeping a mistress, or a whore, he was supporting his wife, and living with the woman he loved-and who is now willing to risk being hanged in order to clear his professional name, and his personal reputation.”
Monk sat down in the other chair opposite him. “And the fact that Amity Herne lied through her teeth from the witness box to convince the court that her brother was an incompetent who committed suicide because of his professional failure and his personal sexual deviancy,” he added. “Not to mention clearing his wife of murdering and eviscerating the woman
with whom he was betraying her. Which raises the question as to what the whole blood-soaked nightmare is about! Is it really about opium, and the right to import it and sell it at immense profit without the restrictions that the proposed Pharmacy Act would enforce?”
“It’s looking more and more that way, isn’t it?” Rathbone concluded. “Someone with a vested interest in opium killed Lambourn in a way intended to disgrace him, and therefore his report. Then when Dinah tried to defend him, they killed Zenia Gadney in the most hideous way imaginable and blamed her, so they could silence her also. That’s monstrous. Is anyone in our government really so profoundly corrupt? God, I hope not!” He remembered the courtroom, the gallery, and Sinden Bawtry sitting on the end of the row, almost concealed by the shadow of the pillar and the roof. What was he there for? To guard the Pharmacy Act, or to sabotage it?
“Then who?” Monk asked. “And there’s a very serious question as to whether Dinah Lambourn is guilty and, personally, I no longer think she is. Certainly it is not beyond a serious doubt.”
“I need to know a great deal more about this Pharmacy Act, who is for it and who against,” Rathbone said, forcing himself to think coherently. “And what results there will be if it is passed. Who will lose? Would any sane man, however greedy, really go to these lengths to delay an act of Parliament that is bound to be passed in a year or two?”
“No,” Monk admitted, shaking his head a little. “There must be more than the Pharmacy Act involved. But you haven’t time to waste on this.”
Rathbone stood up. “I can’t afford not to have. It may not be the Pharmacy Act, or even the Opium Wars, but it’s tied to them. Otherwise why destroy Lambourn and his report? Come with me.” It sounded like an instruction, and that was how he meant it.
“Where are we going?” Monk rose obediently.
“To see Mr. Gladstone, the chancellor of the Exchequer,” Rathbone replied. “At least I hope so. He’s the coming man, a great believer in reform and the welfare of ordinary people.” As he went to the door and out into the hall he was already absorbed in plans to speak to people he knew: to one man in particular for whom he had done a remarkable favor. That man could gain him entrance to Number 11 Downing Street, and Gladstone’s attention, even on a Saturday morning, if he believed the matter urgent enough.
