The Twisted Root

chapter Three
The gardener's eyes widened. "Arrr." He sighed, shaking his head. "Never heard that. What a thing. What's the world coming to?" He lifted his hand, trowel extended. "Went 'round that corner there. I never saw'd 'im after that. Road goes north. If 'e'd wanted to go to town, 'e'd 'a gone t'other way. Less traffic. Weren't nobody after 'im. Got clean away, I s'pose."

Monk agreed, thanked him, and followed the way he had indicated, walking smartly to see if he could find the next sighting.

He had to cast around several times, and walked miles in the dusty heat, but eventually, footsore and exhausted, he got as far as Hampstead Heath, and then the trail petered out. By this time it was dusk and he was more than ready to find a hansom and go home. The idea held more charm than it had a month or two ago, when it would have been merely a matter of taking his boots off his aching feet and waiting for his landlady to bring his supper. Now the hansom could not move rapidly enough for him, and he sat upright watching the streets and traffic pass.

The next morning, Monk went early to the Hampstead police station. When he had been a policeman himself he could have demanded assistance as a matter of course. Now he had to ask for favors. It was a hard difference to stomach. Perhaps he had not always used authority well. That was a conclusion he had been forced to reach when his loss of memory had shown him snatches of his life through the eyes of others. It was unpleasant, and unexpectedly wounding, to discover how many people had been afraid of him, partly because of his superior skills, but far too often due to his cutting tongue. Anything he was given today would be a courtesy. He was a member of the public, no more.

Except, of course, if he had had occasion to come here in the past and they remembered him with unkindness. That thought made him hesitate in his step as he turned the corner of the street for the last hundred yards to the station doors. He had no idea whether they would know him or not. He felt the same stab of anxiety, guilt and anticipation that he had had ever since the accident and his realization of the kind of man he had been, and still was very often. Something in him had softened, but the hard tongue was still there, the sharp wit, the anger at stupidity, laziness, cowardice - above all, at hypocrisy.

He took a deep breath and went up the steps and in through the door.

The duty sergeant looked up, pleased to see someone to break his morning. He hated writing ledgers, though it was better than idleness - just.

" 'Mornin', sir. Lovely day, in't it? Wot can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Sergeant," Monk replied, searching the man's pleasant face for recognition and feeling a tentative hope when it was not there. He had already decided how he was going to approach the subject. "I am looking into a matter for a friend who is young, and at the present too distressed to take it up himself."

"I'm sorry, sir. What matter would that be? Robbery, is it?" the sergeant enquired helpfully, leaning forward a little over the counter.

"Yes," Monk agreed with a rueful smile and a slight shrug. "But not what you might expect. Rather more to it than that -  something of a mystery." He lowered his voice. "And I fear a possible tragedy as well, although I am hoping that it is not so."

The sergeant was intrigued. This promised to occupy his whole day, maybe longer.

"Oh, yes sir. What, exactly, was stolen?"

"A coach and horses," Monk answered. "Good pair to drive, a bay and a brown, very well matched for height and pace. And the coach was excellent, too."

The sergeant looked puzzled. "You sure as it's stole, sir? Not mebbe a member o' the family got a bit irresponsible, like, and took it out? Young men will race, sir, bad as it is -  an' dangerous, too."

"Quite sure." Monk nodded. "I am afraid it was five days ago now and it is still missing. Not only that, but the driver who took it has not come back, and neither has the young lady who was betrothed to my friend. Naturally, we fear some harm has befallen her, or she would have contacted a member of the family."

The sergeant's face was full of foreboding. "Oh, dear. That don't sound good, sir, I must say."

Monk wondered if he was thinking that Miriam had run off with Treadwell. It was not impossible. Monk would have formed a better judgment on that if he had seen either of them, but from the description he had of Treadwell from the other Stourbridge servants, the coachman did not seem a man likely to have attracted a charming and gentle widow who had the prospect of marrying into an excellent family and becoming the wife of a man with whom, by all accounts, she was deeply in love. Certainly, Lucius Stourbridge loved her.

"No, it doesn't," Monk said aloud. "I have traced the carriage as far as the edge of Hampstead Heath, but then I lost it. If it has been seen anywhere around this area, it would help me greatly to know it."

" 'Course," the sergeant agreed, nodding. "We got a good 'ospital 'ere. Mebbe she was took ill sudden, like. They'd 'a taken 'er in. Very charitable, they are. Or mebbe she 'ad a sudden breakdown in 'er mind, like young women can 'ave, sometimes?"

"I shall certainly enquire at the hospital," Monk agreed, although the sergeant had to be speaking about the hospital where Hester was, and he had already asked her if there had been any such young woman either seen or admitted. In either case, unless she were unconscious, why had she not made some effort to contact the Stourbridge family? "But I must also look further for the coach," he went on. "That may lead me to where she is. And in truth, the theft of the coach is the only aspect of the matter which breaches the law."

" 'Course," the sergeant said sagely. " 'Course. Sergeant Robb is very busy at the moment. Got a murder, 'e 'as. Poor feller beaten over the 'ead and left on the path outside some woman's 'ouse. But 'e in't gorn out yet today. I know that for a fact. An' I'm sure as 'e'll spare yer a few minutes, like."

"Thank you very much," Monk accepted. "I shan't hold him up for long."

"You wait there, sir, an' I'll tell 'im as yer 'ere." And the sergeant lumbered dutifully out of sight. He returned, followed by a slender young man with a good-humored face and dark, intelligent eyes. He looked harassed, and it was obvious he was sparing Monk time only to be civil and because the desk sergeant had committed him to it. Little of his mind was on the subject.

"Good morning, sir," he said pleasantly. "Sergeant Treb-bins says you are acting on behalf of a friend who has had a coach stolen, seemingly by his fiancee. I am afraid if they have chosen to... elope... it is probably ill advised, and certainly less than honorable, but it is not a crime. The matter of stealing a coach and pair, of course, we can look into, if you have reason to believe they came this way."

"I do. I have followed the sightings of the coach as far as the edge of the Heath."

"Was that yesterday, sir?"

"No. I'm afraid it was five days ago." Monk felt foolish as he said it, and he was ready for disinterest, and even contempt, in the young man's eyes. Instead he saw his whole body stiffen and heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Could you describe the driver of this coach, sir, and the coach itself? Possibly the horses, even?"

Monk's pulse quickened. "You've seen them?" Then instantly he regretted the unprofessionalism of such a betrayal of emotion. But it was too late to withdraw it. Comment would only make it more obvious.

Robb's face was guarded. "I don't know, sir. Could you describe them for me?" He could not keep the edge from his voice, the sharpness of needing to know.

Monk told him every detail of the coach: the color, style, dimensions, maker's name. He said that the horses were a brown and a bay, no white markings, fifteen hands and fifteen-one, respectively, and seven and nine years old.

Robb looked very grave. "And the driver?" he said softly.

The knot tightened in Monk's stomach. "Average height, brown hair, blue eyes, muscular build. At the time he was last seen he was wearing livery." He knew even before he had finished speaking that Robb knew much about it, and none of it was good.

Robb pressed his lips together hard a moment before speaking.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I think I may have found your coach and horses ... and your driver. I don't know anything about the young lady. Would you come inside with me, sir?"

The desk sergeant's face fell as he realized he was going to be excluded from the rest of the story.

Monk remembered to thank him, something he would not have done even a short while ago. The man nodded, but Monk's gesture did not solve his disappointment.

Robb led Monk to a tiny office piled with papers. Monk felt a jolt of familiarity, as if he had been carried back in time to the early days of his own career. He still did not know how long ago that was.

Robb took a pile of books off the guest chair and dropped them on the floor. There was no room on the already precariously piled table.

"Sit down, sir," he offered. He had not yet asked Monk's name. He sat in the other chair. He was a young man in whom good manners were so schooled they came without thought.

"William Monk," Monk introduced himself, and was idiotically relieved to see no sign of recognition in the other man's face. The name meant nothing to him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Monk," Robb apologized. "But at the moment I am investigating a murder of a man who answers fairly well to the description you have just given me. What is worse, I'm afraid, is that about half a mile away we found a coach and two horses which are almost certainly the ones you are missing. The coach is exactly as you say, and the horses are a brown and a bay, well matched, about fifteen hands or so." He tightened his lips again. "And the dead man was dressed in livery."

Monk swallowed. "When did you find him?"

"Five days ago," Robb replied, meeting Monk's eyes gravely. "I'm sorry."

"And he was murdered? You are sure?"

"Yes. The police surgeon can't see any way he could have come by those injuries by accident."

"Fallen off the box?" Monk suggested. Treadwell would certainly not have been the first coachman to be a little drunk or careless and topple off the driving seat, striking his head against an uneven cobblestone or the edge of the curb. Many a man had fallen under his own wheels, and even been trampled by vehicles behind him unable to stop in time.

Robb shook his head, his eyes not leaving Monk's face. "If he'd fallen off the box his clothes would show it. You can't land on the road hard enough for injuries like that and leave no mark on the shoulders and back of your coat, no threads torn or pulled, no stains of mud or manure. Even though the streets are pretty dry now, there's always something. Even his breeches would have been scuffed differently if he'd rolled."

"Differently?" Monk said quickly. "What do you mean? In what way were they scuffed?"

"All on the knees, as if he'd crawled quite a distance some time before he died."

"Trying to escape?" Monk asked.

Robb chewed his lip. "Don't know. It wasn't a fight. He was only struck the one blow."

Monk was startled. "One blow killed him? Then he crawled before he was struck? Why?"

"Not necessarily." Robb shook his head again. "Doctor says he bled inside his head. Could have been alive for quite a while and crawled a distance, knowing he was hurt but not how bad, and that he was dying."

"Then could he have fallen forward and caught himself one severe blow on an angle of the box? Or even been down and kicked by one of the horses?"

"Doctor said he was struck from behind." Robb swung his arms out to his right and brought them sideways and forward hard. "Like that... when he was standing up. Caught him on the side of the head. Not a lot of blood - but lethal."

"Couldn't have been a kick?" Monk clung to the last hope.

"No. Indentation was nothing like a horse's hoof. A long, rounded object like a crowbar or pole. Wasn't a corner of the box, either."

"I see." Monk took a deep breath. "Have you any idea who it was that killed him? Or why?" He added the last as an afterthought.

"Not yet," Robb admitted. He looked totally puzzled, and Monk had a swift impression that he was finding the case overwhelming. Already the fear of failure loomed in his sight. "He was hardly worth robbing. The only thing of value he had was the coach and horses, and they didn't take them."

"A personal enemy," Monk concluded. The thought troubled him even more, for reasons Robb could not know. Where was Miriam Gardiner? Had she been there at the time of the murder? If so, she was either a witness or an accomplice - or else she, too, was dead. If she had not been there, then where had Treadwell left her, and why? At her will, or not?

How much should he tell Robb? If he were to serve Miriam's interests, perhaps nothing at all - not yet, anyway.

"May I see the body?" he asked.

"Of course." Robb rose to his feet. Identification might help. At the least it would make him feel as if he were achieving something. He would know who his victim was.

Monk thanked him and followed as he went out of his tiny office, back down the stairs and into the street, where there was a stir of air in the hot day, even if it smelled of horses and household smoke and dry gutters. The morgue was close enough to walk to, and Robb strode out, leading the way. He jammed his hands into his pockets and stared downwards, not speaking. It was not possible to know his thoughts. Monk judged him to be still in his late twenties. Perhaps he had not seen many deaths. This could be his first murder. He would be overawed by it, afraid of failure, disturbed by the immediacy of violence which was suddenly and uniquely his responsibility to deal with, an injustice he must resolve.

Monk walked beside him, keeping pace for pace, but he did not interrupt the silence. Carriages passed them moving swiftly, harnesses bright in the sun, horses' hooves loud. The breeze was very light, only whispering through the leaves of the trees at the end of the street by the Heath. The smell of the air over the stretch of grass was clean and sweet. Somebody was playing a barrel organ.

The morgue was a handsome building, as if the architect had intended it as some kind of memorial to the dead, however temporarily there.

Robb tensed his shoulders and increased his pace, as if determined not to show any distaste for it or hesitation in his duty. Monk followed him up the steps and in through the door. The familiar odor caught in his throat. Every morgue smelled like this, cloyingly sweet with an underlying sourness, leaving a taste at the back of the mouth. No amount of scrubbing in the world removed the knowledge of death.

The attendant came out and asked politely if he could help them. He spoke with a slight lisp, and peered at Robb for a moment before he recognized him.

"You'll be for your coachman again," he said with a shake of his head. "Can't tell you any more."

They followed him into the tiled room, which echoed their footsteps. It held a dampness from running water, and the sting of disinfectant. Beyond was the icehouse where it was necessary to keep the bodies they could not bury within a day or two. It had been five days since this particular one had been found.

"No need to bring him out," Robb said abruptly. "We'll see him in there. It's just that this gentleman might be able to tell us who he is."

The icehouse was extremely cold. The chill of it made them gasp involuntarily, but neither complained. Monk was glad of it. He had known less efficient morgues than this.

He lifted the sheet. The body was that of a well-fed man in his thirties. He was muscular, especially in the upper torso and across his shoulders. His skin was very white until it came to his hands and neck and face, which had been darkened by sun and wind. He had brownish hair, sharp features, and was blemished by a huge bruise covering his right temple, as if someone who hated him had struck him extremely hard, just once.

Monk looked at him carefully for several minutes, but he could find no other marks at all, except one old scar on the leg, long since healed over, and a number of minor cuts and scrapes on his hands, some as old as the scar on the leg. It was what he would expect from a man who worked with horses and drove a coach for his living. There were fresh bruises and breaks on the skin on his knees and on the palms of his hands.

He studied the face last, but with the eyes closed and the animation gone in death, it was hard to make any judgment of what he had looked like beyond the mere physical facts. His features were strong, a trifle sharp, his lips narrow, his brow wide. Intelligence and charm could have made him attractive; ill temper or a streak of greed or cruelty could equally have made him ugly. So much lay in the expression, now gone.

Was this James Treadwell? Only someone from the Stourbridge household could tell him beyond doubt.

"Do you want to see the clothes?" Robb asked, watching his face.

"Please."

But they told him no more than Robb himself had. There was only one likely conclusion: the man had been standing upright when someone had hit him a powerful blow which had sent him forward onto his knees, possibly even stunned him senseless for a while. The knees of his breeches were stained and torn, as if he had crawled a considerable distance. It was difficult to be certain of anything about the person who had delivered the blow. The weapon had not been found, but it must have been long, heavy and rounded, and swung with great force.

"Could a woman have done that, do you think?" Monk asked, then immediately wished he had not. He should not look for Robb to offer him the comfort that it could not have been Miriam. Why should she do such a thing? She could be a victim, too. They simply had not found her yet.

But if she was alive, where was she? If she was free to come forward, and was innocent, surely she would have?

And why had she left the Stourbridge house in the first place?

"May I see the coat?" he requested, looking at Robb before he answered.

"Of course," Robb replied. He did not answer as to whether he thought a woman could have dealt the blow. It was a foolish question, and Monk knew it. A strong woman, angry or frightened enough, with a heavy object at hand could certainly have hit a man sufficiently hard to kill him, especially with a blow as accurate as this one.

They left the morgue and went out into the sun again, walking briskly along the pavement. Robb seemed to be in a hurry, glancing once or twice at his watch. It was apparently more than a simple desire to be away from the presence of death which urged him on.

Monk would have freed Robb from the necessity of showing him the carriage and horses if he felt he could overlook them, but they were the deciding factor whether to bring Harry or Lucius Stourbridge all the way to Hampstead and distress them with identifying the body. It would certainly cause them additional anguish.

Robb was going at such a pace he stepped out into the street almost under the wheels of a hansom, and Monk had to grasp him by the arm to stop him.

Robb flushed and apologized.

"Have you an appointment?" Monk enquired. "This is only a courtesy you are doing me. I can wait."

"The horses are in a stable about a mile away," Robb answered, watching the traffic for a break so they could cross. "It's not exactly an appointment..." The subject seemed to embarrass him.

A coach and four went by, ladies inside looking out, a flash of pastels and lace. It was followed by a brewer's dray, drawn by shire horses with braided manes and feathered feet, their flanks gleaming. They tossed their heads as if they knew how beautiful they were.

Monk and Robb seized the chance to cross behind them. On the farther side Robb drew in breath, looking straight ahead of him. "My grandfather is ill. I drop in to see him every so often, just to help. He's getting a little ..." His features tightened and still he did not look at Monk. Strictly speaking, he was taking police time to go home in the middle of the day.

Monk smiled grimly. He had no happy memories of the police hierarchy. He knew his juniors had been afraid of him with just cause, which was painful to him now. He had seen it in their nervousness in his presence, the expectation of criticism, just or not, the not-well-enough-concealed dislike.

His own superior had been another matter. Runcorn was the only one he could recall, and between them there had been friendship once, long ago. But for years before the final quarrel which had led to Monk's dismissal there had been nothing but rivalry and bitterness.

He felt his own body tighten, but he could not help it.

"We'd better go and see him," he answered. "I'll get a pie or a sandwich and eat it while you do whatever you have to do for him. I'll tell you what I know about Treadwell. If this is him, it'll help." Robb considered it only for a second before he accepted.

The old man lived in two rooms in a house about five minutes' swift walk from the police station. Inside, the house was shabby but clean, and Robb deliberately made no apology. What Monk thought did not matter to him. All his emotions and his attention were on the old man who sat hunched up in the one comfortable chair. His shoulders were wide but thin now, and bowed over as if his chest hurt when he breathed. His white hair was carefully combed, and he was shaved, but his face had no color and it cost him a great effort that his grandson should have brought a stranger into his sanctuary.

"How do you do, sir," Monk said gravely. "Thank you for permitting me to eat my pie in your house while I speak with Sergeant Robb about the case we are working on. It is very civil of you."

"Not at all," the old man said huskily, obliged to clear his throat even for so few words. "You are welcome." He looked at Robb anxiously.

Monk sat down and busied himself with the pie he had bought from a barrow on the way, keeping his eyes on it so as to not appear to be aware of Robb helping the old man through to the privy and back again, washing his hands for him and heating some soup on the stove in the corner which seemed to be burning even in the heat of midsummer, as if the old man felt cold all the time.

Monk began to talk, to mask the sounds of the old man's struggle to breathe and his difficulty swallowing the soup and the slices of bread Robb had buttered for him and was giving to him a little at a time. He had already thought clearly how much he would say of Lucius's request. For the time being he would leave out references to Miriam. It was a great deal less than the truth. He would be deliberately misleading Robb, but until he knew more himself, to speak of her would have set Robb on her trail instantly, and that would not be in her interest - yet.

"Mr. Lucius Stourbridge told me Treadwell had taken the coach, without permission, in the middle of the afternoon of the day he was killed," he began. He took another mouthful of the pie. It was good, full of meat and onions, and he was hungry. When he had swallowed it he went on. "He lives with his parents in Bayswater."

"Is it his coach or theirs?" Robb asked, offering his grandfather another slice of bread and waiting anxiously while the old man had a fit of coughing, spitting up blood-streaked phlegm into a handkerchief. Robb automatically passed him a clean handkerchief - and a cup of water, which the old man sipped without speaking.

It was a good question, and to answer it Monk was forced to be devious.

"A family vehicle, not the best one." That was true if not the whole truth.

"Why you and not the police?" Robb asked.

Monk was prepared for that. "Because he hoped to recover it without the police being involved," he said smoothly. "Treadwell is the nephew of their cook, and he did not want any criminal proceedings."

Robb was very carefully measuring powder from a twist of paper, making certain he used no more than a third, and then rewrapping what was left and replacing it on the cabinet shelf. He returned to the table and mixed water into the dose he had prepared, then held the glass to the old man's lips.

Monk glanced at the shelf where the paper had been replaced and noticed several other containers: a glass jar with dried leaves, presumably for an infusion; a vial of syrup of some sort; and two jars with more paper twists of powder. So much medicine would cost a considerable amount. He recalled noticing Robb's frayed cuffs, carefully darned, the worn heels of his boots, an overstitched tear in the elbow of his jacket. He was taken by surprise with how hard compassion gripped him for the difficulty of it, for the pain, and then felt a surge of joy for the love which inspired it. He found himself smiling.

Robb was wiping the old man's face gently. He then turned to his own meal of bread and soup, which was now rapidly getting cold.

"Do you know anything else about this Treadwell?" he asked, beginning to eat quickly. Perhaps he was hungry, more probably he was aware of the amount of time he had been away from police business.

"Apparently not entirely satisfactory," Monk replied, remembering what Harry Stourbridge had told him. "Only kept on because he is the cook's nephew. Many families will go to considerable lengths to keep a really good cook, especially if they entertain." He smiled slightly as he said it.

Robb glanced at him quickly. "And a scandal wouldn't help. I understand. But if this is your man, I'm afraid it can't be avoided." He frowned. "Doesn't throw any light on who killed him, though, does it? What was he doing here? Why didn't whoever killed him take the coach? It's a good one, and the horses are beauties."

"No idea," Monk admitted. "Every new fact only makes it harder to understand."

Robb nodded, then turned back to his grandfather. He made sure the old man was comfortable and could reach everything he would need before Robb could come home again, then he touched him gently, smiled, and took his leave.

The old man said nothing, but his gratitude was in his face. He seemed better now that he had had his meal and whatever medicine Robb had given him.

They walked the three quarters of a mile or so to the stable where the horses and the carriage were being housed. Robb explained to the groom in charge who Monk was.

Monk needed only to glance at the carriage to remove any doubt in his own mind that it was the Stourbridges'. He examined it to see if there were any marks on it, or anything left in the inside which might tell him of its last journey, but there was nothing. It was a very well kept, cleaned, polished and oiled family coach. It had slight marks of wear and was about ten years old. The manufacturer was the one whose name Henry Stourbridge had given him. The description answered exactly.

The horses were also precisely as described.

"Where exactly were they found?" Monk asked again.

"Cannon Hall Road," Robb replied. "It's yours, isn't it?" That was barely a question. He knew the answer from Monk's face.

"And the body?"

"On the path to number five, Green Man Hill. It's a row of small houses close onto the Heath."

"And, of course, you've asked them about it." That, too, was a statement, not a question.

Robb shrugged. "Of course. No one is saying anything."

Monk was not surprised. Whether they did or not, few people admitted to knowing anything about a murder.

"I'll need the body identified formally," Robb said. "And I'll have to speak to Major Stourbridge, of course. Ask him all I can about Treadwell." He did not even bother to add "if it is him."

"I'll go to Cleveland Square and bring someone," Monk offered. He wanted to be the one to tell Harry and Lucius, and preferably to do it without Robb present. He could not avoid the sergeant's being there when they identified the body.

"Thank you," Robb accepted. "I'll be at the morgue at four."

Monk took a hansom back to Bayswater, and when the footman admitted him, he asked if he could speak to Major Stourbridge. He would prefer, if possible, to tell the major without Lucius's having to know until it was necessary. Perhaps it was also cowardice. He did not want to be the one to tell Lucius.

He was shown into the withdrawing room with French doors wide open onto the sunlit lawn. Harry Stourbridge was standing just inside, but Monk could see the figure of his wife in the garden beyond, her pale dress outlined against the vivid colors of the herbaceous border.

"You have news, Mr. Monk?" Stourbridge said almost before the footman had closed the door from the hall. He looked anxious. His face was drawn, and there were dark smudges under his eyes as if he had slept little. It would be cruel to stretch out the suspense. It was hard enough to have to kill the hope struggling in him as it was.

"I am sorry, it is not good," Monk said bluntly. He saw Harry Stourbridge's body stiffen and the last, faint touch of color drain from his skin. "I believe I have found your coach and horses," he continued. "And the body of a man I am almost certain is Treadwell. There is no sign whatever of Mrs. Gardiner."

"No sign of Miriam?" Stourbridge looked confused. He swallowed painfully. "Where was this, Mr. Monk? Do you know what happened to Treadwell, if it is he?"

"Hampstead, just off the Heath. I'm very sorry; it seems Treadwell was murdered."

Stourbridge's eyes widened. "Robbery?"

"Perhaps, but if so, what for? He wouldn't be carrying money, would he? Have you missed anything from the house?"

"No! No, of course not, or I should have told you. But why else would anyone attack and kill the poor man?"

"We don't know..."

"We?"

"The police at Hampstead. I traced the carriage that far, then went to ask them," Monk explained. "A young sergeant called Robb. He told me he was working on a murder and I realized from his description that it could be Treadwell. Also, the carriage and horses were found half a mile away, quite undamaged. I have looked at them, and from what you told me, they appear to be yours. I am afraid you will need to send someone to identify them - and the body - to be certain."

"Of course," Stourbridge agreed. "I will come myself." He took a step forward across the bright, sunlit carpet. "But you have no idea about Miriam?"

"Not yet. I'm sorry."

Verona was walking towards them across the grass, her curiosity too powerful to allow her to remain apart.

Stourbridge squared his shoulders as she came in through the door.

"What is it?" she asked him, only glancing at Monk. "You know something." That was a conclusion, not a question. "Is it Miriam?"

Monk searched her expression for the slightest trace of relief, or false surprise, and saw none.

"Not yet," Stourbridge answered before Monk could. "But it appears he may have found Treadwell..."

"May?" She picked up the inference instantly, looking from her husband to Monk. "You did not approach him, speak with him? Why? What has happened?"

"He has met with misfortune," Stourbridge put in. "I am about to accompany Mr. Monk to see what else may be learned. I shall tell you, of course, when I return." There was finality in his voice, sufficient to tell her it was useless pressing any further questions now.

Monk's relief at not having to tell Lucius what he had discovered was short-lived. They were crossing the hall towards the front door when Lucius came down the stairs, his face pale, eyes wide.

"What have you found?" he demanded, fear sharp in his voice. "Is it Miriam? Where is she? What has happened to her?"

Stourbridge turned and put up his hands as if to take Lucius by the shoulders to steady him, but Lucius stepped back. His throat was too tight to allow him to speak, and he gulped air.

"I don't know anything about Mrs. Gardiner," Monk said quickly. "But I may have found Treadwell. I need someone to identify him before I can be certain."

Stourbridge put his hand on Lucius's arm. "There was nothing to indicate that Miriam was with him," he said gently. "We don't know what happened or why. Stay here. I will do what is necessary. But be discreet. Until we are sure, there is no purpose in distressing Cook."

Lucius recalled with an effort that he was not the only one to be affected, even bereaved. He looked at Monk. "Treadwell is dead?"

"I think it is Treadwell," Monk replied. "But he was found alone, and the coach is empty and undamaged."

A fraction of the color returned to Lucius's cheeks. "I'm corning with you."

"There is no need.. ." Stourbridge began, then, seeing the determination in his son, and perhaps realizing it was easier to do something than simply to wait, he did not protest any further.

It was a miserable journey from Bayswater back to Hampstead. They took the Stourbridges' remaining carriage, driven now by the groom, and rode for the most part in silence, Lucius sitting upright with his back to the way they were going, his eyes wide and dark, consumed in his own fears. Stourbridge sat next to Monk, staring ahead but oblivious of the streets and the houses they were passing. Once or twice he made as if to say something, then changed his mind.

Monk concentrated on determining what he would tell Robb if the body proved to be Treadwell, and he had no real doubt that it was. It was also impossible to argue whether or not it was murder. The body, whosever it was, had not come by such an injury by any mischance. To conceal such information as his flight with Miriam Gardiner, and the fact that she had gone without explanation and was still missing, would now be a crime. Also, it would suggest that they had some fear that she was implicated. Nothing they said afterwards would be believed unless it carried proof.

Not that either Harry or Lucius Stourbridge would be remotely likely to hide the truth. They were both far too passionately involved to conceal anything at all. Their first question to Robb would be regarding anything he would know about Miriam. They were so convinced of her entire innocence in anything wrong beyond a breach of good manners that they would only think of how she might be implicated when it was too late.

How would Monk then explain to Robb his own silence about the other person in the carriage? He had not so far even mentioned her.

They jolted to a stop as traffic ahead of them thickened and jammed the streets. All around, drivers shouted impatiently. Horses stamped and whinnied, jingling harnesses.

Lucius sat rigid, still unspeaking.

Stourbridge clenched and unclenched his hands.

They moved forward again at last.

Monk would tell Robb as little as possible. All they knew for certain was that Miriam had left at the same moment as Treadwell. How far they had gone together was another matter. Should he warn Stourbridge and Lucius to say no more about Miriam than they had to?

He looked at their tense faces, each staring into space, consumed in their fears, and decided that any advice would only be overridden by emotion and probably do more harm than good. If they remembered it to begin with, then forgot, it would give the impression of dishonesty.

He kept silent also.

They reached the morgue at ten minutes past four. Robb was already there, pacing restlessly up and down, but he made no comment on the time as they alighted. They were all too eager to complete the business for which they had come to do more than acknowledge each other with the briefest courtesies and then follow Robb inside.

The morgue attendant drew the sheet back from the body, showing only the head.

Lucius drew in his breath sharply and seemed to sway a little on his feet.

Stourbridge let out a soft sigh. He was a soldier, and he must have seen death many times before, and usually of men he had known to a greater or lesser extent, but this was a man of his own household, and murder was different from war. War was not an individual evil. Soldiers expected to kill and be killed. Frequently, they even respected their enemies. There was no hatred involved. The violence was huge and impersonal. It did not make the pain less, or the death or the bereavement less final, but death in war was mischance. This was different, a close, intended and covert evil, meant for this man alone.

"Is it your coachman, sir?" Robb asked, but he could not help being aware that the question was unnecessary. The recognition was in both their faces.

"Yes, it is," Stourbridge said quietly. "This is James Treadwell. Where did you find him?"

The morgue attendant drew back the sheet to cover the face.

"In the street, sir," Robb replied, leading them away from the table and back towards the door. "On the path to one of a row of houses on Green Man Hill, about half a mile or so from here." Robb was sympathetic, but the detective in him was paramount. "Are you aware of his knowing anyone in this area?"

"What?" Stourbridge looked up. "Oh ... no, I don't think so. He is a nephew of our cook. I can ask her. I have no idea where he went on his days off."

"Was it one of his days off when he disappeared, sir?"

"No..."

"Did he have your permission to use your coach, sir?"

Stourbridge hesitated a moment before replying. He looked across at Lucius, then away again.

"No, he did not. I am afraid the circumstances of his leaving the house are somewhat mysterious, and not understood by any of us, Sergeant. We know when he left, but nothing more than that."

"You knew he had taken your coach," Robb pointed out. "But you did not report it to the police. It is a very handsome coach, sir, and exceptionally well matched horses. Worth a considerable amount."

"Major Stourbridge has already mentioned that Treadwell was related to his cook," Monk interrupted, "who is a longstanding servant of the family. He wished to avoid scandal, if possible. He hoped Treadwell would come to his senses and return... even with a reasonable explanation."

Lucius could bear it no longer. "My fiancee was with him!" he burst out. "Mrs. Miriam Gardiner. It was to find her that we employed Mr. Monk's services. Treadwell is beyond our help, poor soul, but where is Miriam? We should be turning all our skill and attention to searching for her! She may be hurt... in danger ..." His voice was rising out of control as his imagination tortured him.

Robb looked startled for a moment, then his jaw hardened. He did not even glance at Monk. "Do I understand Mrs. Gardiner left your house in the carriage with Treadwell driving?" he demanded.

"We believe so," Stourbridge answered before Lucius could speak. "No one saw them go." He seemed to have appreciated something of the situation in spite of Monk's silence. "But we have not heard from her since, nor do we know what has happened to her. We are at our wits' end with worry."

"We must look for her!" Lucius cut across them. "Treadwell is dead and Miriam may be in danger. At the very least she must be in fear and distress. You must deploy every man you can to search for her!"

Robb stood still for a moment, surprise taking the words from him. Then slowly he turned to Monk, his eyes narrow and hard. "You omitted to mention that a young woman was a passenger in the carriage when Treadwell was murdered and that she has since disappeared. Why is that, Mr. Monk?"

Monk had foreseen the question, though there was no excuse that was satisfactory, and Robb would know that as well as he did.

"Mrs. Gardiner left with Treadwell," he replied with as honest a bearing as he could. "We have no idea when she left him...."

Lucius was staring at him, his eyes wide and horrified.

"Sophistry!" Robb snapped.

"Reality!" Monk returned with equal harshness. "This was five days ago. If anything happened to Mrs. Gardiner we are far too late to affect it now, except by careful thought and consideration before we act." He was acutely conscious of Lucius and of Harry Stourbridge. Their emotions filled the air. "If she met with violence as well, she would have been found long before now." He did not glance at either of them but kept his eyes level on Robb. "If she was kidnapped, then a ransom will be asked for, and it has not so far. If she witnessed the murder, then she may well have run away, for her own safety, and we must be careful how we look for her, in case we bring upon her the very harm she fears." He drew in his breath. "And until Major Stourbridge identified the body as that of Treadwell, we did not know that it was anything more than a domestic misunderstanding between Mr. Stourbridge and Mrs. Gardiner."

Lucius stood appalled.

Stourbridge looked from one to the other of them. "We know now," he said grimly. "The question is what we are to do next."

"Discover all the facts that we can," Monk answered him. "And then deduce what we can from them."

Robb bit his lip, his face pale. He turned to Lucius. "You have no idea why Mrs. Gardiner left your home?"

"No, none at all," Lucius said quickly. "There was no quarrel, no incident at all which sparked it. Mrs. Gardiner was standing alone, watching the croquet match when, without warning or explanation, she simply left."

"With Treadwell?"

"She left in the carriage," Stourbridge corrected him. "She could hardly have driven it herself."

A flash of irritation crossed Robb's face and then disappeared, as if he had remembered their distress. "Had Mrs. Gardiner any previous acquaintance with Treadwell, perhaps through the cook?"

"No," Lucius said instantly. "She had met no one in the house before I first took her there."

"Where did you meet Mrs. Gardiner?"

"On Hampstead Heath. Why? It is natural enough that he should bring her back here. She lives on Lyndhurst Road."

Robb pursed his lips. "That is about three quarters of a mile from where the carriage was found, and rather more from where TreadwelPs body was. I assume you have already been to her home to see if she was there?"

"Of course! No one has seen her since she left to come to Bayswater," Lucius answered. "It is the first place we looked. Please, tell us what you know of Treadwell's death, I beg you."

They were outside in the street again now. Lucius stood breathing deeply, as if trying to clear his lungs of the choking air of the morgue with its close smell of death. Even so, he did not take his eyes from Robb's face.

"We know nothing except that he was murdered," Robb replied. "We did not even know his name until you gave it to us, although from his clothes we assumed his occupation."

"Was there nothing found in the carriage?" Stourbridge asked with a frown. "No marks or stains to indicate where it had been? What about the horses? Are they hurt?"

"No, they were lost, confused, aware mat something was wrong. There was nothing to indicate they had bolted. The harness was not broken. The reins were still tied to the bar, as if the driver had stopped, then climbed down rather than fallen. The carriage itself has no scratches or marks but those of ordinary use."

Stourbridge turned questioningly to Monk.

"There is nothing further you can do here now" Monk assured him. "Thank you for coming to identify Treadwell. Perhaps you had better return home and inform your family -  and, of course, the cook. She is bound to be distressed. As soon as I learn anything more, I will tell you."

Lucius stood still. "The answer must be here!" he insisted desperately, loath to leave without something further accomplished.