The Twisted Root Read online

  "Yes," she capitulated. "Come with me and I will give you a list. It is only a guess, of course."

  "Of course," he agreed.

  Monk worked the rest of that day, and most of the following one, first with Callandra’s list of medicines, then seeing whom Cleo Anderson had visited and what illnesses afflicted them. He did not have to ask many questions among the sick and the poor. They were only too happy to speak well of a woman who seemed to have endless time and patience to care for their needs, and who so often brought them medicines the doctor had sent. No one questioned it or doubted where she had obtained the quinine, the morphine, or the other powders and infusions she brought. They were simply grateful.

  The more he learned, the more Monk hated what he was doing. Time and again he stopped short of asking the final question which could have produced proof. He wrote nothing down. He had nothing witnessed and took no evidence of anything with him.

  On the afternoon of the second day he turned his attention to Cleo Anderson herself, her home, her expenses, what she purchased and where. It had never occurred to him that she might ask any return for either the care she gave or the medicines she provided. Even so, he was startled to find how very frugal her life was, even more so than he would have expected from her nurse’s wages. Her clothes were worn thin and washed of almost all color. They fitted poorly and presumably had been given to her by grateful relatives of a patient who had died. Her food was of the simplest—again, often provided in the homes of those she visited: bread, oatmeal porridge, a little cheese and pickle. It seemed she frequently ate at the hospital and appeared glad of it.

  The house was her own, a legacy from better times, but falling into disrepair and badly in need of reroofing.

  No one knew her to drink or to gamble.

  So where did her money go?

  Monk had no doubt it went into the pocket of James Treadwell, at least so long as he had been alive. Since his death just two weeks before, Cleo Anderson had purchased a secondhand kitchen table and a new jug and bowl and two more towels, something she had not been known to do in several years.

  Monk was in the street outside her house a little before half past four when he saw Michael Robb coming towards him, walking slowly as if he was tired and his feet were sore. He was obviously hot, and he looked deeply depressed. He stopped in front of Monk. "Were you going to tell me?" he asked.

  There was no need for explanation. Monk did not know whether he would have told him or not, but he was quite certain he hated the fact that Robb knew. Perhaps it was inevitable, and when he had wrestled with it and grieved over it he would have told him, but he was not ready to do that yet.

  "I have no proof of anything," he answered. That was uncharacteristically vague for him. Usually he faced a truth honestly, however bitter. This hurt more than he had foreseen.

  "I have," Robb said wearily. "Enough to arrest her. Please don’t stand in my way. At least we will release Miriam Gardiner. You can tell Mr. Stourbridge. He’ll be relieved ... not that he ever thought her guilty."

  "Yes ..." Monk knew Lucius would be happy, but it would be short-lived, because Miriam had chosen to face trial herself rather than implicate Cleo Anderson. Her grief would be deep, and probably abiding.

  The police believed Miriam was a material witness to the crime who had not offered them the truth, even when pressed. She was a woman apparently not guilty of murder but quite plainly in a state close to hysteria, and not fit to be released except into the care of some responsible person who would look after her and also be certain that she was present to appear in court on the witness stand as the law demanded. Lucius and his father were the obvious and willing candidates.

  It was passionately against her will. She stood white-faced in the police station, turning from Robb to Monk.

  "Please, Mr. Monk, I will give any undertaking you like, pledge anything at all, but do not oblige me to go back to Cleveland Square! I will gladly work in the hospital day and night, if you will allow me to live there."

  The police station superintendent looked at her gravely, then at Robb.

  "I think..." Robb began.

  But the superintendent did not wish to hear his opinion. "You are obviously distressed," he said to Miriam, speaking slowly and very clearly. "Mr. Stourbridge is to be your husband. He is the best one to see that you are given the appropriate care and to offer you comfort for the grief you naturally feel upon the arrest of a woman who showed you kindness in the past. You have suffered a great shock. You must rest quietly and restore your strength."

  Miriam swung around to gaze at Monk. Her eyes were wild, as if she longed to say something to him but the presence of others prevented her.

  He could think of no excuse to speak to her alone. Major Stourbridge and Lucius were just beyond the door waiting to take her back to Cleveland Square. There was a constable on one side of her and the desk sergeant on the other. Their intention was to support her in case she felt faint, but in effect they closed her in as if she were under restraint.

  There was nothing he could do. Helplessly, he watched her escorted from the room. The door opened and Lucius Stourbridge stepped forward, his face filled with tenderness and joy. Behind him Harry Stourbridge smiled as if the end of a long nightmare was in sight.

  Miriam tripped, staggered forward and had to be all but carried by the constable and the sergeant. She flinched as Lucius touched her.

  7

  HESTER WAS HOME before Monk, and was looking forward to his coming, but when he came in through the door and she saw his face, she knew instantly that something was very seriously wrong. He looked exhausted. His skin was pale and his dark hair limp and stuck to his brow in the heat.

  Alarm welled up inside her. "What is it?" she demanded urgently.

  He stood in the middle of the floor. He lifted his hand and touched her cheek very lightly. "I know what it is you couldn’t tell me ... and why. I’m sorry I had to pursue it."

  She swallowed. "It?"

  "The stolen medicines," he answered. "Who took them and why, and where did they go? It’s a far more obvious cause for blackmail."

  She tried not to understand, pushing the realization away from her. "The medicines couldn’t have anything to do with Miriam Gardiner."

  "Not directly, but one leads to the other." His eyes did not waver, and she knew that he was quite certain of what he said.

  "What? What connection?" she asked. "What’s happened?" There was no purpose in suggesting he sit down or rest in any fashion until he had told her, and neither of them pretended.

  "Cleo Anderson stole the medicines to treat the old and the sick," he answered her softly. "Somehow Treadwell knew of it, and he was blackmailing her. Perhaps he followed Miriam. Maybe she unintentionally let something slip, and he pieced together the rest."

  "Cleo’s involved? Do you know that?" She was confused, her mind whirling. "If Treadwell was blackmailing Cleo Anderson, then why would Miriam kill him? To protect her? It doesn’t explain why she left Cleveland Square. What about Lucius Stourbridge? Why didn’t she go back to him and explain? Something ..." She trailed off. None of it really made sense.

  "Miriam didn’t kill Treadwell," he told her. "The police let her go. She was defending Cleo because of old loyalties, and probably because she believed in her cause as well."

  "That isn’t enough," she protested. "Why did she leave Cleveland Square in the middle of the party? Why wouldn’t she allow Lucius to know where she was?"

  "I don’t know," he admitted. "She was released into his care, and she looked as if she were going to an execution. She begged not to be, but they wouldn’t listen to her." A frown creased his face and there was pain etched more deeply than the weariness. "For a moment I thought she was going to ask me to help her, but then she changed her mind. They all but carried her out."

  She heard the edge of pity in his voice. She felt it herself, and she was angered that the police authorities should consider that Miriam needed to be released into
anybody’s care. She should have been permitted the dignity of going wherever she wished, and with whomever. She was no longer charged with anything.

  But far more immediate, and closer to her own emotions, was her concern for Cleo Anderson.

  "What are we to do to help her?" She took for granted that he would.

  Monk was still standing in the middle of the room, hot, tired, dusty and with aching feet. Remarkably, he kept his temper.

  "Nothing. It is a private matter between them now."

  "I mean Cleo!" she said. "Miriam has other people to care for her. Anyway, she is not accused of a crime."

  "Yes, she is: complicity in concealing Treadwell’s murder. Even though she says she did not know he was dead. She is almost certainly a witness to the attack. The police want her to testify."

  She waved her hand impatiently. She did not know Miriam Gardiner, but she did know Cleo and what she had done for old John Robb and others like him.

  "So she’ll have to testify. It won’t be pleasant, but she’ll survive it. If she’s worth anything at all, her first concern will be for Cleo, and ours must be, too. What can we do? Where should we begin?"

  His face tightened. "There’s nothing we can do," he replied briefly, moving away from her and sitting down in one of the chairs. The way his body sank, the sudden release at the last moment, betrayed his utter weariness. "I found Miriam Gardiner, and she is returned to her fiancé. I wish it were not Cleo Anderson who is guilty, but it is. The best I could do was stop short of finding any proof of it, but Robb will. He’s a good policeman. And his father’s involved." He was angry with himself for his emotions, and it showed in his face and the sharp edge to his voice.

  She stood in the center of the floor, cool and fresh in a printed cotton dress with wide skirts and a small, white collar. It was pretty, and it all seemed terribly irrelevant. It was almost a sin to be comfortable and so happy when Cleo Anderson was in prison and facing ... the long drop into darkness at the end of a rope.

  "There must be something...." She knew she should not argue with him, especially now, when he was exhausted and probably very nearly as distressed about this as she was. But her self-control did not extend to sitting patiently and waiting until a better time. "I don’t know what... but if we look ... Maybe he threatened her. Perhaps there was some degree of self-defense." She cast about wildly for a better thought. "Maybe he tried to coerce her into committing some sort of crime. That could be justified...."

  "So she committed murder instead?" he said sarcastically.

  She blushed hotly. She wanted to swear at him, use some of the language she had heard in the barracks in Sebastopol, but it would be profoundly unladylike. She would despise herself afterwards, and more important, he would never look at her in the same way again. He would hear her words in his ears every time he looked at her face. Even in moments of tenderness, when she most fiercely desired his respect, the ugliness would intrude.

  "All right, it wasn’t a very good idea," she conceded. "But it isn’t the only one ! "

  He looked up at her in some surprise, not for her words in themselves but for the meekness of them.

  She knew what was in his mind, and blushed the more hotly. This was ridiculous and most irritating.

  "I wish I could help her," he said gently. "But I know of no way, and neither do you. Leave it alone, Hester. Don’t meddle."

  She regarded him steadily, trying to judge how surely he meant what he said. Was it advice or a command?

  There was no anger in his face, but neither was there any hint that he would change his mind. It was the first time he had forbidden her anything that mattered to her. She had never before found it other than slightly amusing that he should exercise a certain amount of authority, and she had been quite willing to indulge him. This was different. She could not abandon Cleo, even to please Monk. Or if it came to the worst, and it might, even to avoid a serious quarrel with him. To do so would make it impossible to live with herself. All happiness would be contaminated, and if for her, then for him also. How would she explain that to him? It was the first real difficulty between them, the first gulf which could not be bridged by laughter or a physical closeness.

  She saw the shadow in his face. He understood, if not in detail, then at least in essence.

  "Perhaps you could enquire," he suggested cautiously. "But you will have to be extremely careful or you will make things worse. I don’t imagine the hospital authorities will look on her kindly."

  It was retreat, made gracefully and so discreetly it was barely perceptible, but very definitely a retreat all the same. The rush of gratitude inside her was so fierce she felt dizzy. A darkness had been avoided. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, feel the warmth and the strength of his body next to hers, the touch of his skin. She almost did, until intelligence warned her that it would be clumsy. It would draw attention to his retreat and that would be small gratitude for it. Instead she lowered her eyes.

  "Oh, yes," she said gravely. "I shall have to be very careful indeed-should I make any enquiry. Actually, at the moment I can’t think of anything to ask. I shall merely listen and observe... for the time being."

  He smiled with the beginning of satisfaction. He was aware of her gratitude to him, and she knew he was. It was even a sense of obligation for the immense weight lifted, and he knew that also. She could either be annoyed or see the funny aspect of it. She chose the latter, and looked at him, smiling.

  He smiled back, but only for a moment. It was still delicate ground.

  She prepared dinner: cold ham and vegetables, and hot apple pie with cream. Sitting at the table and sharing it with considerable pleasure, she asked him a little more about Miriam and the Stourbridge family.

  He obviously considered hard before answering, and waited several minutes, eating the last of his pie and accepting a second serving.

  "All the facts I know seem to mean nothing," he said at last. "They have made Miriam more welcome than one might have foreseen, considering that she has no money or family connections and she is to marry their only son. Everything I can observe supports their assertion that they are fond of her and accept that she is the one woman who can make him happy. Whether she will give him an heir or not. But she is young enough."

  "But she did not have any children in her marriage to Mr. Gardiner," Hester pointed out. "That would make the possibility less likely."

  "I am sure they have considered that." He took more cream, pouring it liberally over the pie and eating with unconcealed pleasure.

  She watched with relief. She was still an unconfident pastry cook, and she had had no time even to look for a woman to come in during the days. It was something she really must attend to, and soon. A well-ordered domestic life was halfway not only to Monk’s happiness but to her own. She did not wish to have to spend either time or emotional energy upon the details of living. She would make enquiries tomorrow— unless, of course, she was too busy with matters at the hospital and with whatever might be done for Cleo Anderson. That was immeasurably more important, even if they ate sandwiches from a peddler!

  "Cleo Anderson!" Callandra said. "Are you sure?" It was a protest against the truth rather than a real question. Hester was alone with Dr. Beck and Callandra for a few moments in the surgeons’ waiting room.

  Kristian stood a yard away from Callandra, but any careful observer would have seen the silent communication between them. There was never a meeting of eyes—almost the opposite, an awareness on a deeper level.

  "I had no idea," he said softly. "What risks she was taking ... all the time. How long have you known?" He was looking at Hester.

  "I don’t really know." She was still being overcareful, as if Sergeant Robb were just beyond the door. "At least ... not with evidence."

  "Of course not," Kristian said, twisting his lips a little. "No one wishes to find evidence. You were quite right not to tell anyone of it. Poor woman." His hands clenched more tightly by his sides. "It is profoundly
wrong that any person should have to take such risks to assist the poor and the sick."

  "It’s monstrous!" Callandra agreed without looking at him. "But we must help. There has to be a way. What does William say?"

  Hester had no intention of repeating the conversation, merely the conclusion, and that slightly altered. "That we should be extremely careful in making any enquiries," she replied.

  "More than careful," Kristian agreed. "Thorpe would be delighted to brand all nurses as thieves—"

  "He will do!" Callandra cut across him, her face pinched with unhappiness. "He’ll know soon enough. No doubt the police will be here to ask questions."

  "Is there anything we can conceal?" Hester looked from one to the other of them. She had no idea what good it would do, it was instinctive rather than rational. If they convicted Cleo Anderson of murdering Treadwell, a bottle or two of morphine one way or another was hardly going to make a difference. She knew the moment the words were out that it was foolish.

  "What proof do they have that it was she?" Kristian asked more levelly. The first shock was wearing off. "Possibly he was blackmailing her, but then he may have blackmailed others as well. She was hardly on an income to provide him with much."

  "Unless she gave him morphine," Callandra said with quiet sadness. "And he sold it. That would be worth a great deal more:’

  Hester had not even thought of that. She did not believe Cleo would sell morphine herself, but she could understand the necessity if Treadwell had been pressing her for money. But what had made the difference that suddenly, on that particular night, that she had resorted to murder? Desperation ... or simply opportunity?

  Why was she accepting Cleo’s guilt, even in her own mind?

  "But what evidence?" Kristian repeated. "Did anyone see her? Did she leave anything behind at the scene? Is there anything which excludes another person?"

  "No ... simply that his body was found on the path near her house, and he had crawled there from wherever he was attacked." Hester could see the reasoning all too clearly. "It was assumed at first that he had been trying to get help. Now they will be thinking it was no coincidence, but he was deliberately pointing towards her."