The Twisted Root (19 page)

"It is not the cost, Mr. Stourbridge," Monk answered slowly, fighting his common sense and everything his intelligence told him. "Please come in.

"It is a matter of what is possible. I have already spoken to her," he continued as Lucius followed him into the sitting room. "She will not tell me anything of what occurred. All she would say was that she did not kill Treadwell."

"Of course she didn’t," Lucius protested, still standing. "We must save her from ..." He could not bear to use the word. "We must defend her. I ... I don’t know how, or ..." He trailed off. "But I know your reputation, Mr. Monk. If any man in London can help, it is you."

"If you know my reputation, then you know I will not conceal the truth if find it," Monk warned. "Even if it is not what you wish to hear."

Lucius lifted his chin. "It may not be what I wish to hear, Mr. Monk, but it will not be that Miriam killed Treadwell in any unlawful way. I believe it was someone else, but she dares not say so because she is afraid of him, either for herself or for someone else." His voice shook a little. "But if she brought about his death herself, then it was either an accident or she was defending herself from some threat which was too immediate and too gross to endure."

Monk held very little hope of such a comfortable solution. If that was the case, why had Miriam not simply said so? She would not be blamed for defending her virtue. More sharply etched in his mind were the images of Treadwell’s head and his scarred knees, but no other injury at all. He had not been involved in a struggle with anyone. He had been hit one mighty blow which had caused him to bleed to death within his skull in a very short while. During that time he had crawled from wherever the attack had taken place, probably seeking help. He knew the area. Perhaps he even knew Cleo Anderson was a nurse and had tried to reach her. Had Miriam simply watched him crawl away without making any attempt to help? Why had she not at least reported the incident, if she was in any way justified? Hiding was not the action of an honorable woman, the victim of an attack herself.

Further, and perhaps even more damning, what could she possibly have had at hand with which to inflict such a blow, and how had Treadwell, if he had been threatening her, had his back to her?

"Mr. Stourbridge," he said grimly, "I have no idea whether I can find the truth of what happened. If you wish, I can try. But I hold far less hope than you do that it will be anything you can bear to believe. The facts so far do not indicate her innocence."

Lucius was very pale. "Then find more facts, Mr. Monk. By the time you have them all, they will prove her honor. I know her." It was a blind statement of belief, and his face allowed no argument, no appeal to a lesser thing like reason.

Monk would like to have asked him to wait and thus give himself time to consider all the consequences, but there was no time. Robb would be looking already. The Crown would prosecute as soon as it had sufficient evidence, whether it was the whole story or not. There was nothing on which to mount any defense.

"Are you quite sure?" he tried one more time, useless as he knew it.

"Yes," Lucius replied instantly. "I have twenty guineas here, and will give you more as you need it. Anything at all, just ask me." He held out a soft leather pouch of coins, thrusting it at Monk.

Monk did not immediately take the money. "The first thing will be your practical help. If Treadwell’s death was not caused by Miriam, then it is either a chance attack, which I cannot believe, or it is to do with his own life and character. I will begin by learning all I can about that. It will also keep me from following Sergeant Robb’s footsteps and perhaps appearing to him to be obstructing his path. Additionally, if I do learn anything, I have a better chance of keeping the option of either telling him or not, as seems to our best advantage."

"Yes ... yes," Lucius agreed, obviously relieved to have some course of action at last. "What can I do?" He gave a tiny shrug. "I tried to think of what manner of man Treadwell was, and could answer nothing. I saw him almost every day. He’s dead, killed by God knows whom, and I can’t give an intelligent answer."

"I didn’t expect you to tell me from your observation," Monk assured him. "I would like to speak to the other servants, then discover what I can of Treadwell’s life outside Bayswater. I would rather learn that before the police, if I can."

"Of course," Lucius agreed. "Thank you, Mr. Monk. I shall be forever in your debt. If there is anything—"

Monk stopped him. "Please don’t thank me until I have earned it. I may find nothing further, or worse still, what I find may be something you would have been happier not to know."

"I have to know," Lucius said simply. "Until tomorrow morning, Mr. Monk."

"Good day, Mr. Stourbridge," Monk replied, walking towards the door to open it for him.

Monk was in the house in Cleveland Square by ten o’clock the next morning, and with Lucius’s help he questioned the servants, both indoor and outdoor, about James Treadwell. They were reluctant to speak of him at all, let alone to speak ill, but he read in their faces, and in the awkwardness of their phrases, that Treadwell had not been greatly liked-but he had been respected because he did his job well.

A picture emerged of a man who gave little of himself, whose sense of humor was more founded in cruelty than goodwill, but who was sufficiently sensible of the hierarchy within the household not to overstep his place or wound too many feelings. He knew how to charm, and was occasionally generous when he won at gambling, which was not infrequently.

No maid reported any unwelcome attentions. Nothing had gone missing. He never blamed anyone else for his very few errors.

Monk searched his room, which was still empty as no replacement for him had yet been employed. All his possessions were there as he had left them. It was neat, but there was a book on horse racing open on the bedside table, a half-open box of matches beside the candle on the window-sill, and a smart waistcoat hung over the back of the upright chair. It was the room of a man who had expected to return.

Monk examined the clothes and boots carefully. He was surprised how expensive they were—in some cases, as good as his own. Treadwell certainly had not paid for them on a coachman’s earnings. If the money had come from his gambling, then he must have spent a great deal of time at it—and been consistently successful. It seemed unpleasantly more and more likely that he had had another source of income, one a good deal more lucrative.

Monk did enquire, without any hope, if perhaps the clothes were hand-me-downs from either Lucius or Harry Stourbridge. He was not surprised to learn that they were not. Such things went to servants of longer standing and remained with them.

As far as Miriam Gardiner was concerned, he learned nothing beyond what he had already been told: she was unused to servants and therefore had not treated the coachman with the distance that was appropriate, but that was equally true for all the other household staff. No one had observed anything different with regard to Treadwell. Without exception, they all spoke well of her and seemed confused and grieved by her current misfortune.

Monk spent the following day in Hampstead and Kentish Town, as he had told Lucius he would. He walked miles, asked questions till his mouth was dry and his throat hoarse. He arrived home after nine o’clock, when it was still daylight but the heat of the afternoon was tempered by an evening breeze.

The first thing he wanted to do was to take his boots off and soak his burning feet, but Hester’s presence stopped him. It was not an attractive thing to do, and he was too conscious of her to indulge himself so. Instead, after accepting her welcome with great pleasure, he sat in the coolness of the office which doubled as a sitting room, a glass of cold lemonade at his elbow, his boots still firmly laced, and answered her questions.

"Expensive tastes, far more than Stourbridge paid him. At least three times as much."

Hester frowned. "Gambling?"

"Gamblers win and lose. He seems to have had his money pretty regularly. But more than that, he only had one day off a fortnight. Gambling to that extent needs time."

She was watching him closely, her eyes anxious. Unexpectedly, she did not prompt him.

He was surprised. "I considered a mistress with the means to give him expensive gifts," he continued. "But in going around the places where he spent his time off, he seems to have had money and purchased the things himself. He enjoyed spending money. He wasn’t especially discreet about it."

"So you think it was come by honestly?" Her eyes widened.

"No ... I think he was not afraid of anyone discovering the dishonesty in it," he corrected. "It wasn’t stolen. There are other dishonest means—"

"Available to a coachman? What?"

The answer was obvious. Why was she deliberately not saying it? He looked back at her, trying to fathom the emotion behind her eyes. He thought he saw reluctance and fear, but it was closed in. She was not going to share it with him.

He felt excluded. It was startlingly unpleasant, a sense of loneliness he had not experienced since the extraordinary night she had accepted his proposal of marriage. He was uncertain how to deal with it. Candor was too instinctive to him; the words were the only ones to his tongue.

"Blackmail," he replied.

"Oh." She looked at him so steadily he was now doubly sure she was concealing her thoughts, and that they were relevant to what they were discussing. Yet how could she know anything about Treadwell? She had been working at the hospital in Hampstead—hadn’t she?

"It seems the obvious possibility," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "That or theft, which he had little time for. He lived in at the Stourbridges’, and they have nothing missing. He liked to live well on his time off, eat expensively, drink as much as he pleased, go out to music halls and pick up any woman that took his fancy."

She did not look surprised, only sad and, if anything, more distressed.

"I see."

"Do you?"

"No ... I meant that I follow your reasoning. It does look as if he might have been blackmailing someone."

He could not bear the barrier. He broke it abruptly, aware that he might be hurt by the answer. "What is wrong, Hester?"

Her back stiffened a little and her chin came up. "I don’t know who he was blackmailing, or even that he was, but I fear I might guess. It is something I have learned in the course of caring for the sick, therefore I cannot tell you. I’m sorry." It was very plain in her face that indeed she was sorry, and equally plain that she would not change her position.

He hurt for her. He ached to be able to help. Being shut out was almost like a physical coldness. He must protect her from being damaged by it herself. That was a greater danger than she might understand.

"Hester—are you aware of any crime committed?"

"Not morally," she answered instantly. "Nothing has been done that would offend the sensibilities of any Christian person."

"Except a policeman," he concluded without hesitation.

Her eyes widened. "Are you a policeman?"

"No..."

"That’s what I thought. Not that it makes any difference. It would be dishonorable to tell you, even if you were. I can’t."

He said nothing. It was infuriating. She might hold the missing piece which would make sense of the confusion. She knew it also, and yet she would not tell him. She set her belief in trust, in her own concept of honor, before even her love for him. It was a hard thing, and beautiful, like clean light. It did not really hurt. He was quite sure he wanted it to be so. He was almost tempted to press her, to be absolutely certain she would not yield. But that would embarrass her. She might not understand his reason, or be quite sure he was not disappointed or, worse, childishly selfish.

"William?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know something anyway?"

"No. Why?"

"You are smiling."

"Oh!" He was surprised. "Am I? No, I don’t know anything. I suppose I am just ... happy ..." He leaned forward and much to her surprise, kissed her long and slowly, with increasing passion.

The following day was the eleventh since Monk had first been approached by Lucius Stourbridge to find his fiancée. Now she was in prison charged with murder, and Monk had very little further idea what had happened the day of her flight. He had still less idea what had occasioned it, unless it was some threat of disclosure of a portion of her past which she believed would ruin either her or someone she loved. And it seemed she would tell no one. Even trial and execution appeared preferable.

What secret could be so fearful?

He could not imagine any, even though as he took a hansom to the Hampstead police station, his mind would not leave it alone.

He arrived still short of nine o’clock to be told that Sergeant Robb had been working until dark the previous evening and was not yet in. Monk thanked the desk sergeant and left, walking briskly in the sun towards Robb’s home. He had no time to waste, even though he feared his discoveries, if he made them, would all be those he preferred not to know. Perhaps that was why he hurried. Good news could be savored, bad should be bolted like evil-tasting medicine. The anticipation at least could be cut short, and hope was painful.

There was little he wanted to tell Robb, only his discoveries about Treadwell’s extravagant spending habits. He had debated whether to mention the subject or not. It gave Miriam a powerful motive, if she were being blackmailed. But a man who would blackmail one person might blackmail others, therefore there would be other suspects. Perhaps one of them had lain in wait for him, and Miriam had fled the scene not because she was guilty but because she could not prove her innocence.

It was a slender hope, and he did not believe it himself. What if there was an illegitimate child somewhere, Miriam’s and Treadwell’s? Or simply that he knew of one? That would be enough to ruin her marriage to Lucius Stourbridge.