The Twisted Root Page 6

  "I suppose it’s back to writing more letters," Hester said wearily, taking another slice of bread.

  Callandra nodded, her mouth full. She swallowed. "How’s William?"

  "Bored," Hester said with a smile. "Longing for a case to stretch his wits."

  When Hester arrived home at Fitzroy Street it was a little after seven o’clock that evening. Monk had already returned and was waiting for her. There were faint lines of tiredness in his face, but nothing disguised his pleasure in seeing her. She still found it extraordinary; it brought a strange quickening of the heart and tightness in the stomach to remember that she belonged here now, in his rooms, that when night came she would not stand up and say good-bye, uncertain when she would see him again. There was no more pretending between them, no more defense of their separateness. They might go to the bedroom one at a time, but underlying everything was the certainty that they would both be there, together, all night, and waken together in the morning. She did not even realize she was smiling as she thought of it, but the warmth was always in her mind, like sunshine on a landscape, lighting everything.

  She kissed him now when he rose to greet her, feeling his arms close around her. The gentleness of his touch perhaps surprised him more than her.

  "What’s for dinner?" was the first thing he said after he let her go.

  It had not crossed her mind that she would need to cook for him. She had eaten at the hospital as a matter of habit. The food was there. She was thinking of the missing medicines and Thorpe’s stubbornness.

  There was food in their small kitchen, of course, but it would require preparing and cooking. Even so, it would not take more than three quarters of an hour at most. She could not bear the thought of eating again so soon.

  But she could not possibly tell him. To have forgotten about him was inexcusable.

  She turned away, thinking frantically. "There’s cold mutton. Would you like it with vegetables? And there’s cake."

  "Yes," he agreed without enthusiasm. Had he expected her to be a good cook? Surely he knew her better than that? Did he imagine marriage was somehow going to transform her magically into a housekeeping sort of woman? Perhaps he did.

  All she wanted to do was sit down and take her boots off. Tonight was her own fault, but the specter of years of nights like this was appalling, coming home from whatever she had been doing, been fighting for—or against—and having to start thinking of shopping for food, bargaining with tradesmen, making lists of everything she needed, peeling, chopping, boiling, baking, clearing away. And then laundry, ironing, sweeping! She swallowed hard, emotions fighting each other inside her. She loved him, liked him, at times loathed him, admired him, despised him ... a hundred things, but always she was tied to him by bonds so strong they crowded out everything else.

  "What did you do today?" she asked aloud. What was racing through her head was the possibility of acquiring a servant, a woman to come in and do the basic chores she herself was so ill-equipped to handle. How much would it cost? Could they afford it? She had sworn she was not going to go back to nursing in other people’s houses, as she had done until their marriage. Her smile widened as she remembered the day.

  Automatically, she washed her hands, filled the pan with cold water and set it on the small stove to boil, then reached for potatoes, carrots, onions and cabbage.

  Their wedding day had been typical of late spring: glittering sunshine gold on wet pavements, the scent of lilacs in the air, the sound of birdsong and the jingle of harness, horses’ hooves on the cobbles, church bells. Excitement had fluttered in her chest so fiercely she could hardly breathe. Inside, the church was cool. A flurry of wind had blown her skirt around her.

  She could see the rows of pews now in her mind’s eye, the floor leading to the altar worn uneven by thousands of feet down the centuries. The stained glass of the windows shone like jewels thrown up against the sun. She had no idea what the pictures were. All she had seen after that had been Monk’s stiff shoulders and his dark head, then his face as he could not resist turning towards her.

  He was leaning against the door lintel talking to her now, and she had not heard what he had said.

  "I’m sorry," she apologized. "I was thinking about the dinner. What did you say?" Why had she not told him what she was really thinking? Too sentimental. It would embarrass him.

  "Lucius Stourbridge," he repeated very clearly. "His bride-to-be left the party in the middle of a croquet game and has not been seen since. That was three days ago."

  She stopped scraping the carrots and turned to look at him.

  "Left how? Didn’t anybody go after her?"

  "They thought at first she’d been taken ill." He told her the story as he had heard it.

  She tried to imagine herself in Miriam Gardiner’s place. What could have been in her mind as she ran from the garden? Why? It was easy enough to think of a moment’s panic at the thought of the change in her life she was committing herself to and things that would be irrevocable once she had walked down the aisle of the church and made her vows before God—and the congregation. But you overcame such things. You came back with an apology and made some excuse about feeling faint.

  Or if you really had changed your mind, you said so, perhaps with hideous embarrassment, guilt, fear. But you did not simply disappear.

  "What is it?" he asked, looking at her face. "Have you thought of something?"

  She remembered the carrots and started working again, although the longer it took to prepare dinner the more chance there was she could force herself to eat again. Her fingers moved more slowly.

  "I suppose there wasn’t someone else?" she asked. The pan was coming to the boil, little bubbles beginning to rise from the bottom and burst. She should hurry with the potatoes and put on a second pan for the cabbage. If she chopped it fiercely it would not take long.

  He said nothing for a few moments. "I suppose it’s the only answer," he concluded. "Treadwell must be involved somehow, or why didn’t he come back?"

  "He saw his chance to steal the coach, and he just took it," she suggested, putting the potatoes and carrots into the pan, a little salt in it, then the lid on. "William?"

  "What?"

  How should she approach this without either inviting him to tell her to give up working at the hospital on one hand, or on the other, implying that she expected a higher standard of living than he was able to offer her?

  "Are you going to take the case?"

  "I already told you that. I wish I hadn’t, but I gave my word."

  "Why do you regret it?" She kept her eyes on the knife, her fingers and the cabbage.

  "Because there’s nothing I could find out that would bring anything but tragedy to them," he replied a little tartly.

  She did not speak for a few minutes, busying herself with getting out the mutton first and carving slices off it and then replacing it in the pantry. She found the last of the pickles— she should have purchased more—and set the table.

  "Do you think..." she began.

  He was watching her as if seeing her performing those domestic duties gave him pleasure. Was it she, or simply the warmth of belonging, particularly after the unique isolation of his years without memory, the comforts of the past which did not exist for him, except in shadows, and the fear of what he would find?

  "Do I think what?" he asked. "Your pan is boiling!"

  "Thank you." She eased the lid a little. It was time to put the cabbage in as well.

  "Hester!"

  "Yes?"

  "You used to be the most straightforward woman I ever knew. Now you are tacking and jibbing like..."

  She pushed past him. "Please don’t stand in the doorway. I can’t move around you."

  He stepped aside. "What do you think made Miriam Gardiner change her mind so suddenly?"

  Fear, she thought. Sudden overwhelming knowledge of what promises she was making. Her life, her fortunes for good or ill, her name, her obedience, perhaps most of all her body, woul
d belong to someone else. Perhaps in that moment, as she had stood in the sunlight in the garden, it had all been too much. Forever! Till death do us part. You have to love someone very much indeed, overwhelmingly ... you have to trust him in a deep, fierce and certain way that lies even closer to the heart than thought, in order to do that. "William, do you think we could afford to have a woman in during the day, to cook for us and purchase food and so on? So that we could spend together the time we have, and be sure of a proper meal?" She did not look at him. She stood with body tight, waiting for his response. The words were said.

  There was silence except for the bubbling of the water and the jiggling of the pan lid. She moved it a little farther off and the steam plumed out.

  She wished she knew what he was thinking. Money? Or principle? Would someone else be an intrusion? Hardly. Everyone had servants. Money. They had already discussed that. He had accepted Callandra’s help earlier on as a matter of necessity. Now it was different. He would never permit anyone else to support his wife. They had battled over her independence already. She had won. It was an unspoken condition of happiness. It was the only thing in which he had been prepared to give ground. It was probably the surest gauge of his love for her. The memory of it filled her with warmth.

  "It’s not important," she said impulsively. "I ..." Then she did not know what else to say without spoiling it. Over-explanation always did.

  "There’s no room for anyone to live in," he said thoughtfully. "She would have to come every day."

  She found herself smiling, a little skip of pleasure inside her. "Oh, of course. Perhaps just afternoons."

  "Is that sufficient?" He was generous now, possibly even rash. One never knew what cases he would have in the future.

  "Oh, certainly," she agreed. She took a skewer and tested the potatoes. Not ready yet. "Could she have discovered something about Lucius that made the thought of marrying him intolerable?" she asked. "Or about his family, perhaps?"

  "Not that instant," he answered. "No one was standing anywhere near her, far less speaking to her. It was just a garden croquet match, full of social chatter, very open, quite public. She couldn’t have surprised him with another woman, if that’s what you are thinking. And there was certainly no quarrel. Nor was it a question of being overwhelmed or feeling a stranger. She had been there many times before and already knew everyone present. She helped compile the guest list."

  She said nothing.

  "I want your thoughts," he prompted. "You are a woman. Do you understand her?"

  Should she tell him the truth? Would he be hurt? She had learned that he was far more vulnerable than his hard exterior showed. He had courage, anger, wit. He was not easily wounded, he felt too fiercely and too completely for others to sway him. He knew what he believed. It was part of what drew her to him, and infuriated her, sometimes even frightened her.

  But since they had been married she had learned the tenderness underneath. It was seldom in his words, but it was in his touch, the way his fingers moved over her body as if even in moments of greatest passion he never forgot her heart and her spirit inside the flesh. She was never less than herself to him. For that, she would always love him, hold back no portion of herself in fear or reserve.

  But she could not have known that before. Miriam Gardiner could not know that. She turned around to face him.

  "We don’t know what her first marriage was like, not truly," she said, meeting his eyes. "Not when the doors were closed and they were alone together. Perhaps there were things in that which made her suddenly afraid of committing herself irrevocably again."

  His gray eyes searched hers. She saw the question in them, the flicker of uncertainty.

  "You cannot know beforehand how well or ill it will be," she said very quietly. "One can be hurt." She did not say "Or be repulsed, exhausted, feel used or soiled," but she knew he understood it. "Perhaps they knew each other very little in that regard," she said aloud. Then, in case he should imagine she had the slightest doubt or fear herself, she put her arms around his neck and, brushing her fingers gently over his ears and into his hair, kissed his mouth.

  His response spoiled the dinner and sealed his determination to begin looking for a woman to take over domestic duties from now on.

  3

  MONK LEFT HOME early the following morning. It was long before he felt like leaving, but if he were to have any success in helping Lucius Stourbridge, he must find out what had happened to James Treadwell and the carriage. Then he would have a far better chance of tracing some clue or indication where Miriam had gone, perhaps even why. He surprised himself when he realized how much he dreaded the answer.

  It was now four days since her disappearance, and getting more difficult to follow her path with each hour that passed. He took a hansom to Bayswater and began by seeking the local tradesmen who would have been around at the hour of the afternoon when Miriam fled.

  He was lucky to find almost immediately a gardener who had seen the carriage and knew both the livery and the horses, a distinctive bay and a brown, ill-matched for color but perfect for height and pace.

  "Aye," he said, nodding vigorously, a trowel in his hand. "Aye, it passed me going at a fair lick. Din’t see who were in it, mind. Wondered at the time. Knew as they ’ad a party on. See’d all the carriages comin’. Thought as someone were took ill, mebbe. That wot ’appened?"

  "We don’t know," Monk replied. He would not tell anyone the Stourbridge tragedy, but it would be public knowledge soon enough, unless he managed not only to find Miriam but to persuade her to return as well, and he held no real hope of that. "Did you see which way they went?"

  The gardener looked puzzled.

  "The coachman seems to have stolen the coach and horses," Monk explained.

  The gardener’s eyes widened. "Arrr." He sighed, shaking his head. "Never heard that. What a thing. What’s the world coming to?" He lifted his hand, trowel extended. "Went ’round that corner there. I never saw’d ’im after that. Road goes north. If ’e’d wanted to go to town, ’e’d ’a gone t’other way. Less traffic. Weren’t nobody after ’im. Got clean away, I s’pose."

  Monk agreed, thanked him, and followed the way he had indicated, walking smartly to see if he could find the next sighting.

  He had to cast around several times, and walked miles in the dusty heat, but eventually, footsore and exhausted, he got as far as Hampstead Heath, and then the trail petered out. By this time it was dusk and he was more than ready to find a hansom and go home. The idea held more charm than it had a month or two ago, when it would have been merely a matter of taking his boots off his aching feet and waiting for his landlady to bring his supper. Now the hansom could not move rapidly enough for him, and he sat upright watching the streets and traffic pass.

  The next morning, Monk went early to the Hampstead police station. When he had been a policeman himself he could have demanded assistance as a matter of course. Now he had to ask for favors. It was a hard difference to stomach. Perhaps he had not always used authority well. That was a conclusion he had been forced to reach when his loss of memory had shown him snatches of his life through the eyes of others. It was unpleasant, and unexpectedly wounding, to discover how many people had been afraid of him, partly because of his superior skills, but far too often due to his cutting tongue. Anything he was given today would be a courtesy. He was a member of the public, no more.

  Except, of course, if he had had occasion to come here in the past and they remembered him with unkindness. That thought made him hesitate in his step as he turned the corner of the street for the last hundred yards to the station doors. He had no idea whether they would know him or not. He felt the same stab of anxiety, guilt and anticipation that he had had ever since the accident and his realization of the kind of man he had been, and still was very often. Something in him had softened, but the hard tongue was still there, the sharp wit, the anger at stupidity, laziness, cowardice—above all, at hypocrisy.

  He took a deep
breath and went up the steps and in through the door.

  The duty sergeant looked up, pleased to see someone to break his morning. He hated writing ledgers, though it was better than idleness—just.

  " ’Mornin’, sir. Lovely day, in’t it? Wot can I do for you?"

  "Good morning, Sergeant," Monk replied, searching the man’s pleasant face for recognition and feeling a tentative hope when it was not there. He had already decided how he was going to approach the subject. "I am looking into a matter for a friend who is young, and at the present too distressed to take it up himself."

  "I’m sorry, sir. What matter would that be? Robbery, is it?" the sergeant enquired helpfully, leaning forward a little over the counter.

  "Yes," Monk agreed with a rueful smile and a slight shrug. "But not what you might expect. Rather more to it than that— something of a mystery." He lowered his voice. "And I fear a possible tragedy as well, although I am hoping that it is not so."

  The sergeant was intrigued. This promised to occupy his whole day, maybe longer.

  "Oh, yes sir. What, exactly, was stolen?"

  "A coach and horses," Monk answered. "Good pair to drive, a bay and a brown, very well matched for height and pace. And the coach was excellent, too."

  The sergeant looked puzzled. "You sure as it’s stole, sir? Not mebbe a member o’ the family got a bit irresponsible, like, and took it out? Young men will race, sir, bad as it is— an’ dangerous, too."

  "Quite sure." Monk nodded. "I am afraid it was five days ago now and it is still missing. Not only that, but the driver who took it has not come back, and neither has the young lady who was betrothed to my friend. Naturally, we fear some harm has befallen her, or she would have contacted a member of the family."