The Twisted Root

4

In the morning, Monk left home to continue his search for Miriam Gardiner, only now there was the added difficulty that he must do so without at the same time leading Robb to her. He did not underestimate Robb’s intelligence. He had already had the chastening experience of being out-thought in conversation, and the memory still stung.

Horses were intelligent animals, and very much creatures of habit. If Treadwell had driven them to Hampstead before then, they were likely to have returned to the same place.

Accordingly, the still, summer morning at seven o’clock found Monk standing in the sun on Lyndhurst Road, studying its tidy house fronts with their neat gardens and whitened steps.

He knew Miriam’s address from Lucius Stourbridge. Naturally, it was the first place he had enquired, but all his questions had elicited only blank ignorance and then growing alarm. That might still be where Robb would begin.

Monk stood with the lazy sun warming his shoulders and the early-morning sounds of kitchen doors opening and closing, the occasional whack of a broom handle beating a carpet. Errand boys’ feet were loud on the cobbles, as was the uneven step of one of them who was carrying a heavy bucket of coal. The only thought crowding his mind was where had Miriam been when James Treadwell was murdered. Had she been present? If she had, had anyone else, or had she killed him herself? The surgeon had said it seemed a single, extremely heavy blow, but not impossible to have been inflicted by a woman, given that she had used the right weapon. And Treadwell had not died straightaway but crawled from wherever it had happened, presumably looking for help. Neither Robb nor the police surgeon had offered any suggestion as to where the crime had taken place, but it could not have been far away.

Had Miriam struck him once and then fled? Had she taken the coach, driving it herself? If so, why had she abandoned it in the street so close by?

Perhaps she had panicked and simply run, as the blind, instinctive thing to do. Possibly she was unused to horses and did not know how to drive.

Or had there been a third person there? Had Miriam witnessed the murder and fled, perhaps for her own survival? Or had she not been there at all?

He would learn nothing standing in the sun while the world woke up and busied itself around him. He walked forward and up the step to the nearest door. He knocked on it and the maid answered, looking startled and ready to tell any errant tradesman where his appropriate entrance was and not to be so impertinent as to come to the front. Then she saw Monk’s face, and her eyes traveled down his smart coat to his polished boots, and she changed her mind.

"Yes sir?" she said curiously, absentmindedly pushing her hand through her hair to tidy it out of her eyes. "Master’s not up yet, I’m afraid." Then she realized that was a little too revealing. "I mean, ’e in’t ’ad ’is breakfast yet."

Monk made himself smile at the girl. "I’m sure you can help me without disturbing the household. I’m afraid I am lost. I don’t know the area very well. I am looking for a Mrs. Miriam Gardiner. I believe she lives somewhere near here." He knew perfectly well that she lived about five houses along, but he wanted to learn all he could from someone who almost certainly would have noticed her and heard all the below-stairs gossip. If indeed there had been some relationship between her and Treadwell, then they might have been less guarded here, away from Cleveland Square.

"Mrs. Gardiner? Oh, yeah," she said cheerfully. She came farther out onto the step and swung around, pointing. "Four doors up that way she lives. Or mebbe it’s five, number eight. Just along there, any’ow. Yer can’t miss it."

"Would you know if she is at home now?" he asked without moving.

"Cor luv yer, no I wouldn’t. I in’t seen ’er fer a week ner more. I ’eard as she were gettin’ married again, an’ good for ’er, I says."

"Would that be an elderly gentleman who lives about a mile from here?" Monk assumed an ingenuous air.

"Dunno, I’m sure," the girl replied. "Shouldn’t ’a thought so, though. Comes in a right smart carriage, ’e does. Matched pair like nobody’s business. Step fer step they goes, like they was machines."

"Same color?" Monk asked with interest.

"Color don’t matter," she replied with ill-concealed impatience. "Size an’ pace is wot makes ’em ride well."

"Know something about horses?" he observed.

"Me pa were a coachman," she said. "None better, if I says so as shouldn’t."

He smiled at her quite genuinely. Something in her pride in her father pleased him. It was simple and without self-consciousness. "Seen them about quite often, I suppose? Was that coachman much good?"

"Fair," she replied with careful judgment. "Not near as good as me pa. Too ’eavy-’anded."

"Have you seen him lately? I’d like a word with him." He thought he had better give some reason for all the questions.

"I in’t seen ’im fer a few days now." She shook her head as if it puzzled her. "But ’e’s around ’ere often enough. I seen ’im in the High Street. I recognize them ’orses. Goin’ towards the ’Eath."

"You mean not to Mrs. Gardiner’s house?" he said with surprise. "To a public house, perhaps?"

"In’t none up that way," she replied. " ’E must ’a know’d someone."

"Thank you! Thank you very much." He stepped back. "Good day."

She stood on the path smiling as he walked away, then went back into the house to continue with her far less interesting duties.

He was speaking to a gardener busy pulling weeds when he saw Robb turn the corner of the street and come towards him, frowning, deep in thought. His hands were in his pockets, and from the concentration in his face, Monk surmised he was mulling over something that caused him concern.

It was as well for Monk that he was, otherwise Robb would almost certainly have recognized him, and that was something he did not wish. Robb had to be searching for Miriam just as diligently as he was. Monk must find her first, even if only to give her time to prepare what she would say.

He thanked the gardener, turned on his heel and strode away as fast as he could without drawing undue attention to himself. He went down the first side street he came to.

Robb did not pass him. Damn! He must have stopped to speak to the same gardener. It was the obvious thing to do. Then the man would also tell him of seeing the carriage drive by regularly over the last year or more. And Robb would ask who it was that had just been talking to him, and the gardener would say that he had given him the same information. Even if Robb had not recognized the well-cut jacket and the square set of his shoulders, Robb would know it was Monk. Who else would it be?

What had James Treadwell been doing here other than collecting and returning Miriam to her home after visiting with Lucius Stourbridge? Had he relatives here? Was there a woman, or more than one? Or some form of business? Had it anything to do with Miriam, or not?

A vehicle like that would be remembered by anyone who knew horses. This was not an area with many stables or mews where they could be kept out of sight. Most people here used public transport, hansoms, or even omnibuses. Short journeys would be made on foot.

He spent the next three hours combing the neighborhood asking boot boys, errand boys, and a scullery maid about the houses. He stopped a man delivering coal for kitchen fires, which were kept burning to cook on, even on such a hot summer day, his face black, sweat trickling through the coal dust that caked his skin.

Twice more he only narrowly avoided running into Robb. He spoke to a boy selling newspapers and a man with a tray of ham sandwiches, from whom he purchased what was going to have to serve him for a late luncheon. Most of them were happy to admit they knew Miriam Gardiner, at least by sight, and smiled when they said it, as if the memory were pleasant.

But they knew that Treadwell had been murdered, and none of them wished to be associated with that, however loosely. Yes, they had seen him in the past, but no, not lately, certainly not on the night he had met his death. They gazed back at Monk with blank eyes and complete denial. He could only hope Robb met with the same.

The only thing left to do was move closer to where the body had been found and try again. It was a matter of searching for the kind of person who was in a position to observe the comings and goings, and who might feel free to speak of them without involving himself in something which could only be unpleasant. Servants caught gossiping were invariably in trouble. The advantage he had over Robb was that he was not police. But being a civilian also held disadvantages. He could only persuade; he could oblige nothing.

He walked slowly along the pavement in the sun. It was a pleasant neighborhood, with rows of small, respectable houses. Inside, the front parlors would be neat and stuffy, seldom used, filled with paintings and samplers with God-fearing messages on them, possibly a picture of the family posed self-consciously in their Sunday best. Life would be conducted mostly in the kitchen and bedrooms. Prayers would be said every morning and night. The generations would be listed in the family Bible, which was probably opened once a week. Sunday morning would be very sober indeed, although Saturday night might get a little tipsy-for the men anyway.

He tried to think what Treadwell would do when he got to Hampstead. Did he meet friends, perhaps a woman? Why not? It would certainly be very foolish for him to form a friendship with a woman in the Stourbridge house, or close enough for others to become aware of it. Backstairs gossip had ruined more than a few men in service.

Had he come to buy or to pay for something, or to settle or collect an old debt? Or had it been simply to escape his daily life of obedience to someone else? Here, for an hour or two, he would have been his own master.

Monk crossed the street, still strolling gently because he had reached no decision. A young woman passed him. She was wearing the starched uniform and simple dress of a nursemaid, and she had a little girl by the hand. Every now and again the child took a little skip, the ribbon in her hair bobbing, and the young woman smiled at her. Far away in the distance, probably on the Heath, a barrel organ played.

If Treadwell had come here he would not have left the carriage and horses standing unattended. Even if he had merely stopped for a drink, he would have had to leave them in some suitable place, such as an ostler’s yard.

There was a shop across the road ahead of him. He was not more than a quarter of a mile from Miriam Gardiner’s house. This would be an excellent place to start. He increased his pace. Now he had a specific purpose.

He opened the door, and a bell clanked rustily somewhere inside. An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a curtain and looked at Monk hopefully.

"Yes sir. Lovely day, in’t it? What can I get for you, sir? Tea, candles, half a pound of mint humbugs perhaps?" He waved a hand at the general clutter around him which apparently held all these things and more. "Or a penny postcard? Ball of string, maybe you need, or sealing wax?"

"Ball of string and sealing wax sounds very useful," Monk agreed. "And the humbugs would be excellent on such a warm day. Thank you."

The man nodded several times, satisfied, and began to find the articles named.

"Mrs. Gardiner said you would have almost anything I might want," Monk remarked, watching the man carefully.

"Oh, did she?" the man replied without looking up. "Now, there’s a nice lady, if you like! Happy to see her marry again, and that’s not a lie. Widowed too young, she was. Oh! There’s the sealing wax." He held it up triumphantly. "It’s a nice color, that is. Not too orange. Don’t like it to be too orange. Red’s better."

"I suppose you’ve known her a long time," Monk remarked casually, nodding back in approval of the shade of the wax.

"Bless you, only since she first came here as a girl, and that’s not a lie," the man agreed. "Poor little thing!"

Monk stiffened. What should he say to encourage more confidences without showing his own ignorance or curiosity?

The man found the string and came up from his bending with a ball in each hand.

"There you are, sir," he said triumphantly, his face shining. "Which would you prefer? This is good string for parcels and the like, and the other’s softer, better for tying up plants. Don’t cut into the stems, you see?"

"I’ll take both," Monk answered, his mind racing. "And two sticks of the sealing wax. As you say, it’s a good color."

"Good! Good! And the mint humbugs. Never forget the mint humbugs!" He laid the string on the counter and disappeared below it again, presumably searching for more sealing wax. Monk hoped it was not the humbugs down in the dusty recesses.

"I hadn’t realized she was so young when it happened," Monk observed, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.

"Bless you, no more than twelve or thirteen, and that’s not a lie," the man answered from his hands and knees where he was searching in the cupboards under the counter. He pulled out a huge box full of envelopes and linen paper. "Poor little creature. Terrible small she was. Not a soul in the world, so it seemed. Not then. But of course our Cleo took her in." He pulled out another box of assorted papers. Monk did not care in the slightest about the sealing wax, but he did not want to interrupt the flow. "Good woman, Cleo Anderson. Heart of gold, whatever anybody says," the man continued vehemently.

"Please don’t go to trouble." Monk was abashed by the work he was causing, and he had what he wanted. "I don’t need more wax, I merely liked the color."

"Mustn’t be beaten," the shopkeeper mumbled from the depth of the cupboard. "That’s what they said at Trafalgar- and Waterloo, no doubt. Can’t have a customer leaving dissatisfied."

"I suppose you know Mr. Treadwell also?" Monk tried the last question.

"Not as I recall. Ah! Here it is! I knew I had some more somewhere. Half a box of it." He backed out and stood up, his shoulders covered in dust, a lidless cardboard box in one hand. He beamed at Monk. "Here you are, sir. How much would you like?"

"Three sticks, thank you," Monk replied, wondering what on earth he could use it for. "Is there a good ostler’s yard near here?"

The man leaned over the counter and pointed leftwards, waving his arm. "About half a mile up that way, and one street over. Can’t miss it. Up towards Mrs. Anderson’s, it is. But you’d know that, knowing Mrs. Gardiner an’ all. That’ll be tenpence ha’penny altogether, sir, if you please. Oh … an’ here are the humbugs. That’ll be another tuppence, if you please."

Monk took his purchases, thanked him and paid, then set out towards the ostler’s yard feeling pleased with himself.

He needed to find Miriam. The details of her youth were of value only inasmuch as they either explained her extraordinary behavior or indicated where she was now.

The ostler’s yard was precisely where the shopkeeper had pointed.

"Yes," an old man said, sucking on a straw. He was bow-legged and smelled of the stable yard, horse sweat, hay and leather. " ’E come ’ere often. Right ’andsome pair, they was. Perfick match, pace fer pace."

"Good with horses, was he?" Monk enquired casually.

"Not as I’d say ’good,’ " the ostler qualified. " ’Fair,’ more like it." He looked at Monk through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to explain himself.

Monk made a grimace of disgust. "Not what he told me. That’s why I thought I’d check."

"Don’t make no matter now." The ostler spat out the straw, "Dead, poor swine. Not that I’d much time fer ’im. Saucy bastard, ’e were. Always full o’ lip. But I wouldn’t wish that on ’im. Yer not from ’round ’ere, or yer’d o’ know’d ’e were dead. Murdered, ’e were. On Mrs. Anderson’s footpath, practically, an’ ’er a good woman, an’ all. Looked after my Annie, she did, summink wonderful." He shook his head. "Nuffink weren’t too much trouble for ’er."

Monk seized the chance. "A very fine woman," he agreed. "Took in Mrs. Gardiner, too, I believe, when she was just a child."

The ostler selected himself another straw and put it in his mouth. "Oh, yeah. Found her wandering around out of ’er wits, they did. Babblin’ like a lunatic an’ scarce knew ’er own name, poor thing. It were Cleo Anderson wot took ’er in an’ cleaned ’er up and raised ’er like she was ’er own. Shame that no-good braggart got ’isself killed on her doorstep. That kind o’ trouble nobody needs."

"Can’t prevent accidents," Monk said sententiously, but his mind was wondering what could have happened to the young Miriam to cause her such agony of mind. He could imagine it only too vividly, remembering his own fear after the accident, the horrors that lay within himself. Had she experienced something like that? Did she also not know who she was? Was that what terrified her and drove her away from Lucius Stourbridge, who loved her so much?

The ostler spat out his straw. "Weren’t no haccident!" He said derisively. "Like I told yer, ’e were murdered! ’It over the ’ead, ’e were."

"He left his horses here quite often," Monk observed, recalling himself to the present.

"I told you that, too, didn’t I? ’Course, ’e did. Best place fer miles, this is. In’t nuthin’ abaht ’orses I don’t know as is worth knowin’." He waited for Monk to challenge him.

Monk smiled and glanced at the nearest animal. "I can see that," he said appreciatively. "It shows. And your judgment of Treadwell is probably much what I’d concluded myself. An arrogant piece of work."

The ostler looked satisfied. He nodded. "That’s wot I told that policeman wot come ’round ’ere askin’. Treadwell weren’t much good, I told ’im. Yer can learn a lot abaht a man by the way ’e ’andles an ’orse, if yer know wot ter look fer. You know, yer a bit pleased wif yerself, an’ all!"

Monk smiled ruefully. He knew it was true.

The ostler grinned back, pleased there was no offense.

Monk thanked him and left, digesting the information he had gained, not only about Treadwell’s being here but about Miriam’s strange early life and the coincidence of Treadwell’s being murdered on the doorstep of the woman who had found Miriam and had taken her in years before. And, of course, Robb had had the same idea. Monk must be extremely careful he did not inadvertently lead him right to Miriam.

Out in the street again, he walked slowly. He did not put his hands in his pockets. That would pull his suit out of shape. He was too vain for that. Why was he so fearful of leading Robb to Miriam? The answer was painful. Because he was afraid she was involved in Treadwell’s death, even if indirectly. She was hiding from Lucius, but she was hiding from the police as well. Why? What was Treadwell to her beyond the driver of Stourbridge’s carriage? What did he know-or suspect?

It was time he went to see Cleo Anderson. He did not want to run into Robb, so he approached cautiously, aware that he was a conspicuous figure with his straight, square shoulders and slightly arrogant walk.

He was already on Green Man Hill when he saw Robb crossing the street ahead of him, and he stopped abruptly, bending his head and raising his hands as if to light a cigar, then he turned his back, making a gesture as if to shelter a match from the wind. Without looking up, in spite of the intense temptation, he strolled away again and around the first corner he came to.

He stopped and, to his annoyance, found he was shaking. This was absurd. What had it come to when he was scuttling around street corners to keep from being recognized by the police? And a sergeant at that! A short handful of years before, sergeants all over London knew his name and snapped to attention when they heard it. In rediscovering himself after the accident he had witnessed just how deeply the fear of him was rooted. People cared what he thought of them, they wanted to please him and they dreaded his contempt, earned or not.

How much had changed!

He felt himself ridiculous, standing there on the footpath pretending to light an imaginary cigar so Robb would not see his face. And yet the man he had been then, in hindsight gave him little pleasure. Robb would have feared him, possibly respected his skills, but that fear would have been based in the power he had had and his will to use it-and to exercise the sharp edge of his tongue.

He was still impatient, at times sarcastic. He still despised cowardice, hypocrisy and laziness, and took no trouble to conceal it. But he equally despised a bully and felt a sharp stab of pain to think that he might once have been one.

If Robb had gone to see Cleo Anderson, either with regard to Miriam or simply because Treadwell had been found on her pathway, then there was no point waiting there for him to leave. It might be an hour or two. Better to go and buy himself a decent supper, then return in the early evening, when Robb would have gone back home, probably to minister to his grandfather.

Monk ate well, then filled in a little more of the waiting time asking further questions about Miriam. He pretended he had a sister who had recently married and was considering moving into the area. He learned more than he expected, and Miriam’s name cropped up in connection with a botanical society, the friends of a missionary group in Africa, a circle of women who met every other Friday to discuss works of literature they had enjoyed, and the rota of duties at the nearest church. He should have thought of the church. He kicked himself for such an obvious omission. He would repair that tomorrow.

Altogether, by the time he stood on Cleo Anderson’s doorstep in the early-evening sunlight, the shadows so long across the street that they nearly engulfed his feet, he was feeling, as the ostler had remarked, pleased with himself.

Considering that Cleo Anderson had already sacrificed a great deal of her evening answering the questions of Sergeant Robb, she opened the door to Monk with remarkable courtesy. It occurred to him that she might have believed him to be a patient. After all, caring for the sick was her profession.

It took her only a moment to see that he was a stranger, and unlikely to belong to the immediate neighborhood. Nevertheless, she did not dismiss him summarily. Her eyes narrowed a trifle.

"Yes, love, what can I do for you?" she asked, keeping her weight where she could slam the door if he tried to force his way.

He stood well back deliberately.

"Good evening, Mrs. Anderson," he replied. He decided in that moment not to lie to her. "My name is William Monk. Mr. Lucius Stourbridge has employed me to find Miriam Gardiner. As you may be aware, she has disappeared from his house, where she was a guest, and he is frantic with concern for her." He stopped, seeing the anxiety in her face, her rapid breathing and a stiffening of her body. But then, considering Treadwell’s corpse had been found on her path, she could hardly fail to fear for Miriam, unless she already knew that she was safe, not only from physical harm but from suspicion also. Patently, she did not have any such comfort.

"Can you help me?" he said quietly.

For a moment she stood still, making up her mind, then she stepped back, pulling the door wider. "You’d better come in," she invited him reluctantly.

He followed her into a hallway hardly large enough to accommodate the three doors that led from it. She opened the farthest one into a clean and surprisingly light room with comfortable chairs by the fireplace. A row of cupboards lined one wall, all the doors closed and with brass-bound keyholes. None of the keys were present.

"Mr. Stourbridge sent you?" The thought seemed to offer her no comfort. She was still as tense, her hands held tightly, half hidden by her skirts.

He had walked miles and his feet were burning, but to sit unasked would be rushing her, and ill-mannered. "He is terrified some harm may have come to her," he answered. "Especially in light of what happened to the coachman, Treadwell."

In spite of all her effort of control, she drew in her breath sharply. "I don’t know where she is!" Then she steadied herself, deliberately waiting a moment or two. "I haven’t seen her since she left to go and stay in Bayswater. She told me all about that, o’ course." She looked at him levelly.

He had the strong feeling that she was lying, but he did not know to what extent or why. There was fear in her face, but nothing he recognized as guilt. He tried the gentlest approach he could think of.

"Mr. Stourbridge cares for her profoundly. He would act only in her best interest and for her welfare."

Her voice was suddenly thick with emotion, and she choked back tears. "I know that." She took a shaky breath. "He’s a very fine young gentleman." She blinked several times. "But that doesn’t alter nothin’. God knows." She seemed about to add something else, then changed her mind and remained silent.

"You were the one who found Miriam the first time, weren’t you," he said gently, with respect rather than as a question.

She hesitated. "Yes, but that was years back. She was just a child. Twelve or thirteen, she was." A look of pain and defiance crossed her face. "Bin in an accident. Dunno what ’appened to ’er. ’Ysterical … in a state like you never seen. Nobody around to claim ’er or care for ’er. I took ’er in. ’Course I did, poor little thing." Her eyes did not move from Monk’s. "Nobody ever asked for ’er nor come lookin’. I expected someone every day, then it were weeks, an’ months, an’ nobody came. So I just took care of ’er like she were mine."

Perhaps she caught something in his eyes, an understanding. Some of the defiance eased from her. "She were scared ’alf out of ’er wits, poor little thing," she went on. "Didn’t remember what happened at all."

Cleo Anderson had taken Miriam in and raised her until she had made a respectable and apparently happy marriage to a local man of honorable reputation. Then Miriam had been widowed, with sufficient means to live quite contentedly … until she had met Lucius Stourbridge out walking in the sun on Hampstead Heath.

But it was what had happened one week ago that mattered, and where she was now.

"Did you know James Treadwell?" he asked her.

Her answer was immediate, without a moment’s thought. "No."

It was too quick. But he did not want to challenge her. He must leave her room to change her mind without having to defend herself.

"So you were all the family Miriam had after the accident." He allowed his very real admiration to fill his voice.

The tenderness in her eyes, in her mouth, was undeniable. If she had permitted herself, at that moment she would have wept. But she was a strong woman, and well used to all manner of tragedy.

"That’s true," she agreed quietly. "And she was the nearest thing to a child I ever had, too. And nobody could want better."

"So you must have been happy when she married a good man like Mr. Gardiner," he concluded.

"O’ course. An’ ’e were a good man! Bit older than Miriam, but loved ’er, ’e did. An’ she were proper fond o’ ’im."

"It must have been very pleasant for you to have had her living so close."

She smiled. "O’ course. But I don’ mind where she lives if she’s ’appy. An’ she loved Mr. Lucius like nothin’ I ever seen. ’Er ’ole face lit up when she jus’ spoke ’is name." This time the tears spilled down her cheeks, and it was beyond her power to control them.

"What happened, Mrs. Anderson?" he said, almost in a whisper.

"I dunno."

He had not really expected anything else. This was a woman protecting the only child she had nurtured and loved.

"But you must have seen Treadwell, even in the distance, when Miriam came back to visit you while she was staying in Bayswater," he insisted.

She hesitated only a moment. "I seen a coachman, but that’s all."

That might be true. Perhaps Treadwell had crawled here because he had heard Miriam say Cleo was a nurse. It was conceivable it was no more than that. But was it likely?

Who had killed Treadwell … and why? Why here?

"What did you tell Sergeant Robb?" he asked.

She relaxed a fraction. Her shoulders eased under the dark fabric of her dress, a plain, almost uniform dress such as he had seen Hester wear on duty. He was surprised at the stab of familiarity it caused inside him.

"Same as I’m tellin’ you," she answered. "I ’aven’t seen Miriam since she went off to stay with Mr. Lucius an’ ’is family. I don’t know where she is now, an’ I’ve no idea what happened to the coachman, or ’ow ’e got killed, nor why- except I’ve known Miriam since she were a girl, an’ I’ve never known ’er to lose ’er temper nor lash out at anyone, an’ I’d stake my life on that."

Monk believed her, at least for the last part. He accepted that she thought Miriam innocent. He very much doubted that she had no idea where Miriam was. If all were well with Miriam she would unquestionably not have fled from the Stourbridge house as she had, nor have remained out of touch with Lucius. If she were in trouble, whatever its nature, surely she would have turned to Cleo Anderson, the person who had rescued her, cared for her and loved her since that first time?

"I hope you won’t have to do anything so extreme," he said gravely, then he bade her good-night without asking anything further. He knew she would not answer, at least not with the truth.

He bought a sandwich from a peddler about a block away, making conversation with him as he ate it. Then he took an omnibus back towards Fitzroy Street, and was glad to sit down, cramped and lurching as the conveyance was.

He let his thoughts wander. Where could Miriam go? She was frightened. She trusted no one, except perhaps Cleo. Certainly, she did not trust Lucius Stourbridge. She would not want to be in unfamiliar territory, yet she would have to avoid those who were known to be her friends.

A fat woman next to him was perspiring freely. She mopped her face with a large handkerchief. A small boy blew a pennywhistle piercingly, and his mother showed sharp disapproval, to no effect. An elderly man in a bowler hat sucked air through a gap in his teeth. Monk glared at the boy with the whistle, and he stopped in midblow. The man with the gap in his teeth smiled in relief.

Miriam would go to someone she could trust, someone Cleo could trust, perhaps, who owed her a favor for past kindness. Cleo was a nurse. If she was even remotely like Hester, she could count on the trust, and the unquestioning discretion also, of a good many people. That was where to begin, with those Cleo Anderson had nursed. He sat back and relaxed, keeping his eye on the child in case he thought to blow his whistle again.

It was already warm and still by five minutes before nine, when Monk began the next day. The rag and bone man’s voice echoed as he drove slowly away from the Heath towards the south. The dew was still deep in the shade of the larger trees, but the open grass was dusty and the dawn chorus of the birds had been over for hours.

Monk did not bother to pursue those patients with large families and, naturally, those whose illness had ended in death. He learned of all manner of misfortune and of kindness. Cleo Anderson’s reputation was high. Few had a harsh word to say of her. Miriam also had earned a share of approval. It seemed often enough she had been willing to help in the duties of care, especially after she had been widowed and no longer had her time filled with seeing to the well-being of Mr. Gardiner.

Monk followed every trail that seemed likely to lead to where Miriam might be now. By late morning he had crossed Sergeant Robb’s path twice and was wondering if Robb was equally aware of him. Surely he must be, by deduction even if he had not actually seen Monk.

A little after midday he came around the corner of Prince Arthur Road and stopped abruptly. Ten yards ahead of him, Robb was glancing at his watch anxiously, and in reading the time he looked reluctantly, once, at a house on the farther side, then, biting his lip, set off at a very rapid pace the opposite way.

For a moment Monk was confused, then he realized Robb was going in the direction of his home. His grandfather would have been alone since early in the morning, almost helpless, certainly needing food and, in this warm weather above all, fresh water to drink and assistance with his personal needs. Robb would never forget that, whatever the urgencies or the requirements of his job.

Monk was moved with an acute pity for him, and also for the sick old man sitting alone day after day, dependent on a young man desperate to do his job and torn between two duties.

But Monk’s first duty was towards Miriam Gardiner, because that was what Lucius Stourbridge had hired him for and what he had given his word to do. Robb had far more resources than he had, in information given to the police, his own local knowledge, and in his power to command cooperation. They wished the same thing, to find Miriam Gardiner, Monk because it was his final goal, Robb to learn from her what she knew of Treadwell’s murder, perhaps even to charge her with complicity in it. It was imperative Monk find her first.

He sauntered slowly over towards the house Robb had eyed and had then left with such reluctance. He had no idea who lived there or what Robb had hoped to find, but there was no time to investigate more carefully. This was his only chance to gain the advantage. He knocked on the door and stepped back, waiting for it to be answered.

The maid who peered out at him could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old, but she was determined to make a good impression.

"Yes sir?"

He smiled at her. "Good afternoon." Time was short. "Mrs. Gardiner asked me if I could carry a message to your mistress, if she is in." He wished he had some way of knowing the family name. It would have sounded more convincing.

For a moment the girl looked blank, but she obviously wished to be helpful. "Are yer sure yer got the right ’ouse, sir? There’s no one but old Mr. ’Ornchurch ’ere."

"Oh." He was confounded. What had Robb wanted with old Mr. Hornchurch?

Her face brightened. "Mebbe she meant the ’ousekeeper? Mrs. Whitbread, as comes in every day an’ cooks an’ does fer Mr. ’Ornchurch. She was took bad the winter before last, an’ it were Mrs. Gardiner wot looked after ’er."

He could feel the sweat of relief prickle on his skin. He swallowed before he could catch his breath. "Yes. Of course. That’s what I should have said. Perhaps it would be more convenient if I were to speak to Mrs. Whitbread at her home? Can you tell me how to get there from here?" The people Miriam would turn to would be the ones she had helped in their time of need.

The girl looked dubious. "Mebbe. I’ll ask ’er. She don’ like nobody callin’ on ’er at ’ome. Reckon as when yer orff, yer wanna be private, like."

"Of course," he agreed, still standing well back from the step. "I’m sure you could simply give her the message, if you would be so kind?"

"I’m sure I could do that," she agreed, obviously relieved.

He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, and a pencil, and wrote "Tell Sergeant Robb nothing about Miriam," then folded the note twice, turning the ends in, and gave it to the girl. "Be sure to give it to her straightaway," he warned. "And if the police come here, be very careful what you say."

Her eyes widened. "I will," she promised. "Never say nothin’ to the rozzers, that’s wot one ol’ man tol’ me. That’s the best. Known nothin’, seen nothin’, ’eard nothin’, me."

"Very wise." He nodded, smiling at her again. "Thank you," he said, and stepped back and turned to leave.

He would wait until Mrs. Whitbread finished her duties and then follow her. He had real hope that she might lead him to Miriam. For the meantime, he would find something to eat and stay well out of Robb’s way when he returned to see Mrs. Whitbread himself.

He sauntered quite casually along the pavement next to a small space of open grass and bought a beef-and-onion sandwich from a stall. It was fresh, and he ate it with considerable enjoyment. He bought a second and enjoyed that as well. He wondered how Robb had traced Mrs. Whitbread. That was a good piece of detection. It commanded his respect, and he gave it willingly. He liked Robb and admired the young man’s care for his grandfather.

He must stay within sight of Mr. Hornchurch’s house so he could see when the housekeeper left, but not so close that Robb, when returning, would observe him.

He expected Robb to come back the way he had seen him leave, so he was jolted by considerable surprise when he heard Robb’s voice behind him, and he swung around to see him only a yard away, his face grim, his mouth pulled tight.

"Waiting for me, Inspector Monk?" he said coldly.

Monk felt as if he had been slapped. In one sentence, Robb had shown that he had learned Monk’s history in the police and his reputation both for skill and for ruthlessness. It was there in Robb’s face now as he stood in sunlight dappled by the trees, his eyes guarded, challenging. Monk could see the anger in him-and something else which he thought might be fear.

Was there any point in lying? He did not want to make an enemy of Robb, for practical reasons as well as emotional ones; in fact, he could not afford to. The first concern was Miriam. Her freedom, even her life, might depend upon this. And he had no idea whether she was guilty of anything or not. She might have killed Treadwell. On the other hand she might be in danger herself, terrified and running. He knew no more of the truth now than he had when Lucius Stourbridge had walked into his rooms a few days before.

He shifted his weight to stand a little more casually. He raised his eyebrows. "Actually, I’d really been hoping to avoid you," he said truthfully.

Robb’s mouth curled downward. "You thought I’d come back the way I left? I would have if I hadn’t seen you, and I admit, that was only chance. But I know this area better than you do. I have the advantage. I wondered if you’d follow me. It would seem the obvious thing to do if you had no ideas yourself." There was a contempt in his voice that stung. "Why did you wait here for me? I suppose you already knew I would be going to my grandfather."

Monk was startled-and surprised to find himself also hurt. He had not earned that from Robb. Certainly, he was trying to beat Robb to Miriam, but that was what Lucius Stourbridge had hired him for. Robb would not have expected him to do less.

"Of course, I knew where you were going," Monk answered, keeping his voice level and almost expressionless. "But the reason I didn’t go after you was because I wasn’t following you in the first place. Does it surprise you so much that my investigations should bring me to the same place as yours?"

"No," Robb said instantly. "You have a wide reputation, Inspector Monk." He did not elaborate as to its nature, but the expression in his eyes told it well, leaving Monk no room to hope or to delude himself.

Memories of Runcorn flooded back, of his anger always there, thinly suppressed under his veneer of self-control, the fear showing through, the expectation that somehow, whatever he did, Monk would get the better of him, undermine his authority, find the answer first, make him look foolish or inept. The fear had become so deep over the years it was no longer a conscious thought but an instinct, like wincing before you are struck.

After the accident Monk had heard fragments about himself here and there and had pieced them together, learned things he had wished were not true. The cruel thing was that in the last year or so, surely they no longer were. His tongue was still quick, certainly. He was intolerant. He did not suffer fools-gladly or otherwise. But he was not unjust! Robb was judging him on the past.

"Apparently," he said aloud, his voice cold. He also knew his reputation for skill. "Then you should not be surprised that I came to the same conclusion you did and found the same people without having to trail behind you."

Robb dug his hands into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched forward, his body tightening. There was contempt and dislike in his face, but also the awareness of a superior enemy, and a sadness that it should be so, a disappointment.

"You have an advantage over me, Mr. Monk. You know my one vulnerability. You must do about it whatever you think fit, but I will not be blackmailed into stepping aside from pursuing whoever murdered James Treadwell-whether it is Mrs. Gardiner or not." He looked at Monk unblinkingly, his brown eyes steady.

Monk felt suddenly sick. Surely he had never been a person who would descend to blackmailing a young man because he took time off his professional duty to attend to the far deeper duty of love towards an old man who was sick and alone and utterly dependent upon him? He could not believe he had ever been like that-not to pursue any thief or killer, there were other ways; and certainly not to climb up another step on the ladder of preferment!

He found his mouth dry and words difficult to form. What did he want to say? He would not plead; it would be both demeaning and useless.

"What you tell your superiors is your own business," he replied icily. "If you tell them anything at all. Personally, I never had such a regard for them that I thought it necessary to explain myself. My work spoke for me." He sounded arrogant and he knew it. But what he said was true. He had never explained himself to Runcorn, nor ever intended to.

He saw the flash of recognition in Robb’s face, and belief.

"And you’ll find plenty of sins I’ve committed," Monk went on, his voice biting. "But you’ll not find anyone who knew me to stoop to blackmail. You’ll not find anyone who damned well thought I needed to."

Slowly, Robb’s shoulders relaxed. He still regarded Monk carefully, but the hostility faded from his eyes as the fear loosened its grip on him. He licked his lips. "I’m sorry- perhaps I underestimated your ability." That was as far as he would go towards an apology.

It was not ability Monk cared about, it was honor, but there was no point pursuing that now. This was all he was going to get. The question was how to remain within sight of the house so he could follow Mrs. Whitbread when she left, and yet at the same time elude Robb so he did not follow them both. And, of course, that only mattered if the maid at the door did not give Robb the same information she had given to Monk, albeit unwittingly.

He looked at Robb a moment longer, then smiled steadily, bade him farewell, and turned and walked away, in the opposite direction from the house. He would have to circle around and come back, extremely carefully.

Mrs. Whitbread left at a quarter to five. Robb was nowhere to be seen. As Monk followed her at a discreet distance, he felt his weariness suddenly vanish, his senses become keen and a bubble of hope form inside him.

They had not gone far, perhaps a mile and a quarter, before Mrs. Whitbread, a thin, spare woman with a gentle face, turned in at a small house on Kemplay Road and opened the front door with a key.

Monk waited a few moments, looking both ways and seeing no one, then he crossed and went to the door. He knocked.

After a minute or two the door was opened cautiously by Mrs. Whitbread. "Yes?"

He had given much consideration to what he was going to say. It was already apparent Miriam did not wish to be found either by the police or by Lucius Stourbridge. If she had trusted Lucius in this matter she would have contacted him long before. Either she was afraid he would betray her to the police or she wanted to protect him.

"Good evening, Mrs. Whitbread," he said firmly. "I have an urgent message from Mrs. Anderson-for Miriam. I need to see her immediately." Cleo Anderson was the one name both women might trust.

She hesitated only a moment, then pulled the door wider.

"You’d better come in," she said quickly. "You never know who’s watching. I had the rozzers ’round where I work just today."

He stepped inside and she closed the door. "I know. It was I who sent them to you. You didn’t tell them anything?"

" ’Course not," she replied, giving him a withering look. "Wouldn’t trust them an inch. Can’t afford to."

He said nothing, but followed her down the passage and around the corner into the kitchen. Standing at the stove, facing them, eyes wide, was the woman he had come to find. He knew immediately it was Miriam Gardiner. She was just as Lucius had described, barely average height, softly rounded figure, a beautifully proportioned, gentle face but with an underlying strength. At first glance she might have seemed a sweet-natured woman, given to obedience and pleasing those she loved, but there was an innate dignity to her that spoke of something far deeper than mere agreeableness, something untouchable by anything except love. Even in those few moments Monk understood why Lucius Stourbridge was prepared to spend so much heartache searching for her, regardless of the truth of James Treadwell’s death.

"Mrs. Gardiner," he said quietly. "I am not from the police. But nor am I from Mrs. Anderson. I lied about that because I feared you would leave before I could speak to you if you knew I came from Lucius Stourbridge."

She froze, oblivious of the pots on the stove steaming till their lids rattled in the silence that filled the room. Her terror was almost palpable in the air.

Monk was aware of Mrs. Whitbread beside him. He saw the fury in her eyes, her body stiff, lips drawn into a thin line. He was grateful the skillet was on the far wall beyond her reach, or he believed she might well have struck him with it.

"I haven’t come to try to take you back to Bayswater," he said quietly, facing Miriam. "Or to the police. If you would prefer that I did not tell Mr. Stourbridge where you are, then I will not. I shall simply tell him that you are alive and unhurt. He is desperate with fear for you, and that will offer him some comfort, although hardly an explanation."

Miriam stared back, her face almost white, an anguish in it that made him feel guilty for what he was doing, and frightened for what he might discover.

"He does not know what to believe," he said softly. "Except that you could and would do no intentional evil."

She drew in her breath, and her eyes spilled over with tears. She wiped the moisture away impatiently, but it was a moment before she could control herself enough to speak.

"I cannot go back." It was a statement of absolute fact. There was no hope in her voice, no possibility of change.

"I can try to keep the police from you," he replied, as if it were the answer to what she had said. "But I may not succeed. They are not far behind me."

Mrs. Whitbread walked around him and went over to the stove, taking the pans off it before they boiled over. She looked across at Monk with bitter dislike.

Miriam stepped out of her way, farther into the middle of the room.

"What happened?" Monk asked as gently as he could.

She coughed a little, clearing her throat. Her voice was husky. "Is Cleo-Mrs. Anderson-all right?"

"Yes." There was no purpose in pointing out Cleo Anderson’s danger if Robb felt she was concealing information or even that it was not coincidence that had taken Treadwell to her front path.

Miriam seemed to relax a little. A faint tinge of color returned to her cheeks.

"Where did you last see Treadwell?" he asked.

Her lips tightened, and she shook her head a tiny fraction, not so much a denial to him as to herself.

He kept his voice low, patient, as devoid of threat as he could.

"You’ll have to answer sometime, if not to me, then to the police. He was murdered, beaten over the head-" He stopped. She had turned so ashen-pale he feared she was going to faint. He lunged forward and caught her by the arms, steadying her, pushing her sideways and backwards into the kitchen chair, for a moment supporting her weight until she sank into it.

"Get out!" Mrs. Whitbread commanded furiously. "You get out of here!" She reached for the rolling pin or the skillet to use on him.

He stood his ground, but wary of her. "Put the kettle on," he ordered. "Sending me away isn’t going to answer this. When the police come, and they will, they’ll not come in friendship as I do. All they will want will be evidence and justice-or what they believe to be justice."

Miriam closed her eyes. It was all she could do to breathe slowly in and out, or to keep consciousness.

Mrs. Whitbread, reluctantly, turned and filled the kettle, putting it on the hob. She eyed Monk guardedly before she took out cups, a teapot, and the round tin caddy. Then she went to the larder for milk, her heels tapping on the stone floor.

Monk sat down opposite Miriam.

"What happened?" he asked. "Where was Treadwell when you last saw him? Was he alive?"

"Yes …" she whispered, opening her eyes, but they were filled with horror so deep the words gave him no comfort at all.

"Were you there when he was killed?"

She shook her head, barely an inch.

"Do you know who killed him or why?"

She said nothing.

Mrs. Whitbread came back with a jug of milk in her hand. She glared at Monk, but she did not interrupt. She crossed the floor and tipped a little boiling water into the pot to warm it.

"Who killed Treadwell?" Monk repeated. "And why?"

Miriam stared at him. "I can’t tell you," she whispered. "I can’t tell you anything. I can’t come with you. Please go away. I can’t help-there’s nothing-nothing I can do."

There was such a terrible, hopeless pain in her voice the argument died on his lips.

The kettle started to shrill. Mrs. Whitbread lifted it off the stove and turned to Monk.

"Go now," she said levelly, her eyes hard. "There’s nothing for you here. Tell Lucius Stourbridge whatever you have to, but go. If you come back, Miriam won’t be here. There’s plenty others who’ll hide her. If Mr. Stourbridge is the friend he says he is, he’ll leave well enough alone. You can see yourself out." She still held the kettle, steam pouring out of its spout. It wasn’t exactly a threat, but Monk did not misunderstand the determination in her.

He rose to his feet, took a last glance at Miriam, then went to the door. Then he remembered Robb and changed his mind. The back kitchen door probably led to an area for coal or coke and then an alleyway.

"I’ll tell Mr. Stourbridge you are alive and well," he said softly. "No more than that. But the police won’t be far behind me, I know that for certain. I’ve been dodging them for the last two days."

Mrs. Whitbread understood his thought. She nodded. "Go left," she ordered. "You’ll come to the street again. Watch for the ash cans."

"Was that all she said?" Hester was incredulous when he recounted to her what had happened. They were in the comfortable room where he received clients and which also served as sitting room. The windows were open to the warm evening air drifting in. There was a rustle of leaves from a tree close by, and in the distance the occasional clip of hooves from the traffic on the street.

"Yes," he answered, looking across at her. She was not sewing, as other women might have been. She did needle-work only as necessity demanded. She was concentrating entirely upon what he was saying, her back straight, her shoulders square, her eyes intent upon his face. All the confusion and tragedy he was aware of could not stifle the deep well of satisfaction within him that underlay everything else. She infuriated him at times; they still disagreed over countless things. He could have listed her faults using the fingers of both hands. And yet as long as she was there, he would never be alone and nothing was beyond bearing.

"What was she like?" she asked.

He was startled. "Like?"

"Yes," she said impatiently. "She didn’t give you any explanations? She didn’t tell you why she ran away from the Stourbridges’ party? You did ask her, I suppose?"

He had not asked. By that point he already knew she would not tell him.

"You didn’t!" Hester’s voice rose an octave.

"She refused to tell me anything," he said clearly. "Except that she was not there when Treadwell was killed. I don’t think she even knew he was dead. When I told her that, she was so horrified she was almost incapable of speech. She all but fainted."

"So she knows something about it!" Hester said instantly.

That was an unwarranted leap of deduction, and yet he had made exactly the same one. He looked across at her and smiled bleakly.

"So you have learned no new facts," she said.

"There’s the fact that Mrs. Whitbread was prepared to fight to defend her, and risk the police coming after her instead," he pointed out. "And the fact that almost certainly Robb will find her, sooner or later." He did not want to tell Hester about Robb’s opinion of him. It was painful, a dark thing he preferred she did not know.

"So, what was she like?" she asked again.

He did not make any evasions or comments on the obscurity of feminine logic.

"I’ve never seen anyone more afraid," he said honestly. "Or more anguished. But I don’t believe she will tell me-or anyone else-what happened or why she is running. Certainly, she won’t tell Lucius Stourbridge."

"What are you going to do?" Her voice was little more than a whisper, and her eyes were full of pity.

He realized he had already made his decision.

"I will tell Stourbridge that I found her and she is alive and well, and that she says she had no part in Treadwell’s death, but I will not tell him where she is. I daresay she will not be there by the time I report to him anyway. I warned her that Robb was close behind me." He did not need to add the risk he took in so doing. Hester knew it.

"Poor woman," she said softly. "Poor woman."