William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

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 thatit 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.