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
“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
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