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.”
M ONK 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.
H E SPOKE TO O RME 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.”
“And Lambourn was two months dead by that time,” Monk added. “Then we’re left with someone connected to Lambourn. What couldsomeone think he said or confessed to Zenia Gadney that was
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.”
M ONK 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.
H E SPOKE TO O RME 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.”
“And Lambourn was two months dead by that time,” Monk added. “Then we’re left with someone connected to Lambourn. What couldsomeone think he said or confessed to Zenia Gadney that was
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