Twisted Root

12

ON SUNDAY EVENING Rathbone went to Fitzroy Street to see Monk. He could stand the uncertainty no longer, and he wanted to share his anxiety and feel less alone in his sense of helplessness.

"Resurrectionists!" he said incredulously when Hester told him of their beliefs regarding Treadwell’s supplementary income.

"Not exactly," Monk corrected him. "Actually, the bodies were never buried, just taken straight from the undertaker’s to the hospital." He was sitting in the large chair beside the fire. The September evenings were drawing in. It was not yet cold, but the flames were comforting. Hester sat hunched forward, hugging herself, her face washed out of all color. She had told Monk of John Robb’s death quite simply and without regret, knowing it to be a release from the bonds of a failing body, but he could see very clearly in her manner that she felt the loss profoundly.

"Saves effort," Monk said, looking across at Rathbone. "Why bury them and then have to go to the trouble and considerable risk of digging them up again if you can simply bury bricks in the first place?"

"And Treadwell carried them?" Rathbone wanted to assure himself he had understood. "Are you cer_tain?"

"Yes. If I had to I could call enough witnesses to leave no doubt."

"And was he blackmailing Fermin Thorpe?"

Monk looked rueful. "That I don’t know. Certainly I’ve no proof, and I hate to admit it, but it seems unlikely. Why would he? He was making a very nice profit in the business. The last thing he would want would be to get Thorpe prosecuted."

The truth of that was unarguable, and Rathbone conceded it. "Have we learned anything that could furnish a defense? I have nowhere even to begin..."

Hester stared at him miserably and shook her head.

"No," Monk said wretchedly. "We could probably get Thorpe to get rid of the charges of theft—at least to drop them—and I would dearly enjoy doing it, but it wouldn’t help with the murder. We don’t have anything but your skill." He looked at Rathbone honestly, and there was a respect in his eyes which at any other time Rathbone would have found very sweet to savor. As it was, all he could think of was that he would have given most of what he possessed if he could have been sure he was worthy of it.

At seven o’clock on Monday morning Rathbone was at the door of Miriam’s cell. A sullen wardress let him in. She had none of the regard or the pity for Miriam that the police jailer had had for Cleo.

The door clanged shut behind him, and Miriam looked up. She was a shadow of her former self. She looked physically bruised, as if her whole body hurt.

There was no time to mince words.

"I am going into battle without weapons," he said simply. "I accept that you would rather sacrifice your own life at the end of a rope than tell me who killed Treadwell and Verona Stourbridge—but are you quite sure you are willing to repay all Cleo Anderson has done for you by sacrificing hers also?"

Miriam looked as if she was going to faint. She had difficulty finding her voice.

"I’ve told you, Sir Oliver, even if you knew, no one would believe you. I could tell you everything, and it would only do more harm. Don’t you think I would do anything on earth to save Cleo if I could? She is the dearest person in the world to me—except perhaps Lucius. And I know how much I owe her. You do not need to remind me as though I were unaware. If I could hang in her place I would! If you can bring that about I will be forever in your debt. I will confess to killing Treadwell—if it will help."

Looking into her wide eyes and ashen face, he believed her. He had no doubt in his mind that she would die with dignity and a quiet heart if she could believe she had saved Cleo. That did not mean Cleo was innocent in fact, only that Miriam loved her, and perhaps that she believed the death sufficiently understandable in the light of Treadwell’s own crimes.

"I will do what I can," he said quietly. "I am not sure if that is worth anything."

She said nothing, but gave him a thin wraith of a smile.

The trial resumed in a half-empty court.

Rathbone was already in his seat when he saw Hester come in, push her way past the court usher with a swift word to which he was still replying as she left him, and come to Rathbone’s table.

"What is it?" he asked, looking at her pale, tense face. "What’s happened?"

"I went to Cleo this morning," she whispered, leaning close to him. "She knows Miriam will hang and there is nothing you can do unless the truth is told. She knows only a part of it, but she cannot bear to lose Miriam, whomever else it hurts—even if it is Lucius and Miriam never forgives her."

"What part?" Rathbone demanded. "What truth does she know? For God’s sake, Hester, tell me! I’ve got nothing!"

"Put Cleo on the witness stand. Ask her how she first met Miriam. She thinks it is something to do with that— something so terrible Miriam can’t or won’t remember it. But there’s nothing to lose now."

"Thank you." Impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, not giving a damn that the judge and the entire court were watching him.

Tobias gave a cough and a smile.

The judge banged his gavel.

Hester blushed fiercely, but with a smile returned to her seat.

"Are you ready to proceed, Sir Oliver?" the judge asked courteously.

"Yes, my lord, I am. I call Mrs. Cleo Anderson."

There was a murmur of interest around the gallery, and several of the jurors shifted position, more from emotional discomfort than physical.

Cleo was escorted from the dock to the witness stand. She stood upright, but it was obviously with difficulty, and she did not look across at Miriam even once. In a soft, unsteady voice she swore to her name and where she lived, then waited with palpable anxiety for Rathbone to begin.

Rathbone hated what he was about to do, but it did not deter him.

"Mrs. Anderson, how long have you lived in your present house on Green Man Hill?"

Quite plainly, she understood the relevance of the question, even though Tobias evidently did not, and his impatience was clear as he allowed his face to express exasperation.

"About thirty years," Cleo replied.

"So you were living there when you first met Mrs. Gardiner?" Rathbone asked.

"Yes." It was little more than a whisper.

The judge leaned forward. "Please speak up, Mrs. Anderson. The jury needs to hear you."

"I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I was living there."

"How long ago was that?"

Tobias rose to his feet. "This is old history, my lord. If it will be of any assistance to Sir Oliver, and to saving the court’s time and not prolonging what can only be painful, rather than merciful, the Crown concedes that Mrs. Anderson took in Mrs. Gardiner when she was little more than a child and looked after her with devotion from that day forward. We do not contest it, nor require any evidence to that effect."

"Thank you," Rathbone said with elaborate graciousness. "That was not my point. If you are as eager as you suggest not to waste the court’s time, then perhaps you would consider not interrupting me until there is some good reason for it?"

There was a titter of nervous laughter around the gallery, and distinct smiles adorned the faces of at least two of the jurors.

A flush of temper lit Tobias’s face, but he masked it again almost immediately.

Rathbone turned back to Cleo.

"Mrs. Anderson, would you please tell us the circumstances of that meeting?"

Cleo spoke with a great effort. It was painfully apparent that the memory was distressing to her and she recalled it only as an act of despair.

Rathbone had very little idea why he was asking her, only that Hester had pressed him to, and he had no other weapon to use.

"It was a night in September, the twenty-second, I think. It was windy, but not cold." She swallowed. Her throat was dry and she began to cough.

At the judge’s request the usher brought her a glass of water, then she continued.

"Old Josh Wetherall, from two doors down, came beating on my door to say there was a young girl, a child, crying on the road, near in hysterics, he said, an’ covered all over in blood. He was beside himself with distress, poor man, and hadn’t an idea what to do to help." She took a deep breath.

No one moved or interrupted her. Even Tobias was silent, although his face still reflected impatience.

"Of course, I went to see what I could do," Cleo continued. "Anyone would, but I suppose he thought I might know a bit more, being a nurse and all."

"And the child?" Rathbone prompted.

Cleo’s hands gripped the rail in front of her as if she needed its strength to hold her up.

"Josh was right, she was in a terrible state..."

"Would you describe her for us?" Rathbone directed her, ignoring Tobias, leaning forward to object. "We need to see it as you saw it, Mrs. Anderson."

She stared at him imploringly, denial in her eyes, in her face, even in the angle of her body.

"We need to see her as you did, Mrs. Anderson. Please believe me, it is important." He was lying. He had no idea whether it meant anything or not, but at least the jury were listening, emotions caught at last.

Cleo was rigid, shaking. "She was hysterical," she said very quietly.

The judge leaned forward to hear, but he did not again request her to raise her voice.

No one in the body of the court moved or made the slightest sound.

Rathbone nodded, indicating she should continue.

"I’ve never seen anyone so frightened in my life," Cleo said, not to Rathbone or to the court, but as if she were speaking aloud what was indelibly within her. "She was covered in blood; her eyes were staring, but I’m not sure she saw anything at all. She staggered and bumped into things and for hours she was unable to speak. She just gasped and shuddered. I’d have felt better if she could have wept."

Again she stopped and the silence lengthened, but no one moved. Even Tobias knew better than to intrude.

"How was she injured?" Rathbone asked finally.

Cleo seemed to recall her attention and looked at him as if she had just remembered he was there.

"How was she injured?" Rathbone repeated. "You said she was covered in blood, and obviously she had sustained some terrible experience."

Cleo looked embarrassed. "We don’t know how it happened, not really. For days she couldn’t say anything that made sense, and the poor child was so terrified no one pressed her. She just lay curled over in my big bed, hugging herself and now and then weeping like her heart was broken, and she was so frightened of any man coming near her we didn’t even like to send for a doctor."

"But the injuries?" Rathbone asked again. "What about the blood?"

Cleo stared beyond him. "She was only wearing a big cotton nightgown. There was blood everywhere, right from her shoulders down. She was bruised and cut..."

"Yes?"

Cleo looked for the first time across at Miriam, and there were tears on her face.

Desperately, Miriam mouthed the word no.

"Mrs. Anderson!" Rathbone said sharply. "Where did the blood come from? If you are really innocent, and if you believe Miriam Gardiner to be innocent, only the truth can save you. This is your last chance to tell it. After the verdict is in you will face nothing but the short days and nights in a cell, too short—and then the rope, and at last the judgment of God."

Tobias rose to his feet.

Rathbone turned on him. "Do you quarrel with the truth of that, Mr. Tobias?" he demanded.

Tobias stared at him, his face set and angry.

"Mr. Tobias?" the judge prompted.

"No, of course I don’t," Tobias conceded, sitting down again.

Rathbone turned back to Cleo. "I repeat, Mrs. Anderson, where did the blood come from? You are a nurse. You must have some rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. Do not tell us that you did nothing to help this blood-soaked, terrified child except give her a clean nightshirt!"

"Of course I helped her!" Cleo sobbed. "The poor little mite had just given birth—and she was only a child herself. Stillborn, I reckoned it was."

"Is that what she told you?"

"She was rambling. She hardly made any sense. In and out of her wits, she was. She got a terrible fever, and we weren’t sure we could even save her. Often enough women die of fever after giving birth, especially if they’ve had a bad time of it. And she was too young—far too young, poor little thing."

Rathbone was taking a wild guess now. So far this was all tragic, but it had nothing to do with the deaths of either Treadwell or Verona Stourbridge. Unless, of course, Treadwell had blackmailed Miriam over the child. But would Lucius care? Would such a tragedy be enough to stop him from wanting to marry her? Or his family from allowing it?

Rathbone had done her no service yet. He had nothing to lose by pressing the story as far as it could go.

"You must have asked her what happened," he said grimly. "What did she say? If nothing else, the law would require some explanation. What about her own family? What did they do, Mrs. Anderson, with this injured and hysterical child whose story made no sense to you?"

Cleo’s face tightened, and she looked at Rathbone more defiantly.

"I didn’t tell the police. What was there to tell them? I asked her her name, of course, and if she had family who’d be looking for her. She said there was no one, and who was I to argue with that? She was one of eight, and her family’d placed her in service in a good house."

"And the child?" Rathbone had to ask. "What manner of man gets a twelve-year-old girl with child? She would have been twelve when it was conceived. Did he abandon her?"

Cleo’s face was ashen. Rathbone did not dare look at Miriam. He could not even imagine what she must be enduring, having to sit in the dock and listen to this, and see the faces of the court and the jury. He wondered if she would look at Harry or Lucius Stourbridge, or Aiden Camp_- bell, who were sitting together in the front of the body of the court. Perhaps this was worse than anything she had yet endured. But if she were to survive, if Cleo were to survive, it was necessary.

"Mrs. Anderson?"

"He never cared for her," Cleo said quietly. "She said he raped her, several times. That was how she got with child."

One of the jurors gasped. Another clenched his fist and banged it short and hard on the rail in front of him. It must have hurt, but he was too outraged even to be conscious of it.

Lucius started to his feet and then subsided again, helpless to know what to do.

"But the child was stillborn," Rathbone said in the silence.

"I reckoned so," Cleo agreed.

"And what was Miriam doing alone on the Heath in such a state?"

Cleo shook her head as if to deny the truth, drive it away.

Tobias was staring at her.

As if aware of him, she looked again at Rathbone imploringly. But it was for Miriam, not for herself. He was absolutely sure of that.

"What did she say?" he asked.

Cleo looked down. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"That she had fled from the house with a woman, and that the woman had tried to protect her, and the woman had been murdered... out there on the Heath."

Rathbone was stunned. His imagination had conjured many possibilities, but not this. It took him a moment to collect his wits. He did not mean to look at Miriam, but in spite of himself he did.

She was sitting white-faced with her eyes shut. She must have been aware that every man and woman in the room was staring at her, and felt that her only hiding place was within herself. He saw in her face pain almost beyond her power to bear—but no surprise. She had known what Cleo was going to say. That, more than anything else, made him believe it absolutely. Whether it had happened or not, whether there was any woman, whether it was the illusion of a tormented and hysterical girl in the delirium of fever, Miriam believed it to be the truth.

Rathbone looked at Hester and saw her wide-eyed amazement also. She had known there was something—but not this.

He asked the question the whole court was waiting to hear answered.

"And was this woman’s body found, Mrs. Anderson?"

"No..."

"You did look?"

"Of course, we did. We all looked. Every man in the street."

"But you never found it?"

"No."

"And Miriam couldn’t take you to it? Again—I presume you asked her? It is hardly a matter you could let slip."

She looked at him angrily. "Of course, we didn’t let it slip! She said it was by an oak tree, but the Heath is full of oaks. When we couldn’t find anything in a week of looking, we took it she was out of her wits with all that had happened to her. People see all sorts of things when they’ve been ill, let alone in the grief of having a dead child—and her only a child herself." Her contempt for him rang through her words, and he felt the sting of it even though he was doing what he must.

Tobias was sitting at his table shaking his head.

"So you assumed she had imagined at least that part of her experience—her nightmare—and you let it drop?" he pressed.

"Yes, of course we did. It took her months to get better, and when she was, we were all so glad of it we never mentioned it again. Why should we? Nobody else ever did. No one came looking for anybody. The police were asked if anyone was missing."

"And what about Miriam? Did you tell the police you had found her? After all, she was only thirteen herself by then."

"Of course, we told them. She wasn’t missing from anywhere, and they were only too pleased that someone was looking after her."

"And she remained with you?"

"Yes. She grew up a beautiful girl." She said it with pride. Her love for Miriam was so plain in her face and her voice, no words could have spoken as clearly. "When she was nineteen, Mr. Gardiner started courting her. Very slow, very gentle, he was with her. We knew he was a good bit older than she was, but she didn’t mind, and that was all that mattered. If he made her happy, that was all I cared."

"And they were married?"

"Yes, a while later. And a very good husband he was to her, too."

"And then he died?"

"Yes. Very sad, that was. Died young, even though he was older than her, of course. Took an attack and was gone in a matter of days. She missed him very badly."

"Until she met Lucius Stourbridge?"

"Yes—but that was three years after."

"But she had no children with Mr. Gardiner?"

"No." Her voice was torn. "That was one blessing she wasn’t given. Only the good Lord knows why. It happens, more often than you’d think."

Tobias rose to his feet with exaggerated weariness.

"My lord, we have listened with great indulgence to this life story of Miriam Gardiner, and while we have every sympathy with her early experiences, whatever the truth of them may be, it all has no bearing whatever to the death of James Treadwell, or that of Verona Stourbridge—except as it may, regrettably, have provided the wretched Treadwell with more fuel for his blackmailing schemes. If he knew of this first child of Mrs. Gardiner’s, perhaps he felt the Stourbridge family would be less willing to accept her—a victim of rape, or whatever else it may have been."

A look of distaste passed across the judge’s face, but Tobias’s point was unarguable and he knew it.

"Sir Oliver?" he said questioningly. "It does seem that you have done more to advance Mr. Tobias’s case than your own. Have you further points to put to your client?"

Rathbone had no idea what to say. He was desperate.

"Yes, my lord, if you please."

"Then proceed, but make it pertinent to the events we are here to try."

"Yes, my lord." He turned to Cleo. "Did you believe that she had been raped, Mrs. Anderson? Or do you perhaps think she was no better than she should be and..."

"She was thirteen," Cleo said furiously. "Twelve when it happened. Of course, I believed she had been raped! She was half out of her mind with terror!"

"Of whom? The man who raped her—then, nine months afterwards? Why?"

"Because he tried to kill her!" Cleo shouted.

Rathbone feigned surprise. "She told you that?"

"Yes!"

"And what did you do about it? There was a man somewhere near the Heath who had raped this girl you took in and treated as your own, and then he subsequently tried to murder her—and you never found him? In God’s name, why not?"

Cleo was shaking, gasping for breath, and Rathbone was afraid he had driven her too far.

"I believed she’d been raped—or seduced," Cleo said in a whisper. "But God forgive me, I thought the attack was all jumbled up in her mind because of having a dead baby, poor little thing."

"Until ... ?" Rathbone said urgently, raising his voice. "Until she came running to you again, close to hysteria and terrified. And there was really a dead body on the Heath this time—James Treadwell! Who was she running from, Mrs. Anderson?"

The silence was total.

A juror coughed, and it sounded like an explosion.

"Was it James Treadwell?" Rathbone threw the question down like a challenge.

"No!"

"Then whom?"

Silence.

The judge leaned forward. "If you wish us to believe that it was not James Treadwell, Mrs. Anderson, then you must tell us who it was."

Cleo swallowed convulsively. "Aiden Campbell."

If she had set off a bomb it could not have had more effect.

Rathbone was momentarily paralyzed.

There was a roar from the gallery.

The jurors turned to each other, exclaiming, gasping.

The judge banged his gavel and demanded order.

"My lord!" Rathbone said, raising his voice. "May I ask for the luncheon adjournment so I can speak with my client?"

"You may," the judge agreed, and banged the gavel again. "The court will reconvene at two o’clock."

Rathbone left the courtroom in a daze and walked like a man half blind down to the room where Miriam Gardiner was permitted to speak with him.

She did not even turn her head when the door opened and he came in, the jailer remaining on the outside.

"Was it Aiden Campbell you were running from?" he asked.

She said nothing, sitting motionless, head turned away.

"Why?" he persisted. "What had he done to you?"

Silence.

"Was he the one who attacked you originally?" His voice was growing louder and more shrill in his desperation. "For heaven’s sake, answer me! How can I help you if you won’t speak to me?" He leaned forward over the small table, but still she did not turn. "You will hang!" he said deliberately.

"I know," she answered at last.

"And Cleo Anderson!" he added.

"No—I will say I killed Treadwell, too. I will swear it on the stand. They’ll believe me, because they want to. None of them wants to condemn Cleo."

It was true, and he knew it as well as she did.

"You’ll say that on the stand?"

"Yes."

"But it is not true!"

This time she turned and met his eyes fully. "You don’t know that, Sir Oliver. You don’t know what happened. If I say it is so, will you contradict your own client? You must be a fool—it is what they want to hear. They will believe it."

He stared back at her, momentarily beaten. He had the feeling that were there any heart left alive in her, she would have smiled at him. He knew that if he did not call her to testify, then she would ask the judge from the dock for permission to speak, and he would grant it. There was no argument to make.

He left, and had a miserable luncheon of bread which tasted to him like sawdust, and claret which could as well have been vinegar.

Rathbone had no choice but to call Aiden Campbell to the stand. If he had not, then most assuredly Tobias would have. At least this way he might retain a modicum of control.

The court was seething with anticipation. Word seemed to have spread during the luncheon adjournment, because now every seat was taken and the ushers had had to ban more people from crowding in.

The judge called them to order, and Rathbone rose to begin.

"I call Aiden Campbell, my lord."

Campbell was white-faced but composed. He must have known that this was inevitable, and he had had almost two hours to prepare himself. He stood now facing Rathbone, a tall, straight figure, tragically resembling both his dead sister and his nephew, Lucius, who was sitting beside his father more like a ghost than a living being. Every now and again he stared up at Miriam, but never once had Rathbone seen Miriam return his look.

"Mr. Campbell," Rathbone began as soon as Campbell had been reminded that he was still under oath. "An extraordinary charge has been laid against you by the last witness. Are you willing to respond to this—"

"I am," Campbell interrupted in his eagerness to reply. "I had hoped profoundly that this would never be necessary. Indeed, I have gone to some lengths to see that it would not, for the sake of my family, and out of a sense of decency and the desire to bury old tragedies and allow them to remain unknown in the present, where they cannot hurt innocent parties." He glanced at Lucius, and away again. His meaning was nakedly apparent.

"Mrs. Anderson has sworn that Miriam Gardiner claimed it was you she was running away from when she fled the party at Cleveland Square. Is that true?" Rathbone asked.

Campbell looked distressed. "Yes," he said quietly. He shook his head a fraction. "I cannot tell you how deeply I had hoped not to have to say this. I knew Miriam Gardiner— Miriam Speake, as she was then—when she was twelve years old. She was a maid in my household when I lived near Hampstead."

There was a rustle of movement and the startled sound of indrawn breath around the room.

Campbell looked across at Harry Stourbridge and Lucius.

"I’m sorry," he said fervently. "I cannot conceal this any longer. Miriam lived in my house for about eighteen months, or something like that. Of course, she recognized me at the garden party, and must have been afraid that I would know her also, and tell you." He was still speaking to Harry Stourbridge, as if this were a private matter between them.

"Obviously, you did not tell them," Rathbone observed, bringing his attention back to the business of the court. "Why would it trouble her so much that she would flee in such a manner, as if terrified rather than merely embarrassed? Surely the Stourbridge family was already aware that she came from a different social background? Was this so terrible?"

Campbell sighed, and hesitated several moments before replying.

Rathbone waited.

There was barely a movement in the courtroom.

"Mr. Campbell..." the judge prompted.

Campbell bit his lips. "Yes, my lord. It pains me deeply to say this, but Miriam Speake was a loose woman. Even at the age of twelve she was without moral conscience."

There was a gasp from Harry Stourbridge. Lucius half rose in his seat, but his legs seemed to collapse under him.

"I’m sorry," Campbell said again. "She was very pretty— very comely for one so young... and I find it repugnant to have to say so, but very experienced—"

Again he was interrupted by an outcry from the gallery.

Several jurors were shaking their heads. A couple of them glanced towards the dock with grim disappointment. Rathbone knew absolutely that they believed every word. He himself looked up at Miriam and saw her bend her ashen face and cover it with her hands as if she could not endure what she was hearing.

In calling Aiden Campbell, Rathbone had removed what ghost of a defense she had had. He felt as if he had impaled himself on his own sword. Everyone in the room was watching him, waiting for him to go on. Hester must be furious at this result, and pity him for his incompetence. The pity was worse.

Tobias was shaking his head in sympathy for a fellow counsel drowning in a storm of his own making.

Campbell was waiting. Rathbone must say something more. Nothing he could imagine would make it worse. At least he had nothing to lose now and therefore also nothing to fear.

"This is your opinion, Mr. Campbell? And you believe that Mrs. Gardiner, now a very respectable widow in her thirties, was so terrified that you would express this unfortunate view of her childhood and ruin the prospective happiness of your nephew?"

"Hardly unreasonable," Tobias interrupted. "What man would not tell his sister whom he loved that her only son was engaged to marry a maid no better than a whore?"

"But he didn’t!" Rathbone exclaimed. "He told no one! In fact, you first heard him apologize to his brother-in-law this moment for saying it now." He swung around. "Why was that, Mr. Campbell? If she was such a woman as you describe—should I say, such a child—why did you not warn your family rather than allow her to marry into it? If what you say is true..."

"It is true," Campbell said gravely. "The state she was in that Mrs. Anderson described fits, regrettably, with what I know of her." His hands gripped the rail of the witness box in front of him. He seemed to hold it as if to steady himself from shaking. He had difficulty finding his voice. "She seduced one of my servants, a previously decent man, who fell into temptation too strong for him to resist. I considered dismissing him, but his work was excellent, and he was bitterly ashamed of his lapse from virtue. It would have ruined him at the start of his life." He stopped for a moment.

Rathbone waited.

"I did not know at the time," Campbell went on with obvious difficulty. "But she was with child. She had it aborted."

There was an outcry in the courtroom. A woman shrieked. There was a commotion as someone apparently collapsed.

The judge banged his gavel, but it made little impression.

Miriam made as if to rise to her feet, but the jailers on either side of her pulled her back.

Rathbone looked at the jury. To a man their faces were marked deeply with shock and utter and savage contempt.

The judge banged his gavel again. "I will have order!" he said angrily. "Otherwise the ushers will clear the court!"

Tobias looked across at Rathbone and shook his head.

When the noise subsided, and before Rathbone could speak, Campbell continued. "That must be the reason that she was bleeding when Mrs. Anderson found her wandering around on the Heath." He shook his head as if to deny what he was about to say, somehow reduce the harshness of it. "At first I didn’t want to put her out either. She was so young. I thought—one mistake—and it had been a rough abortion— she was still..." He shrugged. Then he raised his head and looked at Rathbone. "But she kept on, always tempting the men, flirting with them, setting one against the other. She enjoyed the power she had over them. I had no choice but to put her out."

There was a murmur of sympathy around the court, and a rising tide of anger also. One or two men swore under their breath. Two jurors spoke to each other. They glanced up at the dock. The condemnation in their faces was unmistakable.

A journalist was scribbling furiously.

Tobias looked at Rathbone and smiled sympathetically, but without hiding his knowledge of his own victory. He asked no quarter for himself when he lost, and he gave none.

"I wish I had not had to say that." Campbell was looking at Rathbone. "I hesitated to tell Harry before because at first I was not even totally sure it was the same person. It seemed incredible, and of course, she had aged a great deal in twenty-three years. I didn’t want to think it was her... you understand that? I suppose I finally acknowledged that it had to be when I saw that she also recognized me."

There was nothing for Rathbone to say, nothing left to ask. It was the last result he could have foreseen, and presumably Hester would feel as disillusioned and as empty as he did himself. He sat down utterly dejected.

Tobias rose and walked into the middle of the floor, swaggering a little. Beating Oliver Rathbone was a victory to be savored, even when it had been ridiculously easy.

"Mr. Campbell, there is very little left for me to ask. You have told us far more than we could have imagined." He looked across at Rathbone. "I think that goes for my learned friend as much as for me. However, I do wish to tidy up any details that there may be ... in case Mrs. Gardiner decides to take the stand herself and make any charges against you, as suggested by Mrs. Anderson—who may be as unaware of Mrs. Gardiner’s youthful exploits as were the rest of us."

Campbell did not reply but waited for Tobias to continue.

"Mrs. Gardiner fled when she realized that you had recognized her—at least that is your assumption?"

"Yes."

"Did you follow her?"

"No, of course not. I had no reason to."

"You remained at the party?"

"Not specifically at the party. I remained at Cleveland Square. I was very upset about the matter. I moved a little farther off in the garden, to be alone and think what to do... and what to say when the rest of the family would inevitably discover that she had gone."

"And what did you decide, Mr. Campbell?"

"To say nothing," Campbell answered. "I knew this story would hurt them all profoundly. They were very fond of Miriam. Lucius was in love with her as only a young and idealistic man can be. I believe it was his first love ..." He left the sentence hanging, allowing each man to remember his own first awakenings of passion, dreams, and perhaps loss.

"I see," Tobias said softly. "Only God can know whether that decision was the right one, but I can well understand why you made it. I am afraid I must press you further on just one issue."

"Yes?"

"The coachman, James Treadwell. Why do you think she left with him?"

"He was the servant in the house she knew the best," Campbell replied. "I gather he had driven her from Hampstead a number of times. I shall not speculate that it was anything more than that."

"Very charitable of you," Tobias observed. "Considering your knowledge of her previous behavior with menservants."

Campbell narrowed his lips, but he did not answer.

"Tell me," Tobias continued, "how did this wretched coachman know of Mrs. Anderson’s stealing of hospital supplies?"

"I have no idea." Campbell sounded surprised, then his face fell. He shook his head. "No—I don’t believe Miriam told him. She was conniving, manipulative, greedy—but no. Unless it was by accident, not realizing what he would do with the information."

"Would it not be the perfect revenge?" Tobias asked smoothly. "Her marriage to Lucius Stourbridge is now impossible because she knows you will never allow it. Treadwell is ruining her friend and benefactress, to whom she must now return. In rage and defeat, and even desperation, she strikes out at him! What could be more natural?"

"I suppose so," Campbell conceded.

Tobias turned to the judge. "My lord, this is surely sufficient tragedy for one day. If it pleases the court, I would like to suggest we may adjourn until tomorrow, when Sir Oliver may put forward any other evidence he feels may salvage his case. Personally, I have little more to add."

The judge looked at Rathbone enquiringly, but his gavel was already in his hand.

Rathbone had no weapons and no will to fight any further.

"Certainly, my lord," he said quietly. "By all means."

Rathbone had barely left the courtroom when he was approached by the usher.

He did not wish to speak to anyone. He was tasting the full bitterness of a defeat he knew he had brought upon himself. He dreaded facing Hester and seeing her disillusion. She would not blame him. He was certain she would not be angry. Her kindness would be even harder to bear.

"What is it?" he said brusquely.

"Sorry, Sir Oliver," the usher apologized. "Mrs. Anderson asked if you would speak with her, sir. She said it was most important."

The only thing worse than facing Hester was going to be telling Cleo Anderson that there was nothing more he could attempt on her behalf. He drew in his breath. It could not be evaded. If victory could be accepted and celebrated, then defeat must be dealt with with equal composure, and at the very least without cowardice or excuses.

"Of course," he replied. "Thank you, Morris." He turned and was a dozen yards along the corridor when Hester caught up with him. He had no idea what to say to her. There was no comfort to offer, no next line of attack to suggest.

She fell into step with him and said nothing.

He glanced at her, then away again, grateful for her silence. He had not seen Monk, and assumed he was on some other business.

Cleo was waiting in the small room with the jailer outside. She was standing facing them, and she stepped forward as soon as Rathbone closed the door.

"He’s lying," she said, looking from one to the other of them.

He was embarrassed. It was futile to protest now, and he had not the emotional strength to struggle with her. It was over.

He shook his head. "I’m sure you want to believe—"

"It has nothing to do with belief! I saw her then. She wasn’t aborted. She’d gone full term." She was angry now with his lack of understanding. "I’m a nurse. I know the difference between a woman who’s given birth and one who’s lost her child or done away with it in the first few months. That child was born—dead or alive. The size of her—and she had milk, poor little thing." She swallowed. "How she wept for it..."

"So Campbell is lying!" Hester said, moving forward to Cleo. "But why?"

"To hide what he did to her," Cleo said furiously. "He must have raped her, and when she was with child he threw her out." She looked from Hester to Rathbone. "Though he didn’t even notice her condition. Who looks at housemaids, especially ones who are barely more than children themselves? Perhaps he’d already got tired of her—moved on to someone else? Or if he thought she’d had it aborted, and only then realized she hadn’t, to avoid the scandal."

"It wouldn’t be much of a scandal," Hester said sadly. "If she was foolish enough to say it was his, he would simply deny it. No one would be likely to believe her... or frankly, care that much even if they did. It isn’t worth murdering anyone over."

Cleo’s face crumpled, but she refused to give in. "What about the body?"

"Which body?" Rathbone was confused. "The baby?"

"No—no, the woman!"

"What woman?"

"The woman Miriam saw murdered the night her baby was born. The woman on the Heath."

Rathbone was still further confused. "Who was she?"

Cleo shook her head. "I don’t know. Miriam said she had been murdered. She saw it—that was what she was running away from."

"But who was the woman?"

"I don’t know!"

"Was there ever a body found? What happened? Didn’t the police ask?"

Cleo waved her hands in denial, her eyes desperate. "No— no body was ever found. He must have hidden it."

It was all pointless, completely futile. Rathbone felt a sense of despair drowning him as if he could hardly struggle for breath, almost a physical suffocation.

"You said yourself that she was hysterical." He tried to sound reasonable, not patronizing or offensive to a woman who must be facing the most bitter disillusion imaginable, and for which she would face disgrace she had not deserved, and a death he could not save her from. "Don’t you think the loss of her baby was what she was actually thinking of? Was it a girl?"

"I don’t know. She didn’t say." Cleo looked as if she had caught his despair. "She seemed so—so sure it was a woman... someone she cared for... who had helped her, even loved her... I—" She stopped, too weary, too hurt, to go on.

"I’m sorry," Rathbone said gently. "You were right to tell me about the baby. If Campbell was lying, at least we may be able to make something of that. Even if we do no more than save Miriam’s reputation, I am sure that will matter to her." He was making wild promises and talking nonsense. Would Miriam care about such a thing when she faced death?

He banged on the door to be released again, and as soon as they were outside he turned to Hester.

But before he could begin to say how sorry he was, she spoke.

"If this woman really was killed, then her body must still be there."

"Hester—she was delirious, probably weak from loss of blood and in a state of acute distress from delivering a dead child."

"Maybe. But perhaps she really did see a woman murdered," Hester insisted. "If the body was never found, then it is out there on the Heath."

"For twenty-two years! On Hampstead Heath! For heaven’s sake..."

"Not in the open! Buried—hidden somewhere."

"Well, if it’s buried no one would find it now."

"Perhaps it’s not buried." She refused to give up. "Perhaps it’s hidden somehow, concealed."

"Hester..."

"I’m going to find Sergeant Robb and see if he will help me look."

"You can’t. After all this time there’ll be nothing..."

"I’ve got to try. What if there really was a woman murdered? What if Miriam was telling the truth all the time?"

"She isn’t!"

"But what if she was? She’s your client, Oliver! You’ve got to give her the benefit of every doubt. You must assume that what she says is true until it is completely proved it can’t be."

"She was thirteen, she’d just given birth to a dead child, she was alone and hysterical..."

"I’m going to find Sergeant Robb. He’ll help me look, whatever he believes, for Cleo’s sake. He owes her a debt he can never repay, and he knows that."

"And doubtless if he should forget, you will remind him."

"Certainly!" she agreed. "But he won’t forget."

"What about Monk?" he challenged her as she turned to leave.

"He’s still busy trying to find out more about Treadwell and the corpses," she said over her shoulder.

"Hester, wait!"

But she had walked off, increasing her pace to a run, and short of chasing after her there was nothing he could do— except try to imagine how he was going to face the court the next morning.

Michael Robb was sitting alone in the room where until recently his grandfather had spent his days. The big chair was still there, as if the old man might come back to it one day, and there was a startling emptiness without him.

"Mrs. Monk," Robb said with surprise. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Everything is wrong," she answered, remaining standing in spite of his invitation to sit. "Cleo is going to be convicted unless we can find some sort of evidence that Miriam also is innocent, and our only chance of that is to find the body of the woman..."

"What woman? Just a minute!" He held up his hand. "What has happened in court? I wasn’t there."

With words falling over each other, she told him about Rathbone’s calling Cleo to the stand and her story of how she had first met Miriam, and then Aiden Campbell’s denial and explanation.

"We’ve got to find the woman that Miriam said was murdered," she finished desperately. "That would prove what she said was true! At least they would have to investigate."

"She’s been out there for twenty-two years," he protested. "If she exists at all!"

"Can you think of anything better?" she demanded.

"No—but..."

"Then, help me! We’ve got to go and look!"

He hesitated only a moment. She could see in his face that he considered it hopeless, but he was feeling lonely and guilty because Cleo had helped him in the way he valued the most and he could do nothing for her. Silently, he picked up his bull’s-eye lantern and followed her out into the gathering dusk.

Side by side they walked towards Green Man Hill and the row of cottages where Cleo Anderson had lived until her arrest. They stopped outside, facing the Heath. It was now almost dark; only the heavy outlines of the trees showed black against the sky.

"Where do you think we should start?" Robb asked.

She was grateful he had spoken of them as together, not relegating the search to her idea in which he was merely obliging her.

She had been thinking about it as they had traveled in silence.

"It cannot have been very far," she said, staring across the grass. "She was not in a state to run a distance. If the poor woman really was murdered—beaten to death, as Miriam apparently said—then whoever did so would not have committed such an act close to the road." She pushed away the thought, refusing to allow the pictures into her mind. "Even if it was a single blow—and please God it was—it cannot have been silent. There must have been a quarrel, an accusation or something. Miriam was there; she saw it. She, at least, must have cried out—and then fled."

He was staring at her, and in the light of the lantern she saw him nodding slowly, his face showing his revulsion at what she described.

"Whoever it was could not follow her," she went on relentlessly. "Because he was afraid of being caught. First he had to get rid of the body of the woman—"

"Mrs. Monk... are you sure you believe this is possible?" he interrupted.

She was beginning to doubt it herself, but she refused to give up.

"Of course!" she said sharply. "We are going to prove it. If you had just killed someone, and you knew a girl had seen you, and she had run away, perhaps screaming, how would you hide a body so quickly that if anyone heard and came to see, they would not find anything at all?"

His eyes widened. He opened his lips to argue, then began to think. He walked across the grass towards the first trees and stared around him.

"Well, I wouldn’t have time to dig a grave," he said slowly. "The ground is hard and full of roots. And anyway, someone would very quickly notice disturbed earth."

He walked a little farther, and she followed after him quickly.

Above them something swooped in the darkness on broad wings. Involuntarily, she gave a little shriek.

"It’s only an owl," he said reassuringly.

She swung around. "Where did it go?"

"One of the trees," he replied. He lifted the lantern and began shining it around, lighting the trunks one after another. They looked pale gray against the darkness, and the shadows seemed to move beyond them as the lantern waved.

She was acutely glad she was not alone. She imagined what Miriam must have felt like, her child lost, a woman she loved killed in front of her, and herself pursued and hunted, bleeding, terrified. No wonder she was all but out of her mind when Cleo found her.

"We’ve got to keep on looking," she said fiercely. "We must exhaust every possibility. If the body is here, we are going to find it!" She strode forward, hitching up her skirts so as not to fall over them. "You said he wouldn’t have buried it. He couldn’t leave it in plain sight, or it would have been found. And it wasn’t. So he hid it so successfully it never was found. Where?"

"In a tree," he replied. "It has to be. There’s nowhere else!"

"Up a tree? But someone would find it in time!" she protested. "It would rot. It..."

"I know," he said hastily, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the idea. He moved the lantern ahead of them, picking out undergrowth and more trees. A weasel ran across the path, its lean body bright in the beam for a moment, then it disappeared.

"Animals would get rid of it in time, wouldn’t they?"

"In time, yes."

"Well, it’s been over twenty years! What would be left now? Bones? Teeth?"

"Hair," he said. "Perhaps clothes, jewelry, buttons. Boots, maybe."

She shuddered.

He looked at her, shining the light a little below her face not to dazzle her.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Monk?" he said gently. "I can go on my own, if you like. I’ll take you back and then come back here again. I promise I will..."

She smiled at his earnestness. "I know you would, but I am quite all right, thank you. Let’s go forward."

He hesitated for a moment, still uncertain, then as she did not waver, he shone the lantern ahead of them and started.

They walked together for forty or fifty yards, searching to left and right for any place that could be used for concealment. She found herself feeling more and more as if she was wasting her time—and more important, Robb’s time as well. She had believed Miriam’s story because she wanted to, for Cleo’s sake, not because it was really credible.

"Sergeant Robb," she began.

He turned around, the beam of light swinging across the two trees to their right. It caught for a moment on a tangle in the lower branches.

"What’s that?" he said quickly.

"An old bird’s nest," she replied. "Last year’s, by the look of it."

He played the light on it, then moved forward to look more closely.

"What?" she asked, with curiosity more than hope. "Clever how they weave them, isn’t it? Especially since they haven’t got any hands."

He passed her the lantern. "Hold this onto it, please. I want to take a closer look."

"At a bird’s nest?" But she did as he requested, and kept the light steady.

With hands free it was easy enough for him to climb up until he was level with the nest and peer inside where it was caught in a fork in the branches, close to the trunk.

"What is it?" she called up.

He turned around, his face a shadowed mask in the upturned beam.

"Hair," he answered her. "Long hair, lots of it. The whole nest is lined with hair." His voice was shaking. "I’m going to look for a hollow tree. You just hold the light, and keep your eyes away."

She felt a lurch inside. She had no longer believed it, and now here it was. They were almost there—in the next half hour—more or less...

"Yes," she said unsteadily. "Yes, of course."

Actually, it took him only fifteen minutes to find the tree with the hollow core, blasted by some ancient lightning and now rotted. It was closer to the road than the nest, but the spread of branches hid the hole until it was deliberately sought. Perhaps twenty-two years ago it had been more obvious. The entire tree was hollow down the heart.

"It’s in there," Robb said huskily, climbing down again, the lantern tied to his belt. His legs were shaking when he reached the ground. "It’s only a skeleton, but there’s still cloth left..." He blinked, and his face looked yellow-gray in the beam. "From the head, she was killed by one terrible blow... like Treadwell... and Mrs. Stourbridge."