“A man out walking his dog,” the clerk said. “Might not have been seen for ages, except for the dog smelling it. They do … smell death, I mean.” He shook his head, shivering a little.
“Where was he found?” Monk asked, somewhat surprised. He had assumed Lambourn would either have been at home or at work.
“Greenwich Park,” the young man replied. “One Tree Hill. There’s more than one tree on it, actually. He was in a bit of a dip, up near the top. Sitting there, with his back leaned against the trunk.”
Monk was silent for a moment. What had happened to this man that he had abandoned his wife and daughters and gone by himself into the park, in the cold and the dark, then taken opium, waited for it to take effect, then cut his wrists so he bled to death where he would lie until some stranger found him? Forcing someone he knew, who cared, to be called in to identify what remained of him, and carry the news to his family. By all the accounts Monk had heard so far, Lambourn had been a gentle and considerate man. What had made him do something so unbearably selfish?
“The coroner’s report doesn’t mention his health,” he said to the clerk. “Could he have had some terminal illness?”
The clerk looked taken aback. “No idea, sir. The cause of death was perfectly obvious.”
“The immediate cause, yes, but not the reason,” Monk pointed out.
The clerk raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps that isn’t our concern, sir. Poor man obviously had something happen in his life so bad that he felt he couldn’t live with it. Nothing we can do to help, except afford him a little privacy. It can’t matter now, anyway.” The implied criticism was clear in his tone as well as his choice of words.
Monk felt a flicker of anger. “It matters because Dr. Lambourn seems to have been the only person well acquainted with the victim of a very violent and obscene murder in Limehouse,” he replied a little abruptly. “I need to know if he was aware of anything that led up to it, or if someone at least believed that he did.”
He saw the clerk’s look of alarm with momentary guilt. He had no evidence that understanding Joel Lambourn’s death would help him know who had murdered Zenia Gadney, or why. It bothered him because there were so many aspects of their relationship that did not make sense-but perhaps it was part of a greater whole he wasn’t seeing yet. And so far he had nothing else to follow, unless Orme found something, or a witness came forward.
The clerk was shaking his head as if to get rid of the idea that was forcing itself upon him. “Dr. Lambourn was a scientist, sir, a very respectable man. Worked for the government trying to get information for them. Nothing personal, not that sort of thing. It was about medicines, not about people. He wouldn’t have cared in the slightest about murders, or the sort of people who get involved in such affairs. You said the crime was ‘obscene.’ That wouldn’t be Dr. Lambourn, sir.”
“How long had he been dead before he was found?” Monk asked.
The clerk looked at the papers again, then up at Monk. “Doesn’t say, sir. I imagine it didn’t affect the verdict, and they wanted to be as discreet as possible. Details distress the family. Doesn’t help any.”
“Who was the police surgeon?”
“Ah … Dr. Wembley, sir.”
“Where do I find him?”
“Don’t know, sir. You’ll have to ask at the police station.” The clerk’s disapproval was now undisguised. He clearly considered Monk to be reopening a case that was decidedly closed, and believed that decency required it to remain so.
Monk noted the facts he needed, thanked the man, and left.
At the police station they gave him Wembley’s address, but it took him another hour to find the man’s surgery and then gain the opportunity to speak to him alone. Then Monk was introduced to a man well into his sixties, handsome, with thick gray hair and mustache.
“Thank you.” Monk accepted the seat Wembley offered him, relaxing back into the chair and crossing his legs.
“What can I do for the River Police?” Wembley asked curiously. “Don’t you have your own medical people?”
“There is a case of yours that may have relevance to one of ours,” Monk answered. “I dare say you’ve heard of the woman who was murdered and mutilated on Limehouse Pier?”
“Good God, yes! The newspapers are full of it. Giving you chaps a hard time.” There was commiseration in both his face and his voice.
Monk decided to be frank about it. He judged Wembley would be offended by anything less.
“The only person we can find who knew the woman is unfortunately himself dead,” he began. “It seems he supported her financially. He was her only known client, and saw her regularly once a month.”
“She was a prostitute,” Wembley concluded. “One client only? That’s unusual. But if he’s dead already then he can’t have killed her. Isn’t it reasonable to assume she picked up someone else, and was unfortunate enough to run into a lunatic?”
“Yes, that’s a fair deduction,” Monk agreed. “My men are following that line of inquiry, from the little there is to go on. So far it’s a solitary case. No reports of anyone unusually violent or disturbed in the area. No other women attacked lately. No previous crimes similar enough to this one to assume it’s the same perpetrator.”
Wembley bit his lip. “Have to start somewhere, I suppose, but it does sound pretty violent for a first crime.”
“Exactly,” Monk agreed. “The alternative is that it was someone she knew, and the hatred was personal.”
“Who the devil did the poor woman know to hate her enough to rip her entrails out?” Wembley’s face creased with revulsion. “And why in such an open place as the pier? Wouldn’t he risk being seen by any passing ferry, or lighterman?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed. “Which all makes him sound more and more like a complete lunatic, someone possessed by a sudden, insane rage. Except he had the knife with him, or possibly an open razor. According to the surgeon, it was quite long, and very sharp indeed. If anyone saw them-which so far no one will admit to-then they took them for acquaintances, or if it was in the act, for a prostitute and client on the pier.”
“A bit unusual, isn’t it?” Wembley asked. “Why not an alley? There must be plenty more private places around there.”
“Perhaps she thought she was safe with him in such a visible place,” Monk replied.
Wembley pursed his lips. “Or he had some power over her. He could force her to go with him. God, what a mess!”
“Indeed.” Monk smiled bleakly. “And it becomes more complicated. The man who supported her was Dr. Joel Lambourn, who apparently took his own life in Greenwich Park, just over two months ago.”
Wembley took a deep breath, and let out a sigh. “A connection with him? That is a surprise. I suppose you’re certain?”
“Yes, there seems to be no doubt. Both his widow and his sister, Mrs. Herne, say that they were aware of the relationship. They may not have known the woman’s name, but they knew she existed.”
Wembley shook his head. “I … I really am amazed. He is the last man I would have expected to do such a thing.” He looked profoundly unhappy. “But then he is the last man I would have expected to commit suicide. So I have to grant that my judgment is pretty poor. You say Mrs. Lambourn knew about it?”
“She says so.”
“But you doubt it?” Wembley pressed.
Monk gave a faint smile. “I find my judgment floundering also. I’ve missed something crucial, I fear, because the situation, this relationship, his death-none of it seems to fit with what I hear of the man. Did you know Lambourn personally?”
“Yes, but not well.”
“But well enough to be surprised that he killed himself?”
There was no hesitation in Wembley’s voice. “Yes.”
“But you have no doubt that he did?” Monk persisted.
“Doubt?” Wembley was startled, then his eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that he didn’t?”
“Mrs. Lambourn is convinced he was murdered,” Monk replied. “But that may be because she cannot bear to accept that he wanted to die. I don’t think I could bear to believe that my wife would kill herself, and that I hadn’t even been aware that she was desperate, let alone suicidal. Could you?”