William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

something even further than the terrible loss of her husband, I am not prepared to add to it.”
    “I will find out either way, Mrs. Moulton,” he told her gravely. “It will take me a great deal longer than if you simply tell me, and of course it will involve questioning a number of other people. However, if that is what I am obliged to do, then I will. I find it distasteful as well. I have some regard, and a great deal of sympathy for Mrs. Lambourn, but circumstances leave me no choice. Will you tell me, or must I ask as many other people as it requires in order to find out?”
    She was clearly distressed, and angry. Her eyes were sharp and bright, and the color a high pink in her cheeks. “Wherever Mrs. Lambourn said she was, then I have no doubt that it is the truth,” she answered icily.
    Monk’s mind raced for a moment.
    “She said you were at an art exhibition in Lewisham all afternoon, then had tea and discussed the work until early evening,” he lied. He felt terrible doing it, but he didn’t see another way to discern the truth.
    “Then you know where she was,” Helena Moulton said with a tight smile. “Why are you bothering to question me about it?”
    “So she was telling the truth?” he said very quietly, feeling a coldness creep up inside himself.
    “Of course.” Helena was pale.
    “Would you be prepared to testify to that in court, before a judge, if it should be necessary?” He felt brutal.
    She gulped, and remained silent.
    He rose to his feet. “Of course you won’t, because you were not with Mrs. Lambourn.”
    “Yes, I was,” she whispered, but she was trembling.
    “She said you were at a soirée, not an art exhibition, and not in Lewisham.” He shook his head. “You are a good friend, Mrs. Moulton, but this is beyond your ability to help.”
    “I … I …” She clearly did not know what to say, and she was now also afraid for herself, and embarrassed.
    “May I assume that you have no idea where Mrs. Lambourn was on that day?” he said more gently.
    “Yes …” The word was almost inaudible, but she gave a tiny nod of her head.
    “Thank you. There is no need to rise. The maid will show me out.”
    She remained where she was, shivering and huddled into herself.
    H E RETURNED TO L OWER Park Street. He now had no alternative but to arrest Dinah Lambourn. He could not imagine her attacking Zenia Gadney with such ferocity, to have hit her hard enough to kill her, and then disemboweled her there on the pier; but Dinah was quite a tall woman, and statuesquely built. She could have had a strength born of rage and despair. Zenia Gadney was several inches shorter and perhaps fifteen pounds lighter. It was possible.
    The thought of it made him feel sick, and yet he could not deny the evidence. She had been seen in the area looking for Zenia, in a state of mounting anger. She had lied about where she had been. She, like anyone else, would have carving knives in her kitchen. Perhaps in irony she had even used one of Joel’s old open razors.
    Above and beyond all else, she had a passionate and compulsive nature. Zenia Gadney had robbed her of what she held dearest, the center of her life financially and socially, but—far beyond that—emotionally. Lambourn’s love for her, and her belief in him, was the foundation of her own identity. Zenia Gadney had taken that from her. It appeared her need for revenge had obliterated everything else.
    As he stood at the front door of the house in Lower Park Street, Monk tried to imagine what his own life would be if Hester had turned to someone else, made love with another man, lain in his arms and talked with him, laughed with him, shared her thoughts and her dreams and the intimateness of physical love. Would he want to kill that man? Even to eviscerate him?
    He might.
    The maid answered his knock and showed him to the withdrawing room. He stood, waiting for Dinah to come. He thought of her daughters, Marianne and Adah. Who would look after them now? What future would lie ahead for them, their father a suicide, their mother hanged for the terrible murder of his mistress?
    He never got used to tragedies. The edges were never blunted. They cut to the bone always.
    Dinah came into the room, walking very upright, her head high, and her face ashen white, as if she knew why he had returned.
    “You weren’t with Mrs. Moulton,” Monk said quietly. “She was willing to lie for you. When I told her you had said you were together at the art