“No,” Wembley said immediately. “What did his sister say? Or is she in the same category?”
“Not at all.” Monk recalled Amity Herne’s utterly different face, voice, and even more her attitude and mind-set. It was distasteful to repeat her words. “She seemed to find no difficulty in believing he killed himself,” he replied. “She said he was a professional failure and something of a personal one as well. He could never live up to the perception of him that his wife held, and the strain of trying to do so, the pretense, finally overwhelmed him.”
“I have no idea about his personal life,” Wembley said with heat, as if he were offended by Amity’s words. “But professionally he was outstanding. He had one of the finest minds in his field. It’s true he held himself to a high standard. But I don’t believe he ever fell short of it, and he was certainly robust enough to deal with a degree of failure. Good heavens, man, there’s no doctor on earth who doesn’t deal with failure every week!”
He jerked his hands apart in a gesture of frustration. “People die; people fail to throw off a disabling disease. You do your best. You might solve every case, I suppose, but you certainly don’t prevent every crime!” It was something of an accusation. Monk’s implied criticism of Lambourn had obviously angered Wembley.
Monk found himself perversely pleased. “So you cannot believe that he killed himself over a sense of professional failure?”
Wembley’s face was tight and angry. “No, I cannot.”
“Then over what?”
“I don’t know!” He glared at Monk. “I am forced to go along with the evidence. He was found alone, in the early morning, in an out-of-the-way part of Greenwich Park. He had taken opium, enough to make him drowsy and lessen any physical pain and fear. He had slit his wrists and bled to death.”
Monk leaned forward a little. “How do you know he took the opium himself, and cut his own wrists?”
Wembley’s eyes widened and he leaned forward a little. “Are you suggesting that someone else did it, and left him there to die? Why, for God’s sake? And why wouldn’t he have fought back? He wasn’t a small or weak man, and there was no evidence he was bound or restrained. The opium in his body was considerable, but it would not render him insensible immediately. He must have acquiesced in what was going on.”
Monk’s mind raced. “But his wrists were cut. Could the injuries have hidden signs of having been bound?”
Wembley shook his head slowly. “They were cut on the inside, to get the artery. If they had been bound, the marks would be on the outside.”
Monk was not ready to give up. “Any other bruises?” he asked.
“None that I could see. Certainly nothing on his ankles.”
“His face?”
“Of course not. I could hardly have missed that!”
“What sort of hair did he have?”
“Gray, thinning on top a little. Why?” But Wembley had hesitated.
“And at the back?” Monk asked.
“Thick still. Are you thinking there may have been a bruise hidden by his hair?”
“Could there?”
Wembley took a long, slow breath and let it out in a sigh. “I didn’t think to look. It’s possible. But there was no blood. I would have seen that.”
“How did he take the opium?”
“I’ve no idea. What difference does it make?”
“Powder in a twist?” Monk asked. “And water to drink it down? Or a solution of some sort? Something like laudanum or some other patent medicine?”
“Why does it matter now?” Wembley spoke more slowly, his curiosity awakened.
“You can’t carry opium loose,” Monk pointed out. “And you can’t take powder without something to wash it down with. Laudanum would’ve been carried in a bottle.”
Wembley pursed his lips. “I saw no bottle, packet, or anything else. The police must have taken it away. I suppose I should have asked. It didn’t seem important. It looked obvious what had happened. I admit, I was shaken.” His tone was apologetic. “I admired his work, and insofar as I knew him, I liked him.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. The sound of footsteps echoed outside in the passage, and then faded away.
Monk did not prompt Wembley to go on. He felt touched by the same sense of regret, even though he had never known Dr. Lambourn.
“He had a very nice sense of humor,” Wembley went on quietly. “He had a keen amusement at the absurd, with a kind of affection, as if oddities pleased him.” He stared into the distance, into the past, it seemed to Monk. “If there was something wrong, something strange about his death,” he went on after a moment, “I’d be happy if you found it. It is one of those cases about which I would much rather be mistaken.”
Monk returned to the local police station in Greenwich but was not surprised when a young sergeant told him that the case was closed, and that such tragedies were best left alone.
“Dr. Lambourn was a very well thought of gentleman, sir,” he said with a tight smile. “It shakes the whole neighborhood when something like that happens. Not really River Police business.”
Monk struggled to think of a reason why he could ask if anyone had moved a bottle of water or alcohol, or something that could have contained a solution of opium, but the sergeant was right. It was not River Police business.
“I would like to speak with the policeman first on the scene,” he said instead. “It may have a connection with a case that is our business. A murder,” he added, in case the young man was inclined to take it lightly.
The constable’s smooth face yielded nothing. He met Monk’s eyes blandly.
“Sorry, sir, but that’d probably be Constable Watkins, and he’s out Deptford way right now.” He smiled very slightly. Monk did not know if it was meant to be charm, or insolence. He thought the latter.
“Not be back here until tomorrow,” the young man continued. “Couldn’t tell you anything anyway. Poor gentleman’d been dead for hours, so the doctor told us. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
Monk hid his irritation with difficulty.
“Who was in charge of the case?”
“Some senior man the government brought in, Dr. Lambourn being an important person,” the young man replied. “Kept it … discreet.” He loaded the last word with importance.
“And you don’t know the name of this man?”
“That’s right, sir, I don’t.” Again he smiled and met Monk’s eyes boldly.
Monk thanked him and left, feeling thwarted, but also that he was wasting his time. Perhaps Lambourn had taken his opium in alcohol, possibly a lot of it, and it was a small kindness to conceal the fact. Grudgingly he acknowledged that those who found him might well have hidden it, for compassion’s sake. He might have done the same himself.
He spoke to Orme the next morning at the River Police headquarters in Wapping. They were standing on the dockside in front of the station, staring across the river, watching the lighters as they made their way upstream in long strings, ten to fifteen of them carrying cargo to the Pool of London ready to be loaded and sent to every port in the world.
“Been through all the records I can find,” Orme said unhappily. “Asked everyone. No crime similar enough to this to make it worth comparing, thank the Lord. Can’t find anyone who’s even been attacked in the last couple of years, except for the ordinary beatings or stranglings. No one sliced open and torn to pieces.” His mouth pulled thin in distaste. “There’s no trace of him doing this before, either side of the river.” He shook his head. “I think this is a one-off, sir. And I don’t know if it had anything to do with Dr. Lambourn or not. But I can’t find anyone else she knew, except the odd local people to talk to. Shopkeepers, a laundress, old man a couple of streets away, but he’s eighty if he’s a day, and can hardly walk, let alone get himself to the pier.”