William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

shocking. It is natural to wish to deny them, but I am sure you will find your strength in your own wife, and gratitude that you are not losing control of your skills or your professional reputation, as poor Lambourn was.”
    Herne made a painful and quite visible effort to compose himself, to stand up straight with his shoulders back and his eyes forward.
    “Of course,” he agreed. Then he turned to Rathbone. “I’m sorry we could not be of more help, Sir Oliver. I’m afraid the facts are beyond argument. Thank you for calling.”
    Rathbone had no choice but to depart gracefully, his mind seething with impressions, none of them even remotely helpful.

CHAPTER

19
    A T MID-AFTERNOON OF THE following day, Monk stood by the dockside in the wind as the ferry drew near the steps and Runcorn climbed out. He looked tired and cold, but there was no hesitation as he came forward, his eyes meeting Monk’s.
    Monk gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, then turned to walk with him toward the River Police Station. They knew each other too well to need the unnecessary niceties.
    Inside they went to Monk’s office, and a moment later a constable brought them tea. Monk thanked him, and he and Runcorn faced each other across the desk. There had been a short note from Rathbone, delivered by messenger. Monk passed it to Runcorn to read. It brought them up to date with both the trial and Rathbone’s own thoughts, and his visit to Barclay Herne.
    Runcorn looked up, his face even grimmer than before.
    “The more I think of it, the less certain I am that Lambourn killed himself,” he said unhappily. “It looked clear at the time, and the government people were absolutely certain.” He shook his head. “I believed them. All I could think of was the widow and the daughters, and trying not to make it any worse for them than it had to be. I used not to be so … sentimental!” He said the word with disgust.
    Words of denial, even comfort, came to Monk’s mind, but he knew they would sound patronizing.
    “I’m not any better,” Monk said wryly. “If Dinah had been plain and timid, I might not have gone to Rathbone for her, and for that matter, I’m pretty certain he wouldn’t have taken the case.”
    Runcorn gave a quick, bleak smile. “I’ve been supposing Lambourn told the truth about the opium and the damage it does without proper labels. Suppose they’ll have to be pretty clear, too. Lots of people don’t read. They’ll need figures. It will cost. But I don’t see any of the people who import the stuff killing him for that.”
    His face took on a vulnerable, almost bruised look. “And I have to accept that what we did in China was horrible, a betrayal of all that most of us think we stand for. We think we’re civilized, even Christian, for that matter. Seems like when we’re out of sight of home, some of us at least are bloody savages. But is anyone going to murder Lambourn because he knew that? We all know at least part of it.” He sighed. “And whoever killed that poor woman qualifies as a savage, in my mind.”
    Monk had been thinking many of the same things. But there was the additional element that Hester had mentioned—the desperate dependence upon opium among those captured first by pain, then by addiction. “I’d like to know in more detail what Lambourn did in his last week alive.”
    Runcorn saw the point instantly. “You mean what did he learn that provoked someone to kill him? Who did he speak to? How did this person know that he learned whatever it was?”
    “Yes. And what the devil was it? What could be a danger to anyone here in London? What could Lambourn have discovered, and been able to prove? Proof is the point. It has to be something personal, something very precious to lose or it wouldn’t provoke a murder like that.”
    “There was plenty of barbarity,” Runcorn said, his mouth drawn down, lips tight together. “I’ve heard that as many as twelve million Chinese people are addicted to opium.” He looked at Monk more closely. “Have you ever seen them here, in parts of Limehouse? Opium dens, I mean? Filthy houses in back alleys where people lie on beds smoking the stuff, tiers of them packed like cargo in a ship’s hold. Place is so full of smoke you can hardly see the walls. Like walking through apea-soup fog. They just lie there. Don’t even know where they are, half the time. Like the living dead.” He shivered in spite of himself.
    “I know,” Monk agreed quietly.