The Twisted Root wm-10 Read online

  Perhaps she caught something in his eyes, an understanding. Some of the defiance eased from her. "She were scared ’alf out of ’er wits, poor little thing," she went on. "Didn’t remember what happened at all."

  Cleo Anderson had taken Miriam in and raised her until she had made a respectable and apparently happy marriage to a local man of honorable reputation. Then Miriam had been widowed, with sufficient means to live quite contentedly … until she had met Lucius Stourbridge out walking in the sun on Hampstead Heath.

  But it was what had happened one week ago that mattered, and where she was now.

  "Did you know James Treadwell?" he asked her.

  Her answer was immediate, without a moment’s thought. "No."

  It was too quick. But he did not want to challenge her. He must leave her room to change her mind without having to defend herself.

  "So you were all the family Miriam had after the accident." He allowed his very real admiration to fill his voice.

  The tenderness in her eyes, in her mouth, was undeniable. If she had permitted herself, at that moment she would have wept. But she was a strong woman, and well used to all manner of tragedy.

  "That’s true," she agreed quietly. "And she was the nearest thing to a child I ever had, too. And nobody could want better."

  "So you must have been happy when she married a good man like Mr. Gardiner," he concluded.

  "O’ course. An’ ’e were a good man! Bit older than Miriam, but loved ’er, ’e did. An’ she were proper fond o’ ’im."

  "It must have been very pleasant for you to have had her living so close."

  She smiled. "O’ course. But I don’ mind where she lives if she’s ’appy. An’ she loved Mr. Lucius like nothin’ I ever seen. ’Er ’ole face lit up when she jus’ spoke ’is name." This time the tears spilled down her cheeks, and it was beyond her power to control them.

  "What happened, Mrs. Anderson?" he said, almost in a whisper.

  "I dunno."

  He had not really expected anything else. This was a woman protecting the only child she had nurtured and loved.

  "But you must have seen Treadwell, even in the distance, when Miriam came back to visit you while she was staying in Bayswater," he insisted.

  She hesitated only a moment. "I seen a coachman, but that’s all."

  That might be true. Perhaps Treadwell had crawled here because he had heard Miriam say Cleo was a nurse. It was conceivable it was no more than that. But was it likely?

  Who had killed Treadwell … and why? Why here?

  "What did you tell Sergeant Robb?" he asked.

  She relaxed a fraction. Her shoulders eased under the dark fabric of her dress, a plain, almost uniform dress such as he had seen Hester wear on duty. He was surprised at the stab of familiarity it caused inside him.

  "Same as I’m tellin’ you," she answered. "I ’aven’t seen Miriam since she went off to stay with Mr. Lucius an’ ’is family. I don’t know where she is now, an’ I’ve no idea what happened to the coachman, or ’ow ’e got killed, nor why- except I’ve known Miriam since she were a girl, an’ I’ve never known ’er to lose ’er temper nor lash out at anyone, an’ I’d stake my life on that."

  Monk believed her, at least for the last part. He accepted that she thought Miriam innocent. He very much doubted that she had no idea where Miriam was. If all were well with Miriam she would unquestionably not have fled from the Stourbridge house as she had, nor have remained out of touch with Lucius. If she were in trouble, whatever its nature, surely she would have turned to Cleo Anderson, the person who had rescued her, cared for her and loved her since that first time?

  "I hope you won’t have to do anything so extreme," he said gravely, then he bade her good-night without asking anything further. He knew she would not answer, at least not with the truth.

  He bought a sandwich from a peddler about a block away, making conversation with him as he ate it. Then he took an omnibus back towards Fitzroy Street, and was glad to sit down, cramped and lurching as the conveyance was.

  He let his thoughts wander. Where could Miriam go? She was frightened. She trusted no one, except perhaps Cleo. Certainly, she did not trust Lucius Stourbridge. She would not want to be in unfamiliar territory, yet she would have to avoid those who were known to be her friends.

  A fat woman next to him was perspiring freely. She mopped her face with a large handkerchief. A small boy blew a pennywhistle piercingly, and his mother showed sharp disapproval, to no effect. An elderly man in a bowler hat sucked air through a gap in his teeth. Monk glared at the boy with the whistle, and he stopped in midblow. The man with the gap in his teeth smiled in relief.

  Miriam would go to someone she could trust, someone Cleo could trust, perhaps, who owed her a favor for past kindness. Cleo was a nurse. If she was even remotely like Hester, she could count on the trust, and the unquestioning discretion also, of a good many people. That was where to begin, with those Cleo Anderson had nursed. He sat back and relaxed, keeping his eye on the child in case he thought to blow his whistle again.

  It was already warm and still by five minutes before nine, when Monk began the next day. The rag and bone man’s voice echoed as he drove slowly away from the Heath towards the south. The dew was still deep in the shade of the larger trees, but the open grass was dusty and the dawn chorus of the birds had been over for hours.

  Monk did not bother to pursue those patients with large families and, naturally, those whose illness had ended in death. He learned of all manner of misfortune and of kindness. Cleo Anderson’s reputation was high. Few had a harsh word to say of her. Miriam also had earned a share of approval. It seemed often enough she had been willing to help in the duties of care, especially after she had been widowed and no longer had her time filled with seeing to the well-being of Mr. Gardiner.

  Monk followed every trail that seemed likely to lead to where Miriam might be now. By late morning he had crossed Sergeant Robb’s path twice and was wondering if Robb was equally aware of him. Surely he must be, by deduction even if he had not actually seen Monk.

  A little after midday he came around the corner of Prince Arthur Road and stopped abruptly. Ten yards ahead of him, Robb was glancing at his watch anxiously, and in reading the time he looked reluctantly, once, at a house on the farther side, then, biting his lip, set off at a very rapid pace the opposite way.

  For a moment Monk was confused, then he realized Robb was going in the direction of his home. His grandfather would have been alone since early in the morning, almost helpless, certainly needing food and, in this warm weather above all, fresh water to drink and assistance with his personal needs. Robb would never forget that, whatever the urgencies or the requirements of his job.

  Monk was moved with an acute pity for him, and also for the sick old man sitting alone day after day, dependent on a young man desperate to do his job and torn between two duties.

  But Monk’s first duty was towards Miriam Gardiner, because that was what Lucius Stourbridge had hired him for and what he had given his word to do. Robb had far more resources than he had, in information given to the police, his own local knowledge, and in his power to command cooperation. They wished the same thing, to find Miriam Gardiner, Monk because it was his final goal, Robb to learn from her what she knew of Treadwell’s murder, perhaps even to charge her with complicity in it. It was imperative Monk find her first.

  He sauntered slowly over towards the house Robb had eyed and had then left with such reluctance. He had no idea who lived there or what Robb had hoped to find, but there was no time to investigate more carefully. This was his only chance to gain the advantage. He knocked on the door and stepped back, waiting for it to be answered.

  The maid who peered out at him could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old, but she was determined to make a good impression.

  "Yes sir?"

  He smiled at her. "Good afternoon." Time was short. "Mrs. Gardiner asked me if I could carry a message to your mistress,
if she is in." He wished he had some way of knowing the family name. It would have sounded more convincing.

  For a moment the girl looked blank, but she obviously wished to be helpful. "Are yer sure yer got the right ’ouse, sir? There’s no one but old Mr. ’Ornchurch ’ere."

  "Oh." He was confounded. What had Robb wanted with old Mr. Hornchurch?

  Her face brightened. "Mebbe she meant the ’ousekeeper? Mrs. Whitbread, as comes in every day an’ cooks an’ does fer Mr. ’Ornchurch. She was took bad the winter before last, an’ it were Mrs. Gardiner wot looked after ’er."

  He could feel the sweat of relief prickle on his skin. He swallowed before he could catch his breath. "Yes. Of course. That’s what I should have said. Perhaps it would be more convenient if I were to speak to Mrs. Whitbread at her home? Can you tell me how to get there from here?" The people Miriam would turn to would be the ones she had helped in their time of need.

  The girl looked dubious. "Mebbe. I’ll ask ’er. She don’ like nobody callin’ on ’er at ’ome. Reckon as when yer orff, yer wanna be private, like."

  "Of course," he agreed, still standing well back from the step. "I’m sure you could simply give her the message, if you would be so kind?"

  "I’m sure I could do that," she agreed, obviously relieved.

  He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, and a pencil, and wrote "Tell Sergeant Robb nothing about Miriam," then folded the note twice, turning the ends in, and gave it to the girl. "Be sure to give it to her straightaway," he warned. "And if the police come here, be very careful what you say."

  Her eyes widened. "I will," she promised. "Never say nothin’ to the rozzers, that’s wot one ol’ man tol’ me. That’s the best. Known nothin’, seen nothin’, ’eard nothin’, me."

  "Very wise." He nodded, smiling at her again. "Thank you," he said, and stepped back and turned to leave.

  He would wait until Mrs. Whitbread finished her duties and then follow her. He had real hope that she might lead him to Miriam. For the meantime, he would find something to eat and stay well out of Robb’s way when he returned to see Mrs. Whitbread himself.

  He sauntered quite casually along the pavement next to a small space of open grass and bought a beef-and-onion sandwich from a stall. It was fresh, and he ate it with considerable enjoyment. He bought a second and enjoyed that as well. He wondered how Robb had traced Mrs. Whitbread. That was a good piece of detection. It commanded his respect, and he gave it willingly. He liked Robb and admired the young man’s care for his grandfather.

  He must stay within sight of Mr. Hornchurch’s house so he could see when the housekeeper left, but not so close that Robb, when returning, would observe him.

  He expected Robb to come back the way he had seen him leave, so he was jolted by considerable surprise when he heard Robb’s voice behind him, and he swung around to see him only a yard away, his face grim, his mouth pulled tight.

  "Waiting for me, Inspector Monk?" he said coldly.

  Monk felt as if he had been slapped. In one sentence, Robb had shown that he had learned Monk’s history in the police and his reputation both for skill and for ruthlessness. It was there in Robb’s face now as he stood in sunlight dappled by the trees, his eyes guarded, challenging. Monk could see the anger in him-and something else which he thought might be fear.

  Was there any point in lying? He did not want to make an enemy of Robb, for practical reasons as well as emotional ones; in fact, he could not afford to. The first concern was Miriam. Her freedom, even her life, might depend upon this. And he had no idea whether she was guilty of anything or not. She might have killed Treadwell. On the other hand she might be in danger herself, terrified and running. He knew no more of the truth now than he had when Lucius Stourbridge had walked into his rooms a few days before.

  He shifted his weight to stand a little more casually. He raised his eyebrows. "Actually, I’d really been hoping to avoid you," he said truthfully.

  Robb’s mouth curled downward. "You thought I’d come back the way I left? I would have if I hadn’t seen you, and I admit, that was only chance. But I know this area better than you do. I have the advantage. I wondered if you’d follow me. It would seem the obvious thing to do if you had no ideas yourself." There was a contempt in his voice that stung. "Why did you wait here for me? I suppose you already knew I would be going to my grandfather."

  Monk was startled-and surprised to find himself also hurt. He had not earned that from Robb. Certainly, he was trying to beat Robb to Miriam, but that was what Lucius Stourbridge had hired him for. Robb would not have expected him to do less.

  "Of course, I knew where you were going," Monk answered, keeping his voice level and almost expressionless. "But the reason I didn’t go after you was because I wasn’t following you in the first place. Does it surprise you so much that my investigations should bring me to the same place as yours?"

  "No," Robb said instantly. "You have a wide reputation, Inspector Monk." He did not elaborate as to its nature, but the expression in his eyes told it well, leaving Monk no room to hope or to delude himself.

  Memories of Runcorn flooded back, of his anger always there, thinly suppressed under his veneer of self-control, the fear showing through, the expectation that somehow, whatever he did, Monk would get the better of him, undermine his authority, find the answer first, make him look foolish or inept. The fear had become so deep over the years it was no longer a conscious thought but an instinct, like wincing before you are struck.

  After the accident Monk had heard fragments about himself here and there and had pieced them together, learned things he had wished were not true. The cruel thing was that in the last year or so, surely they no longer were. His tongue was still quick, certainly. He was intolerant. He did not suffer fools-gladly or otherwise. But he was not unjust! Robb was judging him on the past.

  "Apparently," he said aloud, his voice cold. He also knew his reputation for skill. "Then you should not be surprised that I came to the same conclusion you did and found the same people without having to trail behind you."

  Robb dug his hands into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched forward, his body tightening. There was contempt and dislike in his face, but also the awareness of a superior enemy, and a sadness that it should be so, a disappointment.

  "You have an advantage over me, Mr. Monk. You know my one vulnerability. You must do about it whatever you think fit, but I will not be blackmailed into stepping aside from pursuing whoever murdered James Treadwell-whether it is Mrs. Gardiner or not." He looked at Monk unblinkingly, his brown eyes steady.

  Monk felt suddenly sick. Surely he had never been a person who would descend to blackmailing a young man because he took time off his professional duty to attend to the far deeper duty of love towards an old man who was sick and alone and utterly dependent upon him? He could not believe he had ever been like that-not to pursue any thief or killer, there were other ways; and certainly not to climb up another step on the ladder of preferment!

  He found his mouth dry and words difficult to form. What did he want to say? He would not plead; it would be both demeaning and useless.

  "What you tell your superiors is your own business," he replied icily. "If you tell them anything at all. Personally, I never had such a regard for them that I thought it necessary to explain myself. My work spoke for me." He sounded arrogant and he knew it. But what he said was true. He had never explained himself to Runcorn, nor ever intended to.

  He saw the flash of recognition in Robb’s face, and belief.

  "And you’ll find plenty of sins I’ve committed," Monk went on, his voice biting. "But you’ll not find anyone who knew me to stoop to blackmail. You’ll not find anyone who damned well thought I needed to."

  Slowly, Robb’s shoulders relaxed. He still regarded Monk carefully, but the hostility faded from his eyes as the fear loosened its grip on him. He licked his lips. "I’m sorry- perhaps I underestimated your ability." That was as far as he would go towards an apology.<
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  It was not ability Monk cared about, it was honor, but there was no point pursuing that now. This was all he was going to get. The question was how to remain within sight of the house so he could follow Mrs. Whitbread when she left, and yet at the same time elude Robb so he did not follow them both. And, of course, that only mattered if the maid at the door did not give Robb the same information she had given to Monk, albeit unwittingly.

  He looked at Robb a moment longer, then smiled steadily, bade him farewell, and turned and walked away, in the opposite direction from the house. He would have to circle around and come back, extremely carefully.

  Mrs. Whitbread left at a quarter to five. Robb was nowhere to be seen. As Monk followed her at a discreet distance, he felt his weariness suddenly vanish, his senses become keen and a bubble of hope form inside him.

  They had not gone far, perhaps a mile and a quarter, before Mrs. Whitbread, a thin, spare woman with a gentle face, turned in at a small house on Kemplay Road and opened the front door with a key.

  Monk waited a few moments, looking both ways and seeing no one, then he crossed and went to the door. He knocked.

  After a minute or two the door was opened cautiously by Mrs. Whitbread. "Yes?"

  He had given much consideration to what he was going to say. It was already apparent Miriam did not wish to be found either by the police or by Lucius Stourbridge. If she had trusted Lucius in this matter she would have contacted him long before. Either she was afraid he would betray her to the police or she wanted to protect him.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Whitbread," he said firmly. "I have an urgent message from Mrs. Anderson-for Miriam. I need to see her immediately." Cleo Anderson was the one name both women might trust.

  She hesitated only a moment, then pulled the door wider.

  "You’d better come in," she said quickly. "You never know who’s watching. I had the rozzers ’round where I work just today."

  He stepped inside and she closed the door. "I know. It was I who sent them to you. You didn’t tell them anything?"