The Twisted Root wm-10 Read online

  "She sounds a paragon of virtues, Mrs. Stourbridge," Monk remarked a little dryly. "I do not yet see a woman of flesh and blood- indeed, a real woman at all-merely a recital of admirable qualities."

  Her eyebrows rose sharply. She stared at him with chill, then as he stared back, gradually she relaxed.

  "I see," she conceded. "Of course. You asked me what she looked like. She was most pleasing. Her character was also agreeable, but she was not incapable of independent thought. You are asking me if she had faults? Of course. She was stubborn at times. She had some strange and unsuitable views on certain social issues. She was overfamiliar with the servants, which caused difficulties now and then. I think she had much to learn in the running of a house of the size and standard my son would have required." She kept her eyes steadily on Monk’s. "Very possibly, she would not have been our first choice of wife for him. There are many more suitable young women of our acquaintance, but we were not unhappy with her, Mr. Monk, nor could she have imagined that we were."

  "Not even if she failed to give him an heir?" It was an intrusive and intimate question, and a subject upon which emotions were often deep. Women had been abandoned because of it throughout history.

  She looked a little pale, but her hands did not tighten in her lap.

  "Of course, anyone would wish an heir, but if you accept a person, then you must do so wholeheartedly. It is not something she could help. If I thought she would have deliberately denied him, then I would blame her for it, but one thing I am perfectly sure of, and that is that she loved him. I do not know where she has gone, or why, Mr. Monk. I would give a great deal for you to be able to find her and bring her back to us, unharmed and as gentle and loving as she was before."

  Monk could not doubt her. The emotion in her voice betrayed a depth of distress he could feel, in spite of the fact they had met only moments before and he knew nothing of her beyond the little that was obvious.

  "I will do all I can, Mrs. Stourbridge," he promised. "I believe you did not see her leave the croquet party?"

  "No. I was speaking to Mrs. Washburne and my attention was engaged. She is not an easy woman."

  "Was Mrs. Gardiner apprehensive before the party?"

  "Not at all. She was extremely happy." There was no shadow in her face.

  "Did she know all the guests?"

  "Yes. She and I made up the list together."

  "Did anyone come who was uninvited? Perhaps a companion to one of the invited guests?"

  "No."

  "Was there any disagreement or unpleasantness, unwishedfor attention?"

  "No." She shook her head slightly, but her eyes did not leave his. "It was a most enjoyable day. The weather was perfect. No one spoiled it by inappropriate behavior. I have questioned all the servants, and no one saw or heard anything except the usual trivial talk. The worst that anyone knew of was a disagreement between Mr. Wall and the Reverend Dabney over a croquet shot’s being rather poor sportsman-ship. It did not concern Miriam."

  "She didn’t play?"

  She smiled very slightly, but there was no criticism in it.

  "No. She said she preferred to watch. I think actually she never learned and did not like to admit it."

  He changed the subject. "The coachman, Treadwell. He has not reappeared, and I am told no one knows what happened to him either."

  Her face darkened. "That is true. Not entirely a satisfactory young man. We employed him because he is the nephew of the cook, who is a most loyal and excellent woman. We cannot choose our relatives."

  "And, of course, your coach is still missing, too?"

  "Indeed."

  "I shall ask your groom for a description of it, and of Treadwell." That was a more hopeful line to pursue. "Was there a maid who particularly looked after Mrs. Gardiner while she stayed here?"

  "Yes, Amelia. If you wish to speak with her I shall send for her."

  "Thank you. And your cook as well. She may know something of Treadwell."

  There was a knock on the door, and it opened before she had time to answer. The man who came in was tall and broad-shouldered, a trifle thick about the waist. His features were strong, and the family resemblance was marked.

  "This is my brother, Mr. Monk," Mrs. Stourbridge said.

  "You must be the agent of enquiry Lucius fetched in," the man said. He looked at Monk with gravity, and there was a note of sadness in his voice that could almost have been despair. "Aiden Campbell," he introduced himself, offering his hand. "I am afraid you are unlikely to have any success," Campbell continued, glancing at his sister in half apology, then back to Monk. "Mrs. Gardiner left of her own free will. In the little we know of the circumstances, that seems unarguable. Possibly she was experiencing severe doubts which up to that moment she had managed to conceal. We may never know what suddenly caused her to realize her feelings." He frowned at Monk. "I am not convinced that seeking her will not lead to further unhappiness." He took a deep breath. "We, none of us, desire that. Please be very careful what you do, Mr. Monk. You may be led, in sincerity, to make discoveries we might be better not knowing. I hope you understand me?"

  Monk understood very well. He shared the view. He wished now he had been wise enough to follow his original judgment and refuse the case when Lucius had first asked him.

  "I am aware of the possibilities, Mr. Campbell," he answered quietly. "I share your opinion that I may not be able to find Mrs. Gardiner, and that if I do, she still might wish to stand by her decision. However, I have given my word to Mr. Stourbridge that I would look for her, and I will do so." Then, sensing the sharpness in Campbell’s face, he added, "I have informed him of my opinion as to the chances of success, and I shall continue to be honest with him as to my progress or lack of it."

  Campbell remained silent, pushing his hands into his pockets and staring at the floor.

  "Aiden," Verona said gently. "I know you believe that she will not return and that only more disillusion and unhappiness will follow from seeking her, but neither Harry nor Lucius will accept that. They both feel compelled to do all they can to find out where she is, if she is unhurt, and why she left. Harry almost certainly for Lucius’s sake, of course, but he is nonetheless resolved. I believe we should help them, rather than make them feel isolated and as if we do not understand."

  Campbell raised his eyes and looked at her steadily. "Of course." He smiled, but the effort behind it was apparent to Monk. "Of course, my dear. You are perfectly right. It is something which must run its course. How can I assist you, Mr. Monk? Let me take you to the stables and enquire after James Treadwell. He may be at the heart of this."

  Monk accepted, thanking Verona and excusing himself. He followed Campbell down the stairs and out of the side door to the mews. The light was bright as he stepped outside. The smells of hay, horse sweat and the sharp sting of manure were strong in the closed heat of the yard. He heard a horse whinnying, and stamping its feet on the stones.

  A ginger-haired boy with a brush in one hand looked up at him with curiosity.

  "Answer Mr. Monk’s questions, Billy," Campbell instructed. "He’s come to help Major Stourbridge find Treadwell and the missing carriage."

  "Yer in’t never goin’ ter see them again, I reckon," Billy replied, pulling his mouth into a grimace of disgust. "Carriage like that’s worth a fair bit."

  "You think he sold it and went off?" Monk asked.

  Billy regarded him with contempt. " ’Course I do. Wot else? ’E lit outta ’ere like ’e were on fire! Nobody never told ’im ter. ’E never came back. If ’e din’t flog it, w’y in’t ’e ’ere?"

  "Perhaps he met with an accident?" Monk suggested.

  "That don’t answer w’y ’e went in the first place." Billy stared at him defiantly. "Less ’e’s dead, ’e should ’a told us wot ’appened, shouldn’t ’e?"

  "Unless he’s too badly hurt," Monk continued the argument.

  Billy’s eyes narrowed. "You a friend of ’is, then?"

  "I’ve never met him.
I wanted your opinion, which obviously was not very high."

  Billy hesitated. "Well-can’t say as I like ’im," he hedged. "On the other ’and, can’t say as I know anythink bad abaht ’im, neither. Just that he’s gorn, like-which is bad enough."

  "And Mrs. Gardiner?" Monk asked.

  Billy let his breath out in a sigh. "She were a real nice lady, she were. If ’e done anythink to ’er, I ’ope as ’e’s dead-an’ ’orrible dead at that."

  "Do you not think she went with him willingly?"

  Billy glanced at Campbell, then at Monk, his face registering his incredulity. "Wot’d a lady like ’er be wantin’ with a shifty article like ’im? ’Ceptin’ to drive ’er abaht now an’ then, as wot is ’is job!"

  "Did she think he was a shifty article?"

  Billy thought for a moment. "Well, p’haps she din’t. A bit too nice for ’er own good, she were. Innocent, like, if yer know wot I mean?"

  "Mrs. Gardiner was a trifle too familiar with the servants, Mr. Monk," Campbell clarified. "She may well have been unable to judge his character. I daresay no one told her Treadwell was employed largely because he was a relative to the cook, who is highly regarded." He smiled, biting his lip. "Good cooks are a blessing no household discards lightly, and she has been loyal to the family since before my sister’s time." He looked around the stable towards the empty space where the carriage should have been. "The fact remains, Treadwell is gone, and so is a very valuable coach and pair, and all the harness."

  "Has it been reported to the police?" Monk asked.

  Campbell pushed his hands into his pockets, swaying a little onto his heels. "Not yet. Frankly, Mr. Monk, I think it unlikely my brother-in-law will do that. He makes a great show, for Lucius’s sake, of believing that Mrs. Gardiner had not met some accident, or crisis, and all will be explained satisfactorily. I am afraid I gravely doubt it. I can think of no such circumstance which would satisfy the facts as we know them." He started to walk away from the stable across the yard and towards the garden, out of earshot of Billy and whoever else might be in the vicinity. Monk followed, and they were on the gravel path surrounding the lawn before Campbell continued.

  "I very much fear that the answer may prove to be simply that Mrs. Gardiner, who was very charming and attractive in her manner, but nonetheless not of Lucius background, realized that after the first flame of romance wore off she would never make him happy, or fit into his life. Rather than face explanations which would be distressing, and knowing that both Lucius and Major Stourbridge, as a matter of honor, would try to change her mind, she took the matter out of their hands, and simply fled."

  He looked sideways at Monk, a slightly rueful sadness in his face. "It is an action not entirely without honor. In her own way, she has behaved the best. There is no doubt she is in love with Lucius. It was plain for anyone to see that they doted upon each other. They seemed to have an unusual communion of thought and taste, even of humor. But she is older than he, already a widow, and from a very… ordinary … background. This way it remains a grand romance. The memory of it will never be soured by its fading into the mundane realities. Think very carefully, Mr. Monk, before you precipitate a tragedy."

  Monk stood in the late-morning sun in this peaceful garden full of birdsong, where perhaps such a selfless decision had been made. It seemed the most likely answer. A decision like that might be hysterical, perhaps, but then Miriam Gardiner was a woman giving up her most precious dream.

  "I have already told Major Stourbridge that if I find Mrs. Gardiner I would not attempt to persuade her to return against her will," Monk answered. "Or report back to him anything beyond what she wished me to. That would not necessarily include her whereabouts."

  Campbell did not reply for several minutes. Eventually, he looked up, regarding Monk carefully, as if making some judgment which mattered to him deeply.

  "I trust you will behave with discretion and keep in mind that you are dealing with the deepest emotions, and men of a very high sense of honor."

  "I will," Monk replied, wishing again Lucius Stourbridge had chosen some other person of whom to ask assistance, or that he had had the sense to follow his judgment, not his sentimentality, in accepting. Marriage seemed already to have robbed him of his wits!

  "I imagine they will be serving luncheon," Campbell said, looking towards the house. "I assume you are staying?"

  "I still have to speak to the servants," Monk answered grimly, walking across the gravel. "Even if I learn nothing."

  2

  Hester shifted from foot to foot impatiently as she stood in the waiting room in the North London Hospital. The sun was hot and the closed air claustrophobic. She thought with longing of the green expanse of Hampstead Heath, only a few hundred yards away. But she was here with a purpose. There was a massive amount to do, and as always, too little time. Too many people were ill, confused by the medical system, if you could call it by so flattering a word, and frightened of authority.

  Her desire was to improve the quality of nursing from the manual labor it usually was to a skilled and respected profession. Since Florence Nightingale’s fame had spread after the Crimean War, the public in general regarded her as a heroine. She was second in popularity only to the Queen. But the popular vision of her was a sentimental image of a young woman wandering around a hospital with a lamp in her hand, mopping fevered brows and whispering words of comfort, rather than the reality Hester knew. She had nursed with Florence Nightingale and had experienced the despair, the unnecessary deaths brought on by disease and incompetence rather than the injuries of battle. She also knew Miss Nightingale’s true heroism, the strength of her will to fight for better conditions, for the use of common sense in sanitation and efficiency in administration. Above all, she fought to make nursing an acceptable profession which would attract decent women and treat them with respect. Old-fashioned ideas must be got rid of, up-to-date methods must be used, and skills rewarded.

  Now that Hester was no longer solely responsible for her own support, she could devote some of her time to this end. She had made it plain to Monk from the outset that she would never agree to sit at home and sew a fine seam and gossip with other women who had too little to do. He had offered no disagreement, knowing it was a condition of acceptance.

  They had had certain differences, and would no doubt have more. She smiled now in the sun as she thought of them. It was not easy for either of them to make all the changes necessary to adapt to married life. Deeply as she loved him, sharing a bedroom-let alone a bed-with another person was a loss of privacy she found not as easy to overcome as she had imagined. She was not especially modest-nursing life had made that impossible-but she still reveled in the independence of having the window open or closed as she wished, of putting the light out when she chose, and of having as many or as few blankets over her as she liked. In the Crimea she had worked until she was exhausted. Then she had lain on her cot hunched up, shaking with cold, muscles too knotted up to sleep, and had to arise in the morning when she was still almost drunken with tiredness.

  But to have the warmth, the gentleness, of someone beside her who she knew without question loved her, was greater than all the tiny inconveniences. They were only pinpricks. She knew Monk felt them, too. She had seen flashes of temper in his face, quickly smothered when he realized he was thinking only of himself. He was used to both privacy and independence as much as she was.

  But Monk had less to forfeit than Hester. They were living in his rooms in Fitzroy Street. It made excellent sense, of course. She had only sufficient lodgings to house her belongings and to sleep in between the private nursing cases she had taken after being dismissed from hospital service for insubordination. He was developing a good practice as an agent of enquiry for private cases after his own dismissal from the police force-also for insubordination!

  For him to have moved would have been unwise. People knew where to find him. The house was well situated, and the landlady had been delighted to allow them an extra
room to make into a kitchen, and to give up having to cook and clean for Monk, a duty she had done only from necessity before, realizing he would probably starve if she didn’t. She was very pleased to have both the additional rent and more time to devote to her increasingly demanding husband-and whatever other pursuits she enjoyed beyond Fitzroy Street.

  So Hester was, with some difficulty, learning to become domestic and trying to do it with a modicum of grace.

  Her real passion was still to reform nursing, as it had been ever since she had come home from the Crimea. Lady Callandra Daviot shared her feelings, which was why Hester was standing in the North London Hospital now waiting for Callandra to come and recount the success or failure of their latest attempt.

  She heard the door opening and swung around. Callandra came in, her hair sticking out in tufts as if she had run her fingers through it, her face set tight and hard with anger. There was no need to ask if she had succeeded.

  Callandra had dignity, courage and good humor, but not even her dearest friend would have said she was graceful. In spite of the best efforts of her maid, her clothes looked as if she paid no regard to them, merely picking up what first came to her hand when she opened the wardrobe door. Today it was a green skirt and a blue blouse. It was warm enough inside the hospital for her not to wear whatever jacket she had chosen.

  "The man is a complete idiot!" she said furiously. "How can anyone see to diagnose what ails a person for any of a hundred diseases and still be blind as a bat to the facts before his face?"

  "I don’t know," Hester admitted. "But it happens frequently."

  The door was still wide open behind Callandra. She turned on her heel and marched out again, leaving Hester to follow after her.

  "How many hours are there in a day?" Callandra demanded over her shoulder.

  "Twenty-four," Hester replied as they reached the end of the passage and went through the now-empty operating theater with its table in the center, benches for equipment, and the railed-off gallery on three sides for pupils and other interested parties to observe.