The Twisted Root (39 page)

"Have you learned anything?" Rathbone asked. Hearing his own heart beating so violently, he feared he must be shaking visibly.

"Yes. I took the buttons from the boots she was wearing and a little of the leather of the soles, which were scarcely worn. Those particular buttons were individual, manufactured for only a short space of time. It is not absolute proof, but it seems extremely likely she was killed twenty-two years ago. Certainly, it was not longer, and since the boots were almost new, it is unlikely to be less than that. If you call the police surgeon, he will tell you she was a woman of middle age, forty-five or fifty, of medium height and build, with long gray hair. She had at some time in the past had a broken bone in one foot which had healed completely. She was killed by a single, very powerful blow to her head, by someone facing her at the time, and right-handed. Oh... and she had perfect teeth—which is unusual in one of her age."

There was tension in the court so palpable that when a man in the gallery sneezed the woman behind him let out a scream, then stifled it immediately.

Every juror in both rows stared at Monk as if unaware of anyone else in the room.

"Was that the same police surgeon who examined the bodies of Tread well and Mrs. Stourbridge?" Rathbone asked.

"Yes," Monk answered.

"And was he of the opinion that the blows were inflicted by the same person."

Tobias rose to his feet. "My lord, Mr. Monk has no medical expertise..."

"Indeed," the judge agreed. "We will not indulge in hearsay, Sir Oliver. If you wish to call this evidence, no doubt the police surgeon will make himself available. Nevertheless, I should very much like to know the answer to that myself."

"I shall most certainly do so," Rathbone agreed. Then, as the usher stood at his elbow, he said, "Excuse me, my lord." He took the note handed to him and read it to himself.

It could not have been a blackmailer of Cleo—she was not stealing medicines then. The apothecary can prove that. Call me to testify. Hester.

The court was waiting.

"My lord, may I recall Mrs. Monk to the stand, in the question as to whether Mrs. Anderson could have been blackmailed over the theft of medicines twenty-two years ago?"

"Can she give evidence on the subject?" the judge asked with surprise. "Surely she was a child at the time?"

"She has access to the records of the hospital, my lord."

"Then call her, but I may require to have the records themselves brought and put into evidence."

"With respect, my lord, the court has accepted that medicines were stolen within the last few months without Mr. Tobias having brought the records for the jury to read. Testimony has been sufficient for him in that."

Tobias rose to his feet. "My lord, Mrs. Monk has shown herself an interested party. Her evidence is hardly unbiased."

"I am sure the records can be obtained," Rathbone said reluctantly. He would far rather Cleo’s present thefts were left to testimony only, but there was little point in saving her from charges of stealing if she was convicted of murder.

"Thank you, my lord," Tobias said with a smile.

"Nevertheless," the judge added, "we shall see what Mrs. Monk has to say, Sir Oliver. Please call her."

Hester took the stand and was reminded of her earlier oath to tell the truth and only the truth. She had examined the apothecary’s records as far back as thirty years, since before Cleo Anderson’s time, and there was no discrepancy in medicines purchased and those accounted for as given to patients.

"So at the time of this unfortunate woman’s death, there were no grounds for blackmailing Mrs. Anderson, or anyone else, with regard to medicines at the hospital?" Rathbone confirmed.

"That is so," she agreed.

Tobias stood up and walked towards her.

"Mrs. Monk, you seem to be disposed to go to extraordinary lengths to prove Mrs. Anderson not guilty, lengths quite above and beyond the call of any duty you are either invested with or have taken upon yourself. I cannot but suspect you of embarking upon a crusade, either because you have a zeal to reform nursing and the view in which nurses are regarded— and I will call Mr. Fermin Thorpe of the hospital in question to testify to your dedication to this—or less flatteringly, a certain desire to draw attention to yourself, and fulfill your emotions, and perhaps occupy your time and your life in the absence of children to care for."

It was a tactical error. As soon as he said it he was aware of his mistake, but he did not know immediately how to retract it.

"On the contrary, Mr. Tobias," Hester said with a cold smile. "I have merely testified as to facts. It is you who are searching to invest them with some emotional value because it appears you do not like to be proved mistaken, which I cannot understand, since we are all aware you prosecute or defend as you are engaged to, not as a personal vendetta against anyone. At least I believe that to be the case?" She allowed it to be a question.

There was a rustle of movement around the room, a ripple of nervous laughter.

Tobias blushed. "Of course that is the case. But I am vigorous in it!"

"So am I!" she said tartly. "And my emotions are no less honorable than your own, except that law is not my profession ..." She allowed the sentence to remain unfinished. They could draw their own conclusion as to whether she considered her amateur status to mark her inferiority in the matter or the fact that she did not take money for it and thus had a moral advantage.

"If you have no further questions, Mr. Tobias," the judge said, resuming command, "I shall adjourn the court until such time as this unfortunate woman is identified, then perhaps we shall also examine the hospital apothecary’s records and be certain in the matter of what was stolen and when." He banged his gavel sharply and with finality.

Monk left the court without having heard Hester’s second testimony. He went straight back to the Hampstead police station to find Sergeant Robb. It was imperative now that they learn who the dead woman had been. The only place to begin was with the assumption that Miriam had told the truth, and therefore she must have had some connection with Aiden Campbell.

"But why is he lying?" Robb said doubtfully as they set out along the street in the hazy sunlight. "Why? Let us even suppose that he seduced Miriam when she was his maid, or even raped her, it would hardly be the first time that had happened. Let us even say the woman on the Heath was a cook or housekeeper who knew about it, that’d be no reason to kill her."

"Well, somebody killed her," Monk said flatly, setting out across the busy street, disregarding the traffic and obliging a dray to pull up sharply. He was unaware of it and did not even signal his thanks to the driver, who shouted at him his opinion of drunkards and lunatics in general and Monk in particular.

Robb ran to catch up with him, raising a hand to the driver in acknowledgment.

"We’ve nowhere else to start," Monk went on. "Where did you say Campbell lived—exactly?"

Robb repeated the address. "But he moved to Wiltshire less than a year after that. There won’t necessarily be anyone there now who knows him or anything that happened."

"There might be," Monk argued. "Some servants will have left; others prefer to stay in the area and find new positions, even stay in the house with whoever buys it. People belong to their neighborhoods."

"It’s the far side of the Heath." Robb was having to hurry to keep up. "Do you want to take a hansom?"

"If one passes us," Monk conceded, not slackening his pace. "If she wasn’t part of the household, who could she be? How was she involved? Was she a servant or a social acquaintance?"

"Well, there was nobody reported missing around that time," Robb replied. "She wasn’t local, or somebody’d have said."

"So nobody missed her?" Monk swung around to face Robb and all but bumped into a gentleman coming briskly the other way. "Then she wasn’t a neighbor or a local servant. This becomes very curious."

They said no more until they reached the house where Aiden Campbell had lived twenty-one years before. It had changed hands twice since then, but the girl who had been the scullery maid was now the housekeeper, and the mistress had no objection to allowing Monk and Robb to speak with her; in fact, she seemed quite eager to be of assistance.

"Yes, I was scullery maid then," the housekeeper agreed. "Miriam was the tweeny. Only a bit of a girl, she was, poor little thing."

"You liked her?" Monk said quickly.

"Yes—yes, I did. We laughed together a lot, shared stories and dreams. Got with child, poor little soul, an’ I never knew what happened to her then. Think it may ’ave been born dead, for all that good care was took of ’er. Not surprising, I suppose. Only twelve or so when she got like that."

"Good care was taken of her?" Robb said with surprise.

"Oh, yes. Had the midwife in," she replied.

"How do you know she was a midwife?" Monk interrupted.

"She said so. She lived ’ere for a while, right before the birth. I do know that because I ’elped prepare ’er meals, an’ took ’em up, on a tray, like."

"You saw her?" Monk said eagerly.

"Yes. Why? I never saw ’er afterwards:’

Monk felt a stab of victory, and one of horror. "What was she like? Think hard, Miss Parkinson, and please be as exact as you can ... height, hair, age!"

Her eyes widened. "Why? She done something as she shouldn’t?"

"No. Please—describe her!"

"Very ordinary, she was, but very pleasant-looking, an’ all. Grayish sort of hair, although I don’t reckon now as she was over about forty-five or so. Seemed old to me then, but I was only fifteen an’ anything over thirty was old."

"How tall?"

She thought for a moment. "About same as me, ordinary, bit less."

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson—thank you very much."

"She all right, then?"

"No, I fear very much that she may be the woman whose body was found on the Heath."

"Cor! Well, I’m real sorry." She said it with feeling, and there was sadness in her face as well as her voice. "Poor creature."

Monk turned as they were about to leave. "You didn’t, by chance, ever happen to notice her boots, did you, Miss Parkinson?"

She was startled. "Her boots?"

"Yes. The buttons."

Memory sparked in her eyes. "Yes! She had real smart buttons on them. Never seen no others like ’em. I saw when she was sitting down, her skirts was pulled sideways a bit. Well, I never! I’m real sorry to hear. Mebbe Mrs. Dewar’ll let me go to the funeral, since there won’t be many others as’ll be there now."

"Do you remember her name?" Monk said, almost holding his breath for her answer.

She screwed up her face in the effort to take her mind back to the past. She did not need his urging to understand the importance of it.

"It began with a D," she said after a moment or two. "I’ll think of it."

They waited in silence.

"Bailey!" she said triumphantly. "Mrs. Bailey. Sorry—I thought it were a D, but Bailey it was."

They thanked her again and left with a new energy of hope.

"I’ll tell Rathbone," Monk said as soon as they were out in the street. "You see if you can find her family. There can’t have been so many midwives called Bailey twenty-two years ago. Someone’ll know her. Start with the doctors and the hospital. Send messages to all the neighboring areas. He may have brought her in from somewhere else. Probably did, since no one in Hampstead reported her missing."

Robb opened his mouth to protest, then changed his mind. It was not too much to do if it ended in proving Cleo Anderson innocent.

It was early afternoon of the following day when the court reconvened. Rathbone called the police surgeon, who gave expert confirmation of the testimony Hester had given regarding the death of the woman on the Heath. A cobbler swore to recognizing the boot buttons, and said that they had been purchased by one Flora Bailey some twenty-three years ago. Miss Parkinson came and described the woman she had seen, including the buttons.

The court accepted that the body was indeed that of Flora Bailey and that she had met her death by a violent blow in a manner which could only have been murder.

Rathbone called Aiden Campbell once again. He was pale, his face set in lines of grief and anger. He met Rathbone’s eyes defiantly.

"I was hoping profoundly not to have to say this." His voice was hard. "I did know Mrs. Bailey. I had no idea that she was dead. I never required her services again. She was not, as my innocent scullery maid supposed, a midwife, but an abortionist."

There was a gasp of horror and outrage around the court. People turned to one another with a hissing of breath.

Rathbone looked up at Miriam in the dock and saw the amazement in her face, and then the anger. He turned to Harry Stourbridge, sitting stiff and silent, and Lucius beside him, stunned almost beyond reaction.

"An abortionist?" Rathbone said slowly, very clearly.

"Yes," Campbell agreed. "I regret to say so."