William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

Herne has just said that she has very little idea what the work was concerned with. How, then, could she judge whether his involvement was too great?” He would like to have argued that it was also completely irrelevant to Zenia Gadney’s death, but he intended to introduce the exact point later on, and this opened the door for him nicely.
    Coniston smiled. “She might not have known specifically what the work was, but she can judge if it had bearing on the state of his mind. And if it bears on his state of mind, my lord, it will automatically bear on the state of mind of the accused.”
    “My lord!” Rathbone was still on his feet. “How can Dr. Lambourn’s concern for his work have been on the accused’s state of mind two months after he was dead? Is my learned friend suggesting there was some kind of communicable madness involved?”
    There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the gallery. One juror sneezed and put his handkerchief up to his face, hiding his expression.
    “I will permit this kind of questioning,” Pendock said, clearing his throat, “on condition that you reach some relevance very soon, Mr. Coniston.” He did not look at Rathbone.
    “Thank you, my lord.” Coniston turned again to Amity Herne. “Mrs. Herne, was Dr. Lambourn more involved with this task, whatever it was, than was usual for him?”
    “Yes,” she said decisively, a look of grief shadowing her face. “He became completely absorbed in it.”
    “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Herne? What is unusual about a doctor being absorbed in his work?” Coniston was still overly polite.
    “When the government did not accept his conclusions he was distraught. At times he was almost hysterical. I …” She looked uncomfortable. Her hands gripped the rail in front of her and she gulped, as if to control tears. “I believe that was why he took his own life. I wish I had been more aware how serious it was. Perhaps I could have said or done something! I didn’t realize that everything he valued in his life was disintegrating in front of him. Or he believed it was.”
    Coniston stood perfectly still in the middle of the floor, an elegant figure, even kindly. “Disintegrating, Mrs. Herne? Isn’t that rather extreme? Because the government did not accept his views on … whatever it was?”
    “That and …” Her voice dropped so low it was difficult to hear her. No one in the room moved. The crowd in the gallery were still, as if frozen.
    Coniston waited.
    “That, and his personal life,” Amity finished in no more than a murmur.
    Pendock leaned forward a little. “Mrs. Herne, I realize this must be appallingly difficult for you, but I must ask you to speak a little more loudly, so the jury may hear you.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I find this … most embarrassing to mention in public. Joel was a very quiet man, very private. I am not sure how to put this delicately.” She stared at Coniston; never once did her eyes stray to Rathbone. It was as if she were not aware that he was there, and would question her next. In fact, it seemed as if she was deliberately excluding the rest of the court altogether.
    “His personal life?” Coniston prompted her. “He was your brother, Mrs. Herne. If he confided in you, even indirectly, you must tell the court. I am sorry to force you, but this is a murder case. One woman has lost her life, hideously, and another stands accused of her murder, and if found guilty will assuredly also lose hers. We cannot allow ourselves the luxury of being delicate at the expense of truth.”
    With an immense effort Amity Herne raised her head. “He implied to me that he had needs that his wife was not willing to meet, and that he visited another woman for that purpose.” She said the words clearly and distinctly, like delivering knife wounds to herself. “The pressure ofliving up to his wife’s vision of him as a perfect man was becoming more than he could bear.” She bit her lip. “I wish you had not made me say that, but it is true. It should have been allowed to die with him.” She could no longer stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.
    “I wish it had been possible,” Coniston said contritely. “This other woman that you speak of, did you know who she was? Did he mention her name, or anything about her? Such as where she lived?”
    “He said her name was Zenia. He did not say where she lived, at least not to me.” The implication that she might have said so to