The Twisted Root (12 page)

"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.