Page 122 of A Sunless Sea (William Monk 17)

“And there’s a Mr. Wilkie Collins here as well,” Runcorn went on. “Something to do with the Pharmacy Act. Says he’s supporting it, and to send you the message that he’ll remember Joel Lambourn. I gather he’s a writer of some sort.”

Rathbone smiled. “Indeed he is. Please give him my compliments, Mr. Runcorn. If I survive this, I’ll take him to the best dinner in town.”

Runcorn smiled back. “Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later Runcorn was on the witness stand and Rathbone was looking across at him. The gallery was silent, the twelve jurors sitting motionless. A few of them appeared not to have slept much either.

Upon his high chair Pendock seemed like an old man. Rathbone wanted to avoid looking at him at all, but to do so would be both foolish and impossibly rude. He was acutely aware that if he had not spoken, Pendock might have died without ever knowing of his son’s aberration. The knowledge of it now was a dark burden to carry, whatever the nature of this one trial.

At the next table Coniston was tense, looking one way and then another. Even the jury must see that he had lost the certainty he had shown as recently as yesterday morning.

Rathbone cleared his throat, coughed, then coughed again.

“Mr. Runcorn, in the light of further evidence and certain facts that seem to be unclear, I must take you back to your earlier testimony regarding the death of Joel Lambourn.”

Coniston half rose, but Pendock was there before him.

“I realize you object, Mr. Coniston, but nothing has been said yet. I shall stop Sir Oliver if he wanders from the point. I imagine the prosecution is as keen as the rest of the court to learn the truth of this. If indeed Dr. Lambourn was murdered, then in the interests of justice we must know that.” He smiled in a ghastly gesture, looking like a man drowning. “If the accused is guilty of that also, I assume you wish to know it?”

Coniston sat back down again, looking at Rathbone with an expression of complete confusion. “Yes, my lord,” he said grudgingly.

Rathbone waited a second or two, then asked his first question of Runcorn.

“You were called to take over the investigation of Dr. Lambourn’s death as soon as the local police realized who he was, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Runcorn replied simply. This was the last stand, and there was no time or need to elaborate beyond what was absolutely necessary.

“You examined the body, and the surrounding scene?” Rathbone asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you tell if Dr. Lambourn had walked to the place where you found him, or been carried there in some way?”

“I can tell you that there were no marks on the ground of any kind of transport, sir,” Runcorn said firmly. “Nothing with wheels anywhere near, no hoofprints of any horse, just the foot marks of several men, and those of a dog, matching the one belonging to the gentleman who found the body.”

“Do you conclude from that absence of these indications that Dr. Lambourn walked?”

“Yes, sir. He was at least an average height and weight of man. It would have been impossible for one man to have carried him all the way from the path. It was some distance-hundred yards or so-and steep.”

“Two men?” Rathbone asked.

Coniston rolled his eyes with exasperation, but he did not interrupt.

“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Runcorn answered. “Two men carrying a body would have left some kind of mark on the grass, and even on the path. It’s very awkward, carrying a dead weight. Have to go sideways some of the time, or even backward. Slips out of your grip. Anyone who’s tried it would know.”

“But what footprints were there around the body?” Rathbone persisted.

“Clearly?” Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “Impossible to say, sir. Too many people been there. The gentleman who found him, the policemen, the surgeon. They all went up to him, naturally, at first probably to see if they could help. Pretty well mucked up everything. No harm meant, of course. Couldn’t know it would ever matter.”

“Just so,” Rathbone agreed. “So he could have walked there himself, either alone, or with someone else?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you ever find the knife with which he had cut his wrists?”

Runcorn shook his head. “No, sir. Looked very hard, even at some distance, to see if he could have thrown it. Don’t know how far a man can throw a knife when he’s just cut his wrists. Come to that, don’t know why he would want to.”

“Nor do I,” Rathbone agreed. “Did you find anything in which he could have taken the opium? I’m thinking of a bottle for water, or a vial that contained any solution in which opium could have been dissolved.”