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“Yes.”
“And so heir to his estate?” Coniston added.
Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, that is an assumption that Mr. Blakelock is not qualified to make, and indeed it is an error. If you wish it, I can call Dr. Lambourn’s solicitor, who will tell you that his estate is left to his daughters, Adah and Marianne. There was a small bequest, an annuity, to Zenia Gadney. It would amount to approximately the same amount as he gave her when he was alive.”
Pendock glared at him. “You were aware of this, Sir Oliver?”
“I was aware of the provisions of the will, my lord. It seemed a fairly obvious inquiry to make,” Rathbone answered.
Pendock drew in his breath to add something further, and then changed his mind. It would have been improper to ask what Dinah had confided in Rathbone, and the jury would draw their own conclusions anyway.
Coniston realized as much; he certainly had no need to win such minor skirmishes as this. “I apologize, my lord,” he said with a slight smile. “It was an assumption, and as my learned friend has pointed out, in this case, unjustified. Perhaps for the defense, he will call someone to prove that the accused was aware that her children would inherit? Then her very natural fear of being left destitute by her husband’s suicide would be set aside, leaving only the motive of an equally natural jealousy.”
Rathbone allowed a look of incredulity to cross his face.
“Is the prosecution suggesting that the accused was jealous of the woman she so obviously supplanted in Dr. Lambourn’s affections?” he asked. “Or perhaps that Zenia Gadney was so jealous, after all these years, that she attacked Dinah Lambourn? In which case the mutilation is repellent and unnecessary, but the blow that caused Mrs. Gadney’s death may very well be considered self-defense!”
“This is preposterous!” Coniston said with disbelief, but no apparent ill humor. “My lord-”
Pendock held up his hand. “Enough, Mr. Coniston. I can see for myself the absurdity of it.” He glared at Rathbone. “Sir Oliver, I will not have this grave and very terrible trial turned into a farce. The accused went to seek the victim where she lived. Whatever happened after she found her ended in the victim’s death by violence, and then her hideous mutilation. These facts are beyond dispute. Is that the end of your case for the prosecution, Mr. Coniston?”
“Yes, my lord, it is.”
“Have you any questions for Mr. Blakelock?” Pendock turned to Rathbone.
“No, thank you, my lord.”
“Then we shall adjourn for luncheon. After that you may call your first witness for the defense.” Pendock turned to Blakelock. “Thank you. You may leave the stand.”
Rathbone stood in the center of the floor feeling as if he were in an arena waiting for lions, naked of armor and without a sword to attack. He had never felt so vulnerable before, even in cases where he knew his client was guilty. He realized with a shock that it was not his faith in Dinah that was wounded, perhaps critically, but his belief in himself. His confidence, and some of his hope, had bled away.
Now he must lay very careful suggestions of a powerful figure bent on protecting himself. And all the time, in everything, he must believe that Dinah was innocent, no matter how far against reason that seemed to be. It must be in his mind always that Lambourn discovered something in his research that imperiled a man of power, and he was murdered to silence him. It was made to look like suicide to discredit him. Zenia Gadney was murdered to destroy Dinah and her crusade to save Lambourn’s reputation, and therefore his cause.
He made himself smile, feeling as if it were ghastly on his face.
“I call Mrs. Helena Moulton.”
Helena Moulton was called by the usher. A moment later, she appeared and rather hesitantly climbed the steps up to the witness stand. She was clearly nervous. Her voice shook as she swore to tell the truth.
“Mrs. Moulton,” Rathbone began gently, “are you acquainted with the accused, Dinah Lambourn?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Moulton avoided looking up at the dock. She stared straight ahead of her at Rathbone as if her neck were fixed in a brace.
“Were you friends?” he pursued.
“I … yes. Yes, we were friends.” She gulped. She was very pale and her hands were locked together on the rail of the stand. The light glinted on the gems in her rings.
“Think back to your feelings during that friendship,” Rathbone began. He was painfully aware that Helena Moulton was embarrassed now about owning to having been Dinah’s friend, afraid the society in which she lived would then associate her with Dinah, as if testifying were somehow condoning what Dinah was accused of having done.
Rathbone did not believe her testimony would sway the case in Dinah’s favor, even that it would necessarily make any difference at all, but he needed every extra hour he could to stretch out the testimony of the few witnesses he had to create the outline of someone else to suspect. Perhaps even now Monk would find something that would prove this person’s existence. And curiously enough, Rathbone had almost as much faith in Runcorn as he did in Monk. There was stubbornness in the man that would cling on to the very end, especially because he was angry at having been used and misled in the first place.
Mrs. Moulton was waiting for the question, as was Pendock, who was beginning to be irritated.
“You spent time together?” Rathbone continued. “You went to afternoon parties, exhibitions of art and photographs of travel and exploration, soirées, dinner parties at times, even the theater, and of course garden parties in the summer?”
“I did with many people,” she replied guardedly.
“Of course. Without lots of people, it is hardly a party, is it?” he said smoothly. “You enjoyed each other’s company?”
