William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

exhibition in Lewisham, she agreed.” He shook his head slightly. “You were seen in Limehouse, specifically in Copenhagen Place, where Zenia Gadney lived, asking about her, and in a state close to hysteria.” He stopped because of the look of amazement in her face, almost stunned disbelief. For an instant he doubted his own knowledge. Could it be she was insane and had no idea what she had done?
    “I didn’t kill her,” she said hoarsely. “I never even met her! If … if I can’t prove that, will they hang me?”
    Should he lie? He wanted to. But the truth would be hideously clear soon enough. “Probably,” he replied. “Unless there is some extraordinary mitigating circumstance. I’m … sorry. I have no choice but to arrest you.”
    She gulped, choked for breath, then swayed as if she might faint.
    “I know …,” she whispered.
    “Have you resident staff to care for your daughters until someone else can be informed? Perhaps Mrs. Herne?”
    She gave a bitter little laugh, which ended in a sob. It was a moment before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak again.
    “I have resident staff. You won’t need to call Mrs. Herne. I am ready to come with you. I would be obliged if we might go now. I do not like good-byes.”
    “Then please call whoever you wish to pack nightclothes and toiletries for you,” he instructed. “It will be better than having me follow you upstairs.”
    She colored faintly, then almost immediately was as ashen as before.
    The woman who came in answer to the summons was elderly, gray-haired, and plump. She looked at Monk with loathing but accepted Dinah’s instructions to pack a small case for her, and to look after Adahand Marianne for as long as should prove necessary. The boot boy was sent to fetch a hansom cab and bring it to the front door.
    Monk and Dinah rode down to Greenwich Pier for the ferry crossing in the dark. Then at the other side they took another hansom for the long chilly ride, cramped together as they jolted over the cobbles.
    It was only then that she spoke.
    “There is one way in which you can help me, Mr. Monk, and I think perhaps you will not refuse,” she said quietly.
    “If I can.” He wished profoundly that he could, but he feared she was beyond anything he could do.
    “I shall require the best possible lawyer to fight for me,” she said with surprising calm. “I did not kill Zenia Gadney, or anyone else. If there is someone who can help me to prove that, I believe it would be Sir Oliver Rathbone. I have heard that you know him. Is that true?”
    He was startled. “Yes. I’ve known him for years. Do you wish me to ask him to see you?”
    “Yes, please. I will pay anything I have—everything—if he will defend me. Will you please tell him so?”
    “Yes, of course I will.” He had no idea whether Rathbone would take the case or not. It seemed hopeless. One thing he was certain of, money would not be the issue. “I will ask him this evening, if he is at home.”
    She sighed very softly. “Thank you.” She seemed at last to relax a little against the back of the seat, exhausted of all strength, physical and emotional.

CHAPTER

9
    O LIVER R ATHBONE ARRIVED HOME after an ambivalent conclusion to the trial he had been fighting. It was a partial victory. His client had been convicted of a lesser charge, thus carrying a considerably lighter sentence. It was what he believed was warranted. The man was guilty of more, even though there were mitigating circumstances. Rathbone might have achieved a better result for him, but it would not have been just.
    He ate dinner alone, and without enjoyment. He had at last faced the fact that he did not want Margaret back, and that was a bitter knowledge. There was no ease between them, and now, not even any kindness. What he wished was that it could all have been different.
    Had he been lacking in tenderness or understanding? He had not seen it that way. He had sincerely defended Arthur Ballinger to the utmost of his ability. The man had been found guilty because he was guilty. At the end Ballinger himself had admitted it.
    That memory took his mind back to the photographs again. His stomach knotted and he felt as if a shadow had passed over him. Perhaps the evening was colder than he had thought. The fire burned in the grate but its warmth did not reach him.
    He was sitting wondering if there was any purpose in asking one ofthe servants to fill the coal box so he could stoke the fire