The Twisted Root wm-10 Page 14

  He looked at her sideways. "An’ what would a young lady like you want with stories of old battles what was over and won before you were even born?"

  "If they were over and lost, I’d be speaking French," she replied, meeting his eyes with a laugh.

  "Well … I s’pose that’s true. Still, you know that without coming all the way here to see me." He was faintly suspicious of her. Young women of educated speech and good manners did not casually call on an old and ill sailor who, from the contents of the room, was having desperate trouble finding sufficient money merely to eat, let alone buy fuel for the winter.

  A portion of the truth was the best answer, perhaps not as irrelevant as it first seemed.

  "I was an army nurse in the Crimea," she told him. "I know more about war than you may think. I don’t imagine I’ve seen as many battles as you have, but I’ve seen my share, and closer than I’d wish. I’ve certainly been part of what happens afterwards." Suddenly she was speaking with urgency, and the absolute and fiercely relevant truth. "And there is no one I know with whom I can discuss it or bring back the miseries that still come into my dreams. No one expects it in a woman. They think it all better forgotten … easier. But it isn’t always…."

  He stared at her, his eyes wide. They were clear, pale blue. They had probably been darker when he was young.

  "Well, now … did you really? And you such a slip of a thing!" He regarded her rather too slender body and square, thin shoulders, but with admiration, not disapproval. "We found, at sea, sometimes the wiry ones outlasted the great big ones like a side o’ beef. I reckon strength, when it comes to it, is all a matter o’ spirit."

  "You’re quite right," she agreed. "Would you like a hot drink now? I can easily make one if you would. It might ease your chest a little." Then, in case he thought she was patronizing him, she added, "I should like very much to talk with you, and I can’t if you are taken with coughing again."

  He understood very well what she was doing, but she had softened the request sufficiently. "You’re a canny one." He smiled at her, pointing to the stove. "Kettle’s over there, and tea in the tin. Little milk in the larder, maybe. Could be we’re out till Michael comes home again."

  "Doesn’t matter," she replied, standing up. "It’s all right without milk, if it isn’t too strong."

  She was scalding the pot, ready to make the tea, when the door opened, and she turned to see a young man standing just inside the room. He was of average height, slender, with very handsome dark eyes. At this moment he was obviously angry.

  "Who are you?" he demanded, coming farther in. "And what are you doing?" He left the door open behind him, as if for her to leave the more easily.

  "Hester Monk," she replied, looking at him squarely. "I called upon Mr. Robb to visit with him. We have much in common, and he was kind enough to listen to me. In order that he might speak with more comfort, he permitted me to make a cup of tea."

  The young man looked at her with total disbelief. From the expression in his eyes one might have presumed he thought she was there to steal the meager rations on the shelf behind her.

  "What on earth could you have in common with my grandfather?" he said grimly.

  "It’s all right, Michael," the old man intervened. "I’d fairly like to watch her take you on. Reckon as she might have the best of you-with her tongue, any road. Crimean nurse, she is! Seen more battles than you have-like me. She don’t mean no harm."

  Michael looked uncertainly at the old man, then back at Hester. She respected his protectiveness of his grandfather and hoped she would have done the same had she been in his place. And she was unquestionably an intruder. But the elder Robb should not be treated like a child, even if he was physically all but helpless. She must refrain from defending his judgment now, though the words were on the end of her tongue.

  The old man looked at Hester, a glint in his eye. "Wouldn’t mind getting another cup, would you, miss?"

  "Of course not," Hester said demurely, lifting the last cup from its hook on the shelf that served as a dresser. She finished scalding the pot, put in a meager portion of leaves, then poured on the boiling water, keeping her back to Michael. She heard the door close and his footsteps across the floor.

  He came up behind her, his voice very low. "Did Monk send you here?"

  "No." She was about to add that Monk did not "send" her anywhere, but on reflection, that was not true. He had frequently sent her to various places to enquire into one thing or another. "So far as I know, he has no idea I am here. I remembered what he said to me of Mr. Robb, and I felt that I wished to visit him. I have no intention of taking anything that belongs to you, Sergeant Robb, or of doing your grandfather any harm, either by meddling or by patronizing him. Nor am I interested in your police concerns with Mrs. Gardiner."

  He blushed painfully, but his eyes remained sharp and steady, and considerable animosity showed in them.

  "You are direct to a fault, ma’am."

  She smiled suddenly. "Yes-I know. Would you rather I beat around the bush a little more? I can go back and make ten minutes of obscure conversation if you wish. Well- perhaps five …"

  "No, I would not!" In spite of himself his voice rose. "I-"

  Whatever else he had been about to say was cut short by the old man’s beginning to cough again. He had struggled forward, half out of his chair, and he was in considerable distress, his face flushed and already beads of sweat on his lip and brow.

  Michael swung around and rushed towards him, catching him in his arms and easing him back into the chair. For the moment Hester was completely forgotten.

  The old man was fighting for breath, trying desperately to drag the air into his damaged lungs, his whole body racked with violent spasms. He brought up great gobbets of phlegm, dark yellow and spotted with blood.

  Hester had already guessed how seriously ill he was, but this was agonizing confirmation. She wished that there was something she could do, but at least until the coughing subsided he was beyond all assistance except the physical support Michael was giving him.

  If they had been at the hospital she could have got him a tiny dose of morphine, which would have calmed the wrenching lungs and given him the opportunity to rest. Sherry and water would have been good as a restorative. She looked around the shelves to see what there was, her mind racing to think of a way of giving him what he lacked without hurting his pride. She knew perfectly well that anxiety could make people ill, that fear could destroy the passion to survive. Humiliation and the conviction that one was useless, a burden to those one loved, had precipitated the death of many a person who might well have recovered had he perceived himself as valuable.

  She saw bread and cheese, three eggs, a carefully covered piece of cold beef, some raw vegetables and a slice of pie. It was not much to feed two men. Perhaps Michael Robb bought his lunch while on duty. On the other hand, he very possibly sacrificed much of his own welfare to care for his grandfather, but in such a way that the old man was unaware of it.

  There was a closed cupboard, and she hesitated, reluctant to intrude any further. Was there some way that she could get Kristian Beck to come and visit Mr. Robb and then prescribe morphine for him? He was too old and his illness too far progressed for treatment to accomplish anything beyond alleviating his distress, but surely that was a side of medicine which was just as important. Many things could not be cured. No nurse worth her calling abandoned such cases.

  What was there she could find in the meantime? Even hot tea alone might soothe, as soon as he could master himself enough to drink it. Then she saw a small jar of clear honey.

  She poured a cup of tea for him, added the honey and sufficent cold water to make it drinkable, and carried it over, waiting for a moment’s ease in his coughing. Then she stepped in front of Michael and held the cup to the old man’s lips.

  "Take a sip," she told him. "It will help."

  Fumblingly he obeyed, and perhaps the honey soothed the spasms of his throat, because his body e
ased and he began to relax, sipping again, and then again. It seemed as if, for the moment at least, the attack was over.

  She took the cup away and set it down, then went back to the sink and found a bowl that would serve for washing, poured the rest of the water from the kettle into it and automatically put more on to heat. She added a little cold, tested it with her hand, and with a cloth and a towel returned to the old man’s chair.

  He was exhausted and very pale, but far calmer. The fact that he had been, for a while, unable to control himself was obviously an embarrassment to him.

  Michael stood anxiously, aware of the older man’s emotions, angry and protective. This should have been private, and Hester was an intruder.

  Hester wrung out the cloth in the hot water and gently bathed the old man’s face, then his neck, then, as he did not protest, unfastened his shirt and took it off, very aware of Michael’s eyes on her. Wringing out the cloth every few moments, she bathed the old man’s arms and body. All the time she did not speak, and neither did they.

  Once Michael had ascertained what she was doing, and that his grandfather was eased by it rather than further discomforted, he went to find a clean shirt and returned carrying it. It was rough-dried, but it smelled fresh and was quite soft to the touch. Hester helped the old man into it, then took away the bowl of water and emptied it outside down the drain.

  She came back into the room to find John Robb smiling at her, the hectic color fading from his cheeks, and Michael still guarded but less aggressive.

  "Thank you, miss," Robb said a little anxiously. "I’m real sorry to have put you out."

  "You didn’t." She smiled. "I still hope in time we may talk, and you will tell me tales of things I’ve only imagined."

  "I can that," he agreed with a return of enthusiasm.

  "Another day," Michael said sharply. "You’re tired-"

  "I’m all right," Robb insisted. "Don’t you worry yourself, Michael. I told you, this lady here’s one o’ them Crimean nurses, so I reckon she knows all she needs to about the sick. You go back to your watch, lad. I know there’s important things only you can do." He looked at him steadily, his voice getting stronger, a touch of old authority back again. "Don’t you be worrying."

  Michael looked at Hester, frowning a little, his lips drawn tight.

  "I appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Monk." He hesitated, the battle within him clear in his face. "And I’m sure my grandfather will enjoy your company."

  "And I his," Hester replied. "I shall look forward to coming by whenever I am able to. I am frequently at the hospital, not far away. It is no journey at all."

  "Thank you." He must be sensitive to what a relief it would be to the old man to have company and assistance he could look forward to without the anxiety of knowing that he was keeping Michael from his job, and that every minute spent there was in some essence a risk for Michael. But the young policeman was still angry beneath the gratitude, for all its sincerity.

  "It is not a trouble," Hester repeated.

  Michael moved towards the door, indicating that she should go with him.

  "Good-bye, Grandpa," he said gently. "I’ll try not to be late."

  "Don’t worry," Robb assured him. "I’ll be all right." They were brave words, and he said them as if they could be true, although they all knew they might not be.

  Just outside on the step Michael lowered his voice and fixed Hester with an intense stare.

  "You’re a good nurse, Mrs. Monk, and I surely appreciate the way you look after him, better than I can. And you didn’t make him feel like it’s charity. You’ve got a way with you. I suppose that comes from being out at the war, and all that."

  "It also comes from liking him," she replied honestly.

  There was no indication in his eyes as to whether he believed her.

  "But don’t be thinking anything you do here will make a difference, because it won’t," he went on levelly. "I won’t stop looking for Miriam Gardiner. And when I find her, which I will, if she’s guilty of killing James Treadwell, I’ll arrest her and charge her, whatever you do for my grandfather." His face tightened even more, his voice a little hoarse. "And whether you tell the police station or not." He colored slightly. "And if that insults you, I’m sorry."

  "I’m used to being insulted, Sergeant Robb," she replied, surprised at how much the suggestion hurt. "But I admit, this is a totally new manner of saying my work is worthless, incompetent or generally of morally questionable nature."

  "I didn’t mean …" he began, then bit the words back, the pink deepening in his cheeks.

  "Yes, you did," she contradicted him, making the most of his embarrassment. "But I suppose I can understand it. You must feel very vulnerable, coming away from your post to care for your grandfather. I swear to you that I have no motive for being here except to offer him some care, according to my profession, and to talk with him over old memories I can share with no one who has not had the experiences from which they spring. You must believe me, or not, as circumstances prove me." And without waiting to see his response, she turned and went back in through the door, leaving it ajar behind her for the warm air to come in. She was only half aware of Michael’s footsteps as he walked away.

  She remained far longer than she had originally intended. To begin with she had talked comparatively little, answering a few questions about what life had been like for her in the hospital at Scutari, and even describing Florence Nightingale. Robb was interested to hear about her, what she looked like, her demeanor, her voice, even her manner of dress. Such was her reputation that the smallest details held his attention. Hester was happy to answer, feeling memory so sharp she could almost smell the blood and vinegar again, and the sickening odor of gangrene and the other acrid stenches of disease. She could feel the summer heat and hear the buzzing of flies, as if the mild English sun coming in through the windows were the same, and it would be a Turkish street outside.

  Halfway through the afternoon he fell asleep, and she was able to stand up and tidy the kitchen space a little, ready to prepare him another cup of tea, should he want it. She would certainly welcome one herself, milk or no milk to go with it. She considered going out to purchase some but decided not to. It would be a slight to his hospitality, a small and needless hurt. Tea was perfectly adequate without.

  She tried the closed cupboard, to see if there was anything in it which might help him should he have another attack, any herbal leaves such as camomile to settle the stomach, or feverfew to help headache or even a little quinine to reduce temperatures. She was pleased to find all those things, and also a small packet that suggested morphine to her. A taste on a moistened finger confirmed it. This was quite a respectable medicine cabinet, too accurate to his needs to have been collected by an amateur or by chance, and too expensive to have been purchased out of a police sergeant’s pay, except by the most desperate economies elsewhere.

  She closed the cupboard silently and stood facing the room, her mind whirling. Morphine was one of the principal medicines missing from the hospital. She had assumed, as everyone else had, that it was being taken for addicts who had been given it for pain and now could not survive without it. But perhaps it was being taken to heal the sick who could not come to the hospital, people like John Robb. Certainly, that was still theft, but she could not find it in herself to disapprove of it.

  The questions that burned in her mind were who had brought them and did Michael Robb know. Was that, even in part, the cause of his concern at her being here?

  She did not believe it. Intelligence told her it was possible, instinct denied it without consideration.

  The old man himself, so peacefully asleep in the afternoon sun, undoubtedly must know who had brought them, but would he know they might be stolen? He might guess, but she thought it unlikely. She would not ask him. There was no decision to make. The question did not arise that she should pursue it. She sat down and waited patiently until he should awaken, then she would make him tea again, with a litt
le more honey. It would be a good idea to bring him a further supply, to make up for what she had drunk herself.

  He awoke greatly refreshed and delighted to find her still there. He started to talk straightaway, not even waiting while she served tea and brought it for them both.

  "You asked about my sailing days," he said cheerfully. "Well, o’ course the greatest o’ them was the battle, weren’t it!" He looked at her expectantly, his eyes bright.

  "The battle?" she asked, turning around to face him.

  "C’mon, girl! There’s only one battle for a sailor-only one battle for England-really for England, like!"

  She smiled at him. "Oh … you mean Trafalgar?"

  " ’Course, I mean Trafalgar! You’re teasin’ me, aren’t you? You’ve gotta be."

  "You were at Trafalgar! Really?" She was impressed, and she allowed it to show in her voice and her eyes.

  "Surely I was. Never forget that if I live to be a hundred- which I won’t. Great day that was … an’ terrible, too. I reckon there’s bin none other like it, nor won’t be again."

  She poured the water onto the tea. "What ship were you on?"

  "Why, the Victory, o’ course." He said it with pride in his voice so sharp and clear that for a moment she could hear in it the young man he had been over half a century before, when England had been on the brink of invasion by Napoleon’s armies and nothing stood between them and conquest except the wooden walls of the British fleet-and the skill and bravado of Horatio Nelson and the men who sailed with him. She felt a stirring of the same pride in herself, a shiver of excitement and knowledge of the cost, because she, too, had seen battle and knew its reality as well as its dream.

  She brought the tea over to him and offered him a cup. He took it, and his eyes met hers over the rim.

  "I was there," he said softly. "I remember that morning like it were yesterday. First signal come in about six. That was on the nineteenth of October. Enemy had their tops’1 yards hoisted. Least that’s what we heard later. Then they were coming out o’ port under sail. Half past nine and bright light over the sea when we heard it on the Victory." He shook his head. "All day we tacked and veered around toward Gibraltar, but we never saw ’em. Visibility was poor-you got to understand that. Weather gettin’ worse all the time. Under closereefed topsails, we were, an’ too close to Cadiz."