Page 128 of A Sunless Sea (William Monk 17)

“Yes. I have said as much.”

“And your brother, he knew where Zenia lived once they were no longer … together?”

“Yes.” She looked puzzled and a trifle irritated.

Rathbone smiled. “Had he ever mentioned the address to you?”

She hesitated. “Not … not specifically, that I recall.”

“Generally? For example, that it was in the Limehouse area?”

“I …” She gave a slight shrug. “I am not certain.”

“I ask because it appears that Dinah knew Zenia’s whereabouts closely enough to ask for her in Copenhagen Place. She did not wander around searching half London for her; she went almost immediately to the right street.”

“Then Joel must have mentioned it,” Amity replied. “You appear to have answered your own question, sir.”

“It appears that he made no secret of Zenia’s whereabouts,” Rathbone agreed. “Are you certain you were not aware? Or your husband, perhaps? Might your brother have confided in your husband, possibly in case something should happen to him, and he would need someone he could rely on to take care of Zenia if he were not able to?”

Amity drew in her breath sharply, as if some terrible thought had suddenly come into her mind. She gazed at Rathbone in horror.

“He … he might’ve.” She licked her lips to moisten them. Her hands tightened on the railing in front of her.

The tension in the courtroom crackled like the air before a thunderstorm. Every single one of the jurors was staring at Amity.

“But he was dining at the Atheneum on the night your brother was killed,” Rathbone went on.

> “Yes. Yes, any number of gentlemen will testify to that,” she agreed, her voice a little husky.

“Just so. And on the night Zenia Gadney was killed?” he asked.

“I …” She bit her lip. Now she was trembling, but her eyes did not waver from his even for an instant. “I have no idea. He was not at home, that’s all I can say.”

Now there was rustle and movement everywhere. In the gallery people coughed and shifted position, each straining to move left or right so their view of the witness was uninterrupted. The jurors fidgeted.

Coniston was staring at Rathbone as if he had suddenly changed shape in front of his eyes.

“You don’t know where he was, Mrs. Herne?” Rathbone repeated.

“No …” Her voice wavered. She put her hand up to her mouth. She gulped, staring almost helplessly at Rathbone.

“Mrs. Herne-”

“No!” Her voice rose and she was shaking her head violently. “No. You cannot make me tell you any more. He is my husband.” She swiveled around in the witness box and pleaded with Pendock. “My lord, surely he cannot force me to speak against my husband, can he?”

It was the desperate cry of a wife in defense of the man to whom she had given her life and her loyalty, and it utterly condemned him.

Rathbone looked at the jurors. They were frozen in horror and sudden, appalling understanding. There was no doubt left anymore, only shock.

Then he swung round to the gallery and saw Barclay Herne, ashen-faced, eyes like black sockets in his head, trying to speak. But no words came.

On either side of him people moved away, grasping at coats and shawls, pulling them closer in case even a touch should contaminate them.

Pendock demanded order, his voice cracking a little.

Herne was on his feet, staring wildly as if seeking some rescue. “Bawtry!” he shouted desperately. “For God’s sake!”

Behind him, facing the judge and witness stand, Bawtry also rose to his feet, shaking his head as if in awful realization.