The Twisted Root wm-10 Page 19

  "I think first we had better see precisely what is provable, Mr. Thorpe," Callandra said coldly. "It does not do to cast accusations around freely before one is certain of the facts. It is too easy to ruin a reputation, and too difficult to mend it again when one discovers mistakes have been made." She stared at him defiantly, daring him to contradict her.

  Thorpe was very conscious of his position as a governor of the hospital and of his innate general superiority. However, he also had an acute social awareness, and Callandra had a title, albeit a courtesy one because of her late father’s position. He decided upon caution, at least for the meantime.

  "Of course, Lady Callandra. We do not yet know the entire situation." He looked sideways at Robb. "I assure you, Sergeant, I shall do all within my power to be of assistance. We must get the facts of the matter and put an end to all dishonesty. I shall assist you myself."

  It was what Hester had feared. It would be so much easier to make light of the losses, even to mislead Robb a little, if Thorpe were not there. She had no idea what the apothecary would do, where his loyalties lay, or how frightened he would be for his own position.

  Thorpe hesitated, and Hester realized with a lurch of hope that he did not know enough about the medicines to conduct the search and inventory without assistance.

  "Perhaps one of us might fetch Mr. Phillips?" she offered. "And perhaps come with you to make notes … for our own needs. After all, we shall have to attend to the matter and see that it does not happen again. We need to know the truth of it even more than Sergeant Robb does."

  Thorpe grasped the rescue. "Indeed, Mrs. Monk." Suddenly he found he could remember her name without the usual difficulty.

  She smiled at it, but did not remark. Before he could change his mind, she glanced at Callandra, then led the way out of the office and along the wide corridor towards the apothecary’s room. She knew Callandra would fetch Mr. Phillips, and possibly even have a discreet word with him as to the effects upon all of them of whatever he might say. Presumably, he would not yet know of the charge against Cleo Anderson, far less the motive attributed to her.

  She did not dare look at Sergeant Robb. He might too easily guess Callandra’s intention. It was not a great leap of foresight.

  They walked briskly, one behind the other, and she stopped at the apothecary’s door. Naturally, Thorpe had a key, as he had to all doors. He opened the door and stepped in, and they followed behind, crowding into the small space. It was lined with cupboards right up to the ceiling. Each had its brass-bound keyhole, even the drawers beneath the shelf.

  "I am afraid I do not have keys to these," Thorpe said reluctantly. "But as you may see, it is all kept with the utmost safety. I do not know what more we can do, except employ a second apothecary so that there is someone on duty at every moment. Obviously, we may require medicines at night as well as during the day, and no one man can be available around the clock, however diligent."

  "Who has keys at night now?" Robb asked.

  "When Mr. Phillips leaves he passes them to me," Thorpe replied with discomfort, "and I give them to the senior doctor who will remain here at night."

  "From your wording I assume that is not always the same person," Robb concluded.

  "No. We do not operate during the night. Seldom does one of the surgeons remain. Dr. Beck does, on occasion, if he has a particularly severe case. More often it will be a student doctor." He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. Perhaps he felt the whole hospital under accusation because one of its nurses had been given the opportunity to steal, which had resulted in murder. He would have liked to distance himself from it, and it was plain in his expression.

  "Who gives the medicine during the night?" Robb asked.

  Thorpe was further discomfited. "The doctor on duty."

  "Not a nurse?" Robb looked surprised.

  "Nurses are to keep patients clean and comfortable," Thorpe said a trifle sharply. "They do not have medical training or experience, and are not given responsibilities except to do exactly as they are told." He did not look at Hester.

  Robb digested that information thoughtfully and without comment. Before he could formulate any further questions the apothecary entered, closely followed by Callandra, who avoided Hester’s eye.

  "Ah!" Thorpe said with relief. "Phillips. Sergeant Robb here believes that a considerable amount of medicine has gone missing from our supplies, stolen by one of our nurses, and that this fact has provided the motive and means for her to be blackmailed." He cleared his throat. "We need to ascertain if this is true, and if it is, precisely what amounts are involved, how it was taken, and by whom." He had effectively laid the fault, if not the responsibility, at Phillips’s door.

  Phillips did not answer immediately. He was a large man, rather overweight, with wild dark hair and a beard severely in need of trimming. Hester had always found him to be most agreeable and to have a pleasing, if somewhat waspish, sense of humor. She hoped he was not going to get the blame for this, and she would be painfully disappointed in him if it were too easy to pass it onto Cleo.

  "Have you nothing to say, man?" Thorpe demanded impatiently.

  "Not without thinking about it carefully," Phillips replied. "Sir," he added, "if there’s medicine really missing, rather than just wastage or a miscount, or somebody’s error in writing what they took, then it’s a serious matter."

  "Of course, it’s a serious matter! "Thorpe snapped. "There’s blackmail and murder involved."

  "Murder?" Phillips said with a slight lift of surprise in his voice, but only slight. "Over our medicines? There’s been no theft that size. I know that for sure."

  "Over a period of time," Thorpe corrected him. "Or so the sergeant thinks."

  Phillips fished for his keys and brought out a large collection on a ring. First he opened one of the drawers and pulled out a ledger. "How far back, sir?" he asked Robb politely.

  "I don’t know," Robb replied. "Try a year or so. That should be sufficient: ’

  "Don’t rightly know how I can tell." Phillips obligingly opened the ledger to the same month the previous year. He scanned the page and the following one. "Everything tallies here, an’ there’s no way we can know if it was what we had then in the cupboards. Doesn’t look like anyone’s altered it. Anyway, I’d know if they had, and I’d have told Mr. Thorpe."

  Thorpe stepped closer and turned the pages of the ledger himself, examining from that date to the present. There were quite obviously no alterations made to the entries. It told them nothing. The checking in of medicines was all made in the one hand, the withdrawals in several different hands of varying degrees of elegance and literacy. There were a few misspellings.

  Robb looked at them. "Are these all doctors?" he asked.

  "Of course," Thorpe replied tartly. "You don’t imagine we give the keys to the nurses, do you? If the wretched woman has really stolen medicines from this hospital, then it will be sleight of hand while the doctor’s back was turned, perhaps attending to a patient taken suddenly ill, or while he was otherwise distracted. It is a perfectly dastardly thing to do. I trust she will be punished to the fullest extent of the law as a deterrent to any other person tempted to enrich herself at the expense of those in her care!"

  "Could just be wastage," Phillips observed, his eyes wide, looking from Thorpe to Robb. "Not easy to measure powders exact. Close enough, o’ course, but over a couple o’ dozen doses yer could be out a bit. Ever considered that, sir?"

  "You couldn’t blackmail anybody over that," Robb replied, but his expression indicated that he said it with reluctance. "There must be more. If there is nothing in the past that is provable now, would you check your present stocks exactly against what is in your books?"

  "Of course." Phillips had very little choice, nor for that matter, had Robb.

  They stood silently while Phillips went through his cupboards, weighing, measuring and counting, watched impatiently by Thorpe, anxiously by Callandra, and with unease by Robb.

/>   Hester wondered if Robb had even a suspicion that his grandfather’s suffering had been treated by this very means, with medicine stolen not for gain but out of compassion by Cleo Anderson, whom he now sought to prove guilty of murdering Treadwell. She looked at his earnest face and saw pity in it, but no doubt, no tearing of loyalties … not yet.

  Was Cleo guilty? If Treadwell was a blackmailer, was it possible she had believed him the lesser victim, rather than the patients she treated?

  It was hard to believe, but it was not impossible.

  "The quinine seems a bit short," Phillips remarked as if it were of no great moment. "Could be bad measuring, I suppose. Or someone took a few doses in a crisis an’ forgot to make a note of it."

  "How far short?" Thorpe demanded, his face dark. "Damn it, man, you can be more exact than that! What do you mean, ’a bit’? You’re an apothecary. You don’t dose a patient with ’a bit.’ "

  "About five hundred grains, sir," Phillips answered very quietly.

  Thorpe flushed deep pink. "Good God! That’s enough to dose a dozen men. This is very serious indeed. You’d better see what else is missing. Look at the morphine."

  Phillips obeyed. That measurement was even farther short. Hester was not surprised. It was the obvious treatment for pain, as quinine was for fever. Cleo must have administered it, under supervision, often enough over the years to have an excellent idea of how much to give and in what circumstances. Certainly, Hester herself did.

  Thorpe turned to Robb. "I regret, Sergeant, but it seems you are perfectly correct. We are missing a substantial amount of medicine, and it is impossible any random thief could have taken it. It has to be one of our nurses."

  Hester drew breath to point out that it had only to be someone within the hospital staff over the last few years, but she knew that would be pointless. Thorpe would not entertain the idea of any of the doctors doing such a thing, and she had no desire to try to shift the blame onto Phillips.

  Perhaps it had been Cleo Anderson … in fact, if Hester was honest, she had no doubt. It was the reason for it they had misunderstood, and she did not wish to draw their attention to that because it would make no difference whatever to the charge.

  With Cleo in prison, who would now care for the old and ill she had visited with medicines to give them respite from distress? Specifically, what of John Robb?

  Callandra handed Sergeant Robb the note she had made of the missing medicines and the amounts. He took it and put it in his pocket, thanking her. He looked at Phillips again.

  "Over what period has this been missed, Mr. Phillips?"

  "Can’t say, sir," Phillips replied instantly. "Haven’t had occasion to check in that detail for some time. Could have been careless measuring. Perhaps even someone spilled something." His black eyes were bland, his voice reasonable. "More likely careless noting down of what was given out proper, but in the heat of a bad night or something of a crisis. Got to make an allowance. Medicine is an art, Mr. Thorpe, not an exact science."

  "God damn it, man!" Thorpe exploded. "Don’t tell me how to conduct the practice of medicine in my own hospital."

  Phillips did not reply, nor did he seem particularly disturbed by Thorpe’s anger, which had the effect of both heightening it and confusing Thorpe into momentary silence. He had not expected an apothecary to be indifferent to him.

  Phillips turned to Robb. "If there is anything else I can do for you, Sergeant, I’m sure Mr. Thorpe would want me to. Just tell me. And before you ask, I’ve got no suspicions of any o’ the nurses … not in that way. Some o’ them drink a spot too much porter on an empty stomach. But then I daresay half o’ London does that from time to time. ’ Specially as porter is included in the wages, like. You’ll find me ’round an’ about most any day except Sunday." And without asking anything further he handed the keys to Thorpe and went out.

  "Impertinent oaf," Thorpe swore under his breath.

  "But honest?" Robb asked.

  Hester saw the abhorrence in Thorpe’s face. He would dearly like to have paid Phillips back for his arrogance, and here was an ideal opportunity given him. On the other hand, to admit he had employed an apothecary of whom he had doubts would be a confession of his own gross incompetence.

  But just in case temptation should prove too powerful, Hester answered for him.

  "Of course, Sergeant," she said with a smile. "Do you imagine Mr. Thorpe would have permitted him to remain in such a responsible position if he were not trustworthy in every way? If a nurse is a little tipsy it is one thing. She may spill a pail of water or leave a floor unswept. If an apothecary is not above reproach people may die."

  "Quite," Thorpe agreed hastily with a venomous look at Hester, then, with a considerable effort to alter his expression, he turned to Robb. "Please question anyone you wish to. I doubt you will find any proof that this wretched woman stole the quinine and morphine. If there were any, we should know of it ourselves. I presume you have her in custody?"

  "Yes sir, we have. Thank you, sir." Robb bade them good-day and left.

  Hester glanced at Callandra, then excused herself also. She had other matters to attend to, and urgently.

  Hester had no difficulty in obtaining permission to visit Cleo Anderson in her cell. She simply told the jailer that she was an official from the hospital where Cleo worked and it was necessary to learn certain medical information from her in order for treatments to continue in her absence.

  It transpired that the jailer knew Cleo-she had nursed his mother in her final illness-and he was only too pleased to repay the kindness in any way he could. Indeed, he seemed embarrassed by the situation, and Hester could not guess from his manner whether he thought Cleo could be guilty or not. However, word had spread that the charge was that she had killed a blackmailer, and he had a very low regard for such people, possibly sufficiently low that he was not overly concerned by the death of one of them.

  The cell door shut with the heavy, echoing sound of metal on metal, sending a shiver of memory through Hester, bringing back her own few hideous days in Edinburgh, when she was where Cleo sat now, alone and facing trial, and perhaps death.

  Cleo looked at her in surprise. Her face was pale, and she had the bruised, staring look of someone deeply shocked, but she seemed composed, even resigned. Hester could not recall if she had felt like that. She believed she had always wanted to fight, that inside herself she was screaming out against the injustice. There was too much to live for not to struggle, always far too much.

  But then she had not killed Mary Farraline.

  Even if Cleo had killed Treadwell because he had been blackmailing her over the medicines, it was a highly understandable action. Not excusable, perhaps, but surely any God worth worshiping would find more pity than blame for her?

  Maybe she did not believe that? At least not now … at this moment, facing human justice.

  "Can I help you?" Hester said aloud. "Is there anything I can bring for you? Clothes, soap, a clean towel, rather better food? What about your own spoon? Or cup?"

  Cleo smiled faintly. The very practicality of the suggestions contrasted with what she had expected. She had anticipated anger, blame, pity, curiosity. She looked puzzled.

  "I’ve been in prison," Hester explained. "I hated the soap and the scratchy towels. It’s a little thing. And I wanted my own spoon. I remember that."

  "But they let you go…." Cleo looked at her with anxiety so sharp it was close to breaking her composure. "And they let Miriam go? Is she all right?"

  Hester sat in the chair, leaning forward a little. She liked Cleo more with each encounter. She could not watch her distress with any impartiality at all, or think of her fate with acceptance. "Yes, they let her go."

  "Home?" She was watching Hester intently.

  "No … with Lucius and Major Stourbridge." She searched Cleo’s face for anything that would help her understand why Miriam had dreaded it. She saw nothing, no flicker of comprehension, however swiftly concealed.

  "
Was she all right?" Cleo said fearfully.

  It seemed cruel to tell her the truth, but Hester did not know enough to judge which lies would do least harm.

  "No," she answered. "I don’t think so. Not from what my husband said. She would far rather have gone anywhere else at all-even remained in prison-but she was not given the choice. The police could not hold her because there was no charge anymore, but it was obvious to everyone that she was deeply distressed, and since she is a witness to much of what happened, they have a certain authority over where she should go."

  Cleo said nothing. She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap.

  Hester watched her closely. "Do you know why she ran away from Cleveland Square and why she had to be all but dragged back there?"

  Cleo looked up quickly. "No-no, I don’t. She wouldn’t tell me."

  Hester believed her. The confusion and distress in her eyes were too real. "Don’t answer me whether you took the medicines or not," she said quietly. "I know you did, and I know what for."

  Cleo regarded her thoughtfully for several moments before she spoke. "What’s going to happen to them, miss? There’s nobody to look after them. The ones with family are better off than those who haven’t, but even they can’t afford what they need, or they don’t know what it is. They get old, and their children move on, leaving them behind. The young don’t care about Trafalgar an’ Waterloo now. A few years an’ they’ll forget the Crimea, too. Those soldiers are all the thing now, because they’re young and handsome still. We get upset about a young man with no arms or no legs, or insides all to pieces. But when they get old we can’t be bothered. We say they’re going to die soon anyway. Wot’s the point in spending time and money on them?"

  There was no argument to make. Of course, it was not true everywhere, but in too many instances it was.

  "What about John Robb, sailor from the victory at Trafalgar?" Hester asked. "Consumption, by the sound of him."

  Cleo’s face tightened, and she nodded. "I don’t think he has long. His grandson does everything he can for him, but that isn’t much. He can’t give him any ease without the morphine." She did not ask, but it was in her eyes, willing Hester to agree.