The Twisted Root Read online

  "Thank you! Thank you very much." He stepped back. "Good day."

  She stood on the path smiling as he walked away, then went back into the house to continue with her far less interesting duties.

  He was speaking to a gardener busy pulling weeds when he saw Robb turn the corner of the street and come towards him, frowning, deep in thought. His hands were in his pockets, and from the concentration in his face, Monk surmised he was mulling over something that caused him concern.

  It was as well for Monk that he was, otherwise Robb would almost certainly have recognized him, and that was something he did not wish. Robb had to be searching for Miriam just as diligently as he was. Monk must find her first, even if only to give her time to prepare what she would say.

  He thanked the gardener, turned on his heel and strode away as fast as he could without drawing undue attention to himself. He went down the first side street he came to.

  Robb did not pass him. Damn! He must have stopped to speak to the same gardener. It was the obvious thing to do. Then the man would also tell him of seeing the carriage drive by regularly over the last year or more. And Robb would ask who it was that had just been talking to him, and the gardener would say that he had given him the same information. Even if Robb had not recognized the well-cut jacket and the square set of his shoulders, Robb would know it was Monk. Who else would it be?

  What had James Treadwell been doing here other than collecting and returning Miriam to her home after visiting with Lucius Stourbridge? Had he relatives here? Was there a woman, or more than one? Or some form of business? Had it anything to do with Miriam, or not?

  A vehicle like that would be remembered by anyone who knew horses. This was not an area with many stables or mews where they could be kept out of sight. Most people here used public transport, hansoms, or even omnibuses. Short journeys would be made on foot.

  He spent the next three hours combing the neighborhood asking boot boys, errand boys, and a scullery maid about the houses. He stopped a man delivering coal for kitchen fires, which were kept burning to cook on, even on such a hot summer day, his face black, sweat trickling through the coal dust that caked his skin.

  Twice more he only narrowly avoided running into Robb. He spoke to a boy selling newspapers and a man with a tray of ham sandwiches, from whom he purchased what was going to have to serve him for a late luncheon. Most of them were happy to admit they knew Miriam Gardiner, at least by sight, and smiled when they said it, as if the memory were pleasant.

  But they knew that Treadwell had been murdered, and none of them wished to be associated with that, however loosely. Yes, they had seen him in the past, but no, not lately, certainly not on the night he had met his death. They gazed back at Monk with blank eyes and complete denial. He could only hope Robb met with the same.

  The only thing left to do was move closer to where the body had been found and try again. It was a matter of searching for the kind of person who was in a position to observe the comings and goings, and who might feel free to speak of them without involving himself in something which could only be unpleasant. Servants caught gossiping were invariably in trouble. The advantage he had over Robb was that he was not police. But being a civilian also held disadvantages. He could only persuade; he could oblige nothing.

  He walked slowly along the pavement in the sun. It was a pleasant neighborhood, with rows of small, respectable houses. Inside, the front parlors would be neat and stuffy, seldom used, filled with paintings and samplers with God-fearing messages on them, possibly a picture of the family posed self-consciously in their Sunday best. Life would be conducted mostly in the kitchen and bedrooms. Prayers would be said every morning and night. The generations would be listed in the family Bible, which was probably opened once a week. Sunday morning would be very sober indeed, although Saturday night might get a little tipsy—for the men anyway.

  He tried to think what Treadwell would do when he got to Hampstead. Did he meet friends, perhaps a woman? Why not? It would certainly be very foolish for him to form a friendship with a woman in the Stourbridge house, or close enough for others to become aware of it. Backstairs gossip had ruined more than a few men in service.

  Had he come to buy or to pay for something, or to settle or collect an old debt? Or had it been simply to escape his daily life of obedience to someone else? Here, for an hour or two, he would have been his own master.

  Monk crossed the street, still strolling gently because he had reached no decision. A young woman passed him. She was wearing the starched uniform and simple dress of a nursemaid, and she had a little girl by the hand. Every now and again the child took a little skip, the ribbon in her hair bobbing, and the young woman smiled at her. Far away in the distance, probably on the Heath, a barrel organ played.

  If Treadwell had come here he would not have left the carriage and horses standing unattended. Even if he had merely stopped for a drink, he would have had to leave them in some suitable place, such as an ostler’s yard.

  There was a shop across the road ahead of him. He was not more than a quarter of a mile from Miriam Gardiner’s house. This would be an excellent place to start. He increased his pace. Now he had a specific purpose.

  He opened the door, and a bell clanked rustily somewhere inside. An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a curtain and looked at Monk hopefully.

  "Yes sir. Lovely day, in’t it? What can I get for you, sir? Tea, candles, half a pound of mint humbugs perhaps?" He waved a hand at the general clutter around him which apparently held all these things and more. "Or a penny postcard? Ball of string, maybe you need, or sealing wax?"

  "Ball of string and sealing wax sounds very useful," Monk agreed. "And the humbugs would be excellent on such a warm day. Thank you."

  The man nodded several times, satisfied, and began to find the articles named.

  "Mrs. Gardiner said you would have almost anything I might want," Monk remarked, watching the man carefully.

  "Oh, did she?" the man replied without looking up. "Now, there’s a nice lady, if you like! Happy to see her marry again, and that’s not a lie. Widowed too young, she was. Oh! There’s the sealing wax." He held it up triumphantly. "It’s a nice color, that is. Not too orange. Don’t like it to be too orange. Red’s better."

  "I suppose you’ve known her a long time," Monk remarked casually, nodding back in approval of the shade of the wax.

  "Bless you, only since she first came here as a girl, and that’s not a lie," the man agreed. "Poor little thing!"

  Monk stiffened. What should he say to encourage more confidences without showing his own ignorance or curiosity?

  The man found the string and came up from his bending with a ball in each hand.

  "There you are, sir," he said triumphantly, his face shining. "Which would you prefer? This is good string for parcels and the like, and the other’s softer, better for tying up plants. Don’t cut into the stems, you see?"

  "I’ll take both," Monk answered, his mind racing. "And two sticks of the sealing wax. As you say, it’s a good color."

  "Good! Good! And the mint humbugs. Never forget the mint humbugs!" He laid the string on the counter and disappeared below it again, presumably searching for more sealing wax. Monk hoped it was not the humbugs down in the dusty recesses.

  "I hadn’t realized she was so young when it happened," Monk observed, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.

  "Bless you, no more than twelve or thirteen, and that’s not a lie," the man answered from his hands and knees where he was searching in the cupboards under the counter. He pulled out a huge box full of envelopes and linen paper. "Poor little creature. Terrible small she was. Not a soul in the world, so it seemed. Not then. But of course our Cleo took her in." He pulled out another box of assorted papers. Monk did not care in the slightest about the sealing wax, but he did not want to interrupt the flow. "Good woman, Cleo Anderson. Heart of gold, whatever anybody says," the man continued vehemently.

  "Please don’t go
to trouble." Monk was abashed by the work he was causing, and he had what he wanted. "I don’t need more wax, I merely liked the color."

  "Mustn’t be beaten," the shopkeeper mumbled from the depth of the cupboard. "That’s what they said at Trafalgar— and Waterloo, no doubt. Can’t have a customer leaving dissatisfied."

  "I suppose you know Mr. Treadwell also?" Monk tried the last question.

  "Not as I recall. Ah! Here it is! I knew I had some more somewhere. Half a box of it." He backed out and stood up, his shoulders covered in dust, a lidless cardboard box in one hand. He beamed at Monk. "Here you are, sir. How much would you like?"

  "Three sticks, thank you," Monk replied, wondering what on earth he could use it for. "Is there a good ostler’s yard near here?"

  The man leaned over the counter and pointed leftwards, waving his arm. "About half a mile up that way, and one street over. Can’t miss it. Up towards Mrs. Anderson’s, it is. But you’d know that, knowing Mrs. Gardiner an’ all. That’ll be tenpence ha’penny altogether, sir, if you please. Oh ... an’ here are the humbugs. That’ll be another tuppence, if you please."

  Monk took his purchases, thanked him and paid, then set out towards the ostler’s yard feeling pleased with himself.

  He needed to find Miriam. The details of her youth were of value only inasmuch as they either explained her extraordinary behavior or indicated where she was now.

  The ostler’s yard was precisely where the shopkeeper had pointed.

  "Yes," an old man said, sucking on a straw. He was bow-legged and smelled of the stable yard, horse sweat, hay and leather. " ’E come ’ere often. Right ’andsome pair, they was. Perfick match, pace fer pace."

  "Good with horses, was he?" Monk enquired casually.

  "Not as I’d say ’good,’ " the ostler qualified. " ’Fair,’ more like it." He looked at Monk through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to explain himself.

  Monk made a grimace of disgust. "Not what he told me. That’s why I thought I’d check."

  "Don’t make no matter now." The ostler spat out the straw, "Dead, poor swine. Not that I’d much time fer ’im. Saucy bastard, ’e were. Always full o’ lip. But I wouldn’t wish that on ’im. Yer not from ’round ’ere, or yer’d o’ know’d ’e were dead. Murdered, ’e were. On Mrs. Anderson’s footpath, practically, an’ ’er a good woman, an’ all. Looked after my Annie, she did, summink wonderful." He shook his head. "Nuffink weren’t too much trouble for ’er."

  Monk seized the chance. "A very fine woman," he agreed. "Took in Mrs. Gardiner, too, I believe, when she was just a child."

  The ostler selected himself another straw and put it in his mouth. "Oh, yeah. Found her wandering around out of ’er wits, they did. Babblin’ like a lunatic an’ scarce knew ’er own name, poor thing. It were Cleo Anderson wot took ’er in an’ cleaned ’er up and raised ’er like she was ’er own. Shame that no-good braggart got ’isself killed on her doorstep. That kind o’ trouble nobody needs."

  "Can’t prevent accidents," Monk said sententiously, but his mind was wondering what could have happened to the young Miriam to cause her such agony of mind. He could imagine it only too vividly, remembering his own fear after the accident, the horrors that lay within himself. Had she experienced something like that? Did she also not know who she was? Was that what terrified her and drove her away from Lucius Stourbridge, who loved her so much?

  The ostler spat out his straw. "Weren’t no haccident!" He said derisively. "Like I told yer, ’e were murdered! ’It over the ’ead, ’e were."

  "He left his horses here quite often," Monk observed, recalling himself to the present.

  "I told you that, too, didn’t I? ’Course, ’e did. Best place fer miles, this is. In’t nuthin’ abaht ’orses I don’t know as is worth knowin’." He waited for Monk to challenge him.

  Monk smiled and glanced at the nearest animal. "I can see that," he said appreciatively. "It shows. And your judgment of Treadwell is probably much what I’d concluded myself. An arrogant piece of work."

  The ostler looked satisfied. He nodded. "That’s wot I told that policeman wot come ’round ’ere askin’. Treadwell weren’t much good, I told ’im. Yer can learn a lot abaht a man by the way ’e ’andles an ’orse, if yer know wot ter look fer. You know, yer a bit pleased wif yerself, an’ all!"

  Monk smiled ruefully. He knew it was true.

  The ostler grinned back, pleased there was no offense.

  Monk thanked him and left, digesting the information he had gained, not only about Treadwell’s being here but about Miriam’s strange early life and the coincidence of Treadwell’s being murdered on the doorstep of the woman who had found Miriam and had taken her in years before. And, of course, Robb had had the same idea. Monk must be extremely careful he did not inadvertently lead him right to Miriam.

  Out in the street again, he walked slowly. He did not put his hands in his pockets. That would pull his suit out of shape. He was too vain for that. Why was he so fearful of leading Robb to Miriam? The answer was painful. Because he was afraid she was involved in Treadwell’s death, even if indirectly. She was hiding from Lucius, but she was hiding from the police as well. Why? What was Treadwell to her beyond the driver of Stourbridge’s carriage? What did he know—or suspect?

  It was time he went to see Cleo Anderson. He did not want to run into Robb, so he approached cautiously, aware that he was a conspicuous figure with his straight, square shoulders and slightly arrogant walk.

  He was already on Green Man Hill when he saw Robb crossing the street ahead of him, and he stopped abruptly, bending his head and raising his hands as if to light a cigar, then he turned his back, making a gesture as if to shelter a match from the wind. Without looking up, in spite of the intense temptation, he strolled away again and around the first corner he came to.

  He stopped and, to his annoyance, found he was shaking. This was absurd. What had it come to when he was scuttling around street corners to keep from being recognized by the police? And a sergeant at that! A short handful of years before, sergeants all over London knew his name and snapped to attention when they heard it. In rediscovering himself after the accident he had witnessed just how deeply the fear of him was rooted. People cared what he thought of them, they wanted to please him and they dreaded his contempt, earned or not.

  How much had changed!

  He felt himself ridiculous, standing there on the footpath pretending to light an imaginary cigar so Robb would not see his face. And yet the man he had been then, in hindsight gave him little pleasure. Robb would have feared him, possibly respected his skills, but that fear would have been based in the power he had had and his will to use it—and to exercise the sharp edge of his tongue.

  He was still impatient, at times sarcastic. He still despised cowardice, hypocrisy and laziness, and took no trouble to conceal it. But he equally despised a bully and felt a sharp stab of pain to think that he might once have been one.

  If Robb had gone to see Cleo Anderson, either with regard to Miriam or simply because Treadwell had been found on her pathway, then there was no point waiting there for him to leave. It might be an hour or two. Better to go and buy himself a decent supper, then return in the early evening, when Robb would have gone back home, probably to minister to his grandfather.

  Monk ate well, then filled in a little more of the waiting time asking further questions about Miriam. He pretended he had a sister who had recently married and was considering moving into the area. He learned more than he expected, and Miriam’s name cropped up in connection with a botanical society, the friends of a missionary group in Africa, a circle of women who met every other Friday to discuss works of literature they had enjoyed, and the rota of duties at the nearest church. He should have thought of the church. He kicked himself for such an obvious omission. He would repair that tomorrow.

  Altogether, by the time he stood on Cleo Anderson’s doorstep in the early-evening sunlight, the shadows so long across the street that they nearly engulfed h
is feet, he was feeling, as the ostler had remarked, pleased with himself.

  Considering that Cleo Anderson had already sacrificed a great deal of her evening answering the questions of Sergeant Robb, she opened the door to Monk with remarkable courtesy. It occurred to him that she might have believed him to be a patient. After all, caring for the sick was her profession.

  It took her only a moment to see that he was a stranger, and unlikely to belong to the immediate neighborhood. Nevertheless, she did not dismiss him summarily. Her eyes narrowed a trifle.

  "Yes, love, what can I do for you?" she asked, keeping her weight where she could slam the door if he tried to force his way.

  He stood well back deliberately.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Anderson," he replied. He decided in that moment not to lie to her. "My name is William Monk. Mr. Lucius Stourbridge has employed me to find Miriam Gardiner. As you may be aware, she has disappeared from his house, where she was a guest, and he is frantic with concern for her." He stopped, seeing the anxiety in her face, her rapid breathing and a stiffening of her body. But then, considering Treadwell’s corpse had been found on her path, she could hardly fail to fear for Miriam, unless she already knew that she was safe, not only from physical harm but from suspicion also. Patently, she did not have any such comfort.

  "Can you help me?" he said quietly.

  For a moment she stood still, making up her mind, then she stepped back, pulling the door wider. "You’d better come in," she invited him reluctantly.

  He followed her into a hallway hardly large enough to accommodate the three doors that led from it. She opened the farthest one into a clean and surprisingly light room with comfortable chairs by the fireplace. A row of cupboards lined one wall, all the doors closed and with brass-bound keyholes. None of the keys were present.

  "Mr. Stourbridge sent you?" The thought seemed to offer her no comfort. She was still as tense, her hands held tightly, half hidden by her skirts.

  He had walked miles and his feet were burning, but to sit unasked would be rushing her, and ill-mannered. "He is terrified some harm may have come to her," he answered. "Especially in light of what happened to the coachman, Treadwell."