William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

stop it at all. Then yer got ’em fer life. Sell their own mothers for a dose of it.”
    This time Coniston did not hesitate. He was on his feet and striding out into the main space of the floor before he even began to speak.
    “My lord! We have already established that it is possible for the unskilled or ignorant to misuse opium, probably any other medicine, and your lordship has ruled that raking it up here in this trial, which has nothing to do with opium except in the most oblique way, is irrelevant. It is a waste of time; it will frighten the public unnecessarily, and may well be slanderous to doctors who are not here to defend themselves, their honor and their good name.”
    Pendock was ashen gray, and he controlled himself with a difficulty that was clearly visible to everyone.
    “I think we must allow Miss Nisbet to tell us what troubled Dr. Lambourn so much, if indeed she knows,” he answered. “I will warn her that no names are to be mentioned, unless she has proof of what she says. That should allay your anxieties about slander.” He looked at Rathbone. “Please continue, Sir Oliver, but arrive at something relevant as soon as you can, preferably before luncheon.”
    “Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone inclined his head graciously. Even before Coniston had returned to his seat, confused and angry, he asked Agatha Nisbet to continue.
    “ ’E asked me a lot o’ questions about addiction,” she said quietly. “An ’ow yer can get over it. I told ’im that for most people, yer can’t.”
    Now the silence in the room was intense, as if every man and woman in it were holding his or her breath, afraid to move in case the slightest rustle of fabric distorted a word.
    The moment was here. Rathbone hesitated, breathed in and out slowly, then asked the question, his voice a trifle husky.
    “And what was his response, Miss Nisbet?”
    “ ’E were gutted,” she said simply. “ ’E asked me if I would show ’im some proof of it, so ’e would know what ’e were talkin’ about, an’ so ’e could put it in ’is report for the government.”
    “Did he say why he wanted to put it in his report?”
    “Course ’e didn’t, but I ain’t bleedin’ stupid! ’E wanted to ’ave the government make a law so it would be a crime ter sell people that kind of opium, wi’ needles to put it inter their blood. ’E wanted it so only doctors ’oo really knew what they was doin’ could give it ter anyone.” She looked back at him with a rage so deep, words seemed inadequate to serve it. She blinked several times. “ ’E wanted ter see what it really did to anyone … to know everything about it.”
    “And did you agree to do that?” Rathbone said softly.
    “Course I did,” she answered witheringly, but there was pain in her voice, and Rathbone felt a sense of guilt himself for what he was about to do. But there was no choice. He was not only at the last, desperate point of his defense of Dinah Lambourn; he knew this was what Joel Lambourn had died for, and unequivocally, what was right. There was a horror waiting to destroy thousands, tens of thousands of people over time. He could not balk at causing this one person’s pain.
    Coniston was on his feet. “My lord, Miss Nisbet may be a very worthy woman, and I don’t mean to belittle her efforts in any way, but all this is still hearsay. I assume she is not addicted to opium herself? If so, she seems to be managing with extraordinary ability to hide it. It would be flippant to suggest it is doing her good, but I do suggest she is an observer, and not a professionally skilled one at that. If we are to believe this of opium, then we must have doctors tell us so, not Miss Nisbet, for all her charitable work.”
    Pendock looked at Rathbone with the question in his face, the panic in his hollow eyes.
    Rathbone turned to the witness stand. “Who did you take Dr. Lambourn to see, Miss Nisbet?”
    “Dr. Alvar Doulting,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve known ’im for years. Known ’im when ’e were one o’ the best doctors I ever seen.”
    “And he is not now?” Rathbone asked.
    Her look was bitter and filled with grief. “Some days ’e’s all right. Will be today, most likely.”
    “He is ill?” Rathbone asked.
    Coniston stood up again. “My lord, if the witness is not coming, for reasons of ill health or whatever else”—he used the terms scathingly—“then what is the purpose of this hearsay?”
    “He is coming, my lord,”