William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

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    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 She would not have withdrawn her love, but she would have been honest with herself and to the best she knew and believed.
    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 musthave 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