The Twisted Root

chapter Thirteen
"Yes - grave robbers who dig up corpses and sell them to medical establishments for..."

"I know what resurrectionists are," he said quickly, leaning forward, his eyes bright. "Are you sure it was a joke?"

"Well, it's not very funny," she agreed with a frown. "But Phillips is like that - a bit... wry. I like him - actually, I like him very much. He's one of the few people in the hospital I would trust - " Then suddenly she realized what Monk was thinking. "You mean ... Oh, William! You think he really was buying them from resurrectionists? He was the other person Treadwell was blackmailing. But how could Treadwell know that?"

"Not necessarily that he was blackmailing him," he said, grasping her hand in his urgency. "Treadwell was friendly with this undertaker. What could be simpler than to sell a few bodies? That could have been the extra driving he was doing: delivering corpses for Fermin Thorpe - at a very nice profit to himself!"

"Wonderful!" She breathed out with exquisite relief. It was only a chink of light in the darkness, but it was the very first one. "At least it might be enough for Oliver to raise doubt." She smiled with a twist. "And even if he isn't guilty, I wouldn't mind seeing Thorpe thoroughly frightened and embarrassed - I wouldn't mind in the slightest."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," he agreed with a nod. "Although we mustn't leap too quickly..."

"Why not? There's hardly time to waste."

"I know. But Treadwell may not have blackmailed Thorpe. The money may all have come from selling the bodies."

"Then let Thorpe prove it. That should be interesting to watch."

His eyes widened very slightly. "You really do loathe him, don't you?"

"I despise him," she said fiercely. "He puts his own vanity before relieving the pain of those who trust him to help them." She made it almost a challenge, as if Monk had been defending him.

He smiled at her. "I'm not trying to spare him anything, I just want to use it to the best effect. I don't know what that is yet, but we will only get one chance. I want to save my fire for the target that will do the most good for Cleo - or Miriam -  not just the one that does the most harm to Thorpe... or the one that gives us the most satisfaction."

"I see." She did. She had been indulging in the luxury of anger and she recognized it. "Yes, of course. Just don't leave it too long."

"I won't," he promised. "Believe me - we will use it"

On Sunday, Monk returned to the undertaker to pursue the details of Treadwell's work for him and to find proof if indeed he had taken bodies to the Hampstead hospital and been handsomely paid for it. If he were to use it, either in court or to pressure Thorpe for any other reason, then he must have evidence that could not be denied or explained away.

Hester continued with her visits to the rest of Cleo's patients, just to conclude the list of medicines. She was uncertainif it would be any use, but she felt compelled to do it, and regardless of anything else, she wanted to go and see John Robb again. It was over a week since she had last been, and she knew he would be almost out of morphine. He was failing, the pain growing worse, and there was little she could do to help him. She had some morphine left, taken with Phillips's connivance, and she had bought a bottle of sherry herself. It was illogical to give it to him rather than anyone else, but logic had no effect on her feelings.

She found him alone, slumped in his chair almost asleep, but he roused himself when he heard her footsteps. He looked paler than she had ever seen him before, and his eyes more deeply sunken. She had nursed too many dying men to delude herself that he had long left now>and she could guess how it must tear Michael Robb to have to leave him alone.

She forced her voice to be cheerful, but she could not place the barrier between them of pretending that she could not see how ill he was.

"Hello," she said quietly, sitting opposite him. "I'm sorry I've been away so long. I've been trying to find some way of helping Cleo, and I think we may have succeeded." She was aware as she spoke that if she embroidered the truth a little he would probably not live long enough to know.

He smiled and raised his head. "That's the best news you could have brought me, girl. I worry about her. All the good she did, and now this has to happen. Wish I could do something to help - but I think maybe all I could do would make it worse." He was watching her, waiting for her to reply.

"Don't worry, nobody will ask you," she answered him. She was sure the last thing the prosecution would do willingly would be to draw in the men like John Robb who would indeed show that Cleo had handed on the medicines, because they would also show so very effectively why. The sympathies of every decent man in the jury would be with Cleo. Perhaps some of them had been in the army themselves, or had fathers or brothers or sons who had. Their outrage at what had happened to so many old soldiers would perhaps outweigh their sense of immediate justice against the killer of a blackmailing coachman. Tobias would not provoke that if he could help it.

Hester herself would be delighted if it came out into the public hearing, but only if it could be managed other than at Cleo's expense. So far she had thought of no way.

He looked at her closely. "But I was one she took those medicines for - wasn't I?"

"She took them for a lot of people," Hester answered honestly. "Eighteen of you altogether, but you were one of her favorites." She smiled. "Just as you're mine."

He grinned as if she were flirting with him. His pleasure was only too easy to see, in spite of the tragedy of the subject they were discussing. His eyes were misty. "But some o'

those medicines she took were for me, weren't they?" he pressed her.

"Yes. You and others."

"And where are you getting them now, girl? I'd sooner go without than have you in trouble, too."

"I know you would, but there's no need to worry. The apothecary gave me these." That was stretching the truth a little, but it hardly mattered. "I'll make you a cup of tea and we'll sit together for a while. I brought a little sherry - not from the hospital, I got it myself." She stood up as she said it. "Don't need milk this time - we'll give it a bit of heart."

"That'd be good," he agreed. "Then we'll talk a bit. You tell me some o' those stories about Florence Nightingale and how she bested those generals and got her own way. You tell a good story, girl."

"I'll do that," she promised, going over to the corner which served as kitchen, pouring water into the kettle, then setting it on the hob. When it was boiled she made the tea, putting the sherry fairly liberally into one mug and leaving the morphine on the shelf so Michael would find it that evening. She returned with the tea and set one mug, the one with the sherry, for him, the one without for herself.

He picked up his mug and began to sip slowly. "So, tell me about how you outwitted those generals then, girl. Tell me the things you're doing better now because o' the war an' what you learned."

She recounted to him all sorts of bits and pieces she could remember, tiny victories over bureaucracy, making it as funny as possible, definitely adding more color than there had been at the time.

He drank the tea, then set down the empty mug. "Go on," he prompted. "I like the sound o' your voice, girl. Takes me back..."

She tried to think of other stories to tell, ones that had happy endings, and perhaps she rambled a bit, inventing here and there. Now and then he interrupted to ask a question. It was warm and comfortable in the afternoon sun, and she was not surprised when she looked up and saw his eyes closed. It was just the sort of time to doze off. Certainly, she was in no way offended. He was still smiling at the last little victory she had recounted, much added to in retrospect.

She stood up and went to make sure he was warm enough since the sunlight had moved around and his feet were in shadow. It was only then that she noticed how very still he was. There was no labored breathing, no rasp of air in his damaged lungs.

There were tears already on her cheeks when she put her fingers to his neck and found no pulse. It was ridiculous. She should have been only glad for him, but she was unable to stop herself from sitting down and weeping in wholehearted weariness, in fear, and from the loss of a friend she had come to love.

She had washed her face and was sitting in a chair, still opposite the old man, when Michael Robb came home in the late afternoon.

He walked straight in, not at first sensing anything different.

She stood up quickly, stepping between him and the old man.

Then he saw her face and realized she had been weeping. He went very pale.

"He's gone," she said gently. "I was here - talking to him. We were telling old stories, laughing a little. He just went to sleep." She moved aside so he could see the old man's face, the shadow of a smile still on it, a great peace settled over him.

Michael knelt down beside him, taking his hand. "I should have been here," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry..."

"If you had stayed here all the time, who could have earned the money for you both to live on?" she asked. "He knew that - he was so proud of you. He would have felt terribly guilty if he'd thought you were taking time away from your work because of him."

Michael bent forward, the tears spilling over his cheeks, his shoulders shaking.

She did not know whether to go to him, touch him; if it would comfort or only intrude. Instinct told her to take him in her arms, he seemed so young and alone. Her mind told her to let him deal with his grief in private. Instinct won, and she sat on the floor and held him while he wept.

When he had passed through the first shock he stood up and went and washed his face in water from the jug, then boiled the kettle again. Without speaking to her he made more tea.

"Is that your sherry?" he asked.

"Yes. Take what you'd like."

He poured it generously for both of them, and offered her one of the mugs. They did not sit down. There was only one vacant chair, and neither wanted to take it.

"Thank you," he said a little awkwardly. "I know you did it for him, not for me, but I'm still grateful." He stopped, wanting to say something and not knowing how to broach it.

She sipped the tea and waited.

"I'm sorry about Mrs. Anderson," he said abruptly.

"I know," she assured him.

"She took all the medicines for the old and ill, didn't she." It was not a question.

"Yes. I could prove that if I had to,"

"Including my grandfather." That, too, was a statement.

"Yes." She met his eyes without flinching. He looked vulnerable and desperately unhappy. "She did it because she wanted to. She believed it was the right thing to do," she went on.

"There's still morphine there now," he said softly.

"Is there? I will take it away."

"In the Lord's name - be careful, Mrs. Monk!" There was real fear for her in his face, no censure.

She smiled. "No need anymore. Will you be all right?"

"Yes - I will. Thank you."

She hesitated only a moment longer, then turned and went. Outside, the last of the sun was on the footpath and the street was busy.

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 certain?"

"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 fourid 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 opvon'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 coukWo," 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 ofGod."

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 onfy~a-£hild 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 Gamp-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 jslip! 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."