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now to balk at any truth, if it proved Dinah’s guilt. There was no time left to flatter his own wishes.
Sunday luncheon was a most unseemly time to call upon anyone, especially uninvited, but circumstances left no choice. Moreover, Rathbone admitted to himself, he really did not care how inconvenienced or offended Amity and her husband might be.
He dressed with conservative elegance, as if he had just come from church, although he had not. This morning he would have found the ritual assurance of it, and the rather pompous certainty of the minister, anything but soothing. He needed to think, to plan, to face the ugliest and worst of possibilities.
At half-past twelve he was on Barclay Herne’s doorstep. A few moments later, the butler somewhat reluctantly showed him into the morning room and asked him to wait while he informed his master that Sir Oliver Rathbone had called.
Actually it was Amity Herne that Rathbone wished to see, but he would take the opportunity to speak with both of them. If it could be arranged, he would like to observe their reaction to each other. He had wondered if it was possible Amity was being influenced by Barclay and by his ambition, to distance herself from Lambourn. Rathbone was perfectly willing to put every emotional pressure on her that he could in order to learn anything that would change the jury’s perception of Dinah, even long enough to stretch out the trial beyond Christmas and give Monk a chance to find something more.
As the thoughts went through his head, he moved restlessly in the rather pretentious morning room. Its shelves held matching leather-bound books and there was a large, flattering painting over the fireplace of Amity, about twenty years younger, with blemishless face and shoulders.
The door opened and Barclay Herne came in, closing it behind him. He was quite casually dressed, in a loose cravat rather than a more formal tie, and a smoking jacket mismatched with his trousers. He looked puzzled and ill at ease.
“Good afternoon, Sir Oliver. Has something happened to Dinah? I hope she has not collapsed?” It was definitely a question and he searched Rathbone’s face anxiously for the answer.
“No,” Rathbone assured him. “As far as I know, her health is still at least moderate. But I am afraid I cannot offer much hope that it will remain so.”
Herne flinched. “I don’t know what to do for her,” he said helplessly.
Rathbone felt uncomfortable, aware that he was embarrassing both of them, possibly to no purpose. He plunged on. “I feel that there is something vital that I don’t understand. I would appreciate it very much if I am allowed to speak to you and Mrs. Herne frankly. I am aware that it is Sunday afternoon, and you may well have other plans, especially this close to Christmas. However, this is the final opportunity for me to find any cause whatever to raise reasonable doubt as to Mrs. Lambourn’s guilt, or even to ask for mercy.”
The last vestige of color drained from Herne’s face, leaving him pasty, a fine beading of sweat on his brow. “Perhaps if you would come through to the withdrawing room … We have not yet eaten. You may care to join us.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” Rathbone apologized, following Herne out of the door and across the handsome hallway into the withdrawing room. This was lush with burgundy velvet curtains and rich, dark wine-colored furniture with carved mahogany feet. The low, matching tables had shining surfaces, and were as immaculate as if they were never used.
Amity Herne was sitting in one of the chairs by the side of the fire, which was already burning vividly, even this early in the afternoon. Beyond the windows, the winter sun lit a small garden. All the perennial plants had been clipped back and the fresh, black earth weeded and raked.
She did not rise to her feet. “Good afternoon, Sir Oliver.” She was surprised to see him, and clearly not pleased. She glanced at her husband and read his expression, then looked back at Rathbone.
Herne answered her implicit question.
“Sir Oliver would like to speak with us to see if there is anything we can tell him that might help Dinah,” he explained.
Amity looked at Rathbone. Her hazel eyes were cool, guarded. She must dislike everything he had reminded her of on this quiet Sunday when perhaps she had hoped for a day’s respite from the inevitable.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “Were it possible to choose a better time, I would.” She had not invited him to sit down, but he preempted her and did anyway, choosing the chair diagonally across from her. Deliberately he made himself comfortable, indicating his intention to stay. He saw from the slight change in her expression that she understood.
“I don’t know what you think I can tell you that would be of any assistance whatever,” she said a little coolly. “Isn’t it a trifle late now?” It was a brutal question, but honest.
“It is,” he agreed. “But I have a strong feeling that there is something of importance that I don’t know, and any defense may rest upon it.”
“What defense can there be for killing a woman … like that?” Herne interrupted, walking past Rathbone to sit in the chair on the other side of the fireplace, opposite his wife. “There can be no cause on earth to justify doing that to someone. She … she cut her open, Sir Oliver. She did not merely fight with her and hit her too hard. That, one might understand, but not this … atrocity.” He breathed in quickly, as if to change his choice of word, mumbling something unintelligible.
“You do not need to explain yourself, Barclay,” Amity said quickly. “Zenia Gadney may have been a woman of loose morals, and an embarrassment to the family, but she did not deserve to be gutted like a fish.”
Again Herne opened his mouth to protest; then again he fell silent instead.
“Of course you are perfectly right,” Rathbone agreed. “There doesn’t seem to be anything that would make sense of such complete barbarity. You say, and Dinah has admitted it, that she was always aware of Zenia Gadney’s existence, of her relationship to Dr. Lambourn, and that he had supported her for over fifteen years. Indeed, the money came out of the housekeeping account and was noted in the household ledger, on the twenty-first day of every month. Dinah says that she admired Dr. Lambourn for caring for Mrs. Gadney in that way, and when the will was probated she intended to continue doing so.”
Amity’s eyes widened. “And you believe her? Sir Oliver, perhaps there is something you are unaware of. I would not mention it, even now-I find it distasteful, a discredit to my brother, and it is something I would much rather remain a family secret. But in light of what you just said, I feel it is my responsibility to tell you. Zenia Gadney, or should I say Zenia Lambourn, was my brother’s widow, legally. She was entitled to his entire estate, not a few pounds every month, bestowed on her at the discretion of a woman who was actually no more than his mistress.”
Rathbone stared at Amity. “So you do know the truth, then,” he said grimly.
She met his gaze unflinchingly. She showed no sign of being embarrassed by her lie, or surprised that Rathbone knew her brother’s secret. “I do. But I saw no reason to make that truth publicly known, for Dinah’s sake. Can you imagine how she would look in the jury’s eyes when they find out that she was nothing more than Joel’s mistress, mother of two illegitimate children? It is better for the world to see poor Zenia as the other woman. But I imagine if you have discovered the fact that Joel and Zenia were married, Coniston will be able to as well.”
“Amity …,” Herne protested.
She ignored him. “If Coniston brings the facts to light, you would have difficulty in presenting your theory to a jury in a sympathetic light, Sir Oliver. Killing for money, even to feed your children, is not justified. Most particularly with that insane degree of savagery. If I were Mr. Coniston, I would suggest to them that Joel had begun to grow tired of Dinah, and was considering asking Zenia to return to him, as his lawful wife, and that was what threw Dinah into such a frenzy of hatred.”
