The Twisted Root

chapter Six
"It can happen any time, if you are subject to it," she answered, smiling at him. "Sometimes in the summer it's worse. Harder to get rid of."

"You're surely right," he agreed, nodding slightly. He was still pale and his cheeks were a little flushed. She guessed he probably had a low fever.

"What can I do for you, miss? If you're looking for my grandson, he isn't here. He's a policeman, and he's at work. Very good he is, too. A sergeant." His pride was obvious, but far more than that, a kind of shining certainty that had nothing to do with the nature of his grandson's work but everything to do with the nature of the man.

"It was you I came to see," she reminded him. She must find a reason he would accept. "My husband said you were a sailor and had seen some great days - some of the most important battles in England's history."

He looked at her sideways. "An' what would a young lady like you want with stories of old battles what was over and won before you were even born?"

"If they were over and lost, I'd be speaking French," she replied, meeting his eyes with a laugh.

"Well... I s'pose that's true. Still, you know that without coming all the way here to see me." He was faintly suspicious of her. Young women of educated speech and good manners did not casually call on an old and ill sailor who, from the contents of the room, was having desperate trouble finding sufficient money merely to eat, let alone buy fuel for the winter.

A portion of the truth was the best answer, perhaps not as irrelevant as it first seemed.

"I was an army nurse in the Crimea," she told him. "I know more about war than you may think. I don't imagine I've seen as many battles as you have, but I've seen my share, and closer than I'd wish. I've certainly been part of what happens afterwards." Suddenly she was speaking with urgency, and the absolute and fiercely relevant truth. "And there is no one I know with whom I can discuss it or bring back the miseries that still come into my dreams. No one expects it in a woman. They think it all better forgotten ... easier. But it isn't always...."

He stared at her, his eyes wide. They were clear, pale blue. They had probably been darker when he was young.

"Well, now ... did you really? And you such a slip of a thing!" He regarded her rather too slender body and square, thin shoulders, but with admiration, not disapproval. "We found, at sea, sometimes the wiry ones outlasted the great big ones like a side o' beef. I reckon strength, when it comes to it, is all a matter o' spirit,"

"You're quite right," she agreed. "Would you like a hot drink now? I can easily make one if you would. It might ease your chest a little." Then, in case he thought she was patronizing him, she added, "I should like very much to talk with you, and I can't if you are taken with coughing again."

He understood very well what she was doing, but she had softened the request sufficiently. "You're a canny one." He smiled at her, pointing to the stove. "Kettle's over there, and tea in the tin. Little milk in the larder, maybe. Could be we're out till Michael comes home again."

"Doesn't matter," she replied, standing up. "It's all right without milk, if it isn't too strong."

She was scalding the pot, ready to make the tea, when the door opened, and she turned to see a young man standing just inside the room. He was of average height, slender, with very handsome dark eyes. At this moment he was obviously angry.

"Who are you?" he demanded, coming farther in. "And what are you doing?" He left the door open behind him, as if for her to leave the more easily.

"Hester Monk," she replied, looking at him squarely. "I called upon Mr. Robb to visit with him. We have much in common, and he was kind enough to listen to me. In order that he might speak with more comfort, he permitted me to make a cup of tea."

The young man looked at her with total disbelief. From the expression in his eyes one might have presumed he thought she was there to steal the meager rations on the shelf behind her.

"What on earth could you have in common with my grandfather?" he said grimly.

"It's all right, Michael," the old man intervened. "I'd fairly like to watch her take you on. Reckon as she might have the best of you - with her tongue, any road. Crimean nurse, she is! Seen more battles than you have - like me. She don't mean no harm."

Michael looked uncertainly at the old man, then back at Hester. She respected his protectiveness of his grandfather and hoped she would have done the same had she been in his place. And she was unquestionably an intruder. But the elder Robb should not be treated like a child, even if he was physically all but helpless. She must refrain from defending his judgment now, though the words were on the end of her tongue.

The old man looked at Hester, a glint in his eye. "Wouldn't mind getting another cup, would you, miss?"

"Of course not," Hester said demurely, lifting the last cup from its hook on the shelf that served as a dresser. She finished scalding the pot, put in a meager portion of leaves, then poured on the boiling water, keeping her back to Michael. She heard the door close and his footsteps across the floor.

He came up behind her, his voice very low. "Did Monk send you here?"

"No." She was about to add that Monk did not "send" her anywhere, but on reflection, that was not true. He had frequently sent her to various places to enquire into one thing or another. "So far as I know, he has no idea I am here. I remembered what he said to me of Mr. Robb, and I felt that I wished to visit him. I have no intention of taking anything that belongs to you, Sergeant Robb, or of doing your grandfather any harm, either by meddling or by patronizing him. Nor am I interested in your police concerns with Mrs. Gardiner,"

He blushed painfully, but his eyes remained sharp and steady, and considerable animosity showed in them.

"You are direct to a fault, ma'am."

She smiled suddenly. "Yes - I know. Would you rather I beat around the bush a little more? I can go back and make ten minutes of obscure conversation if you wish. Well -  perhaps five..."

"No, I would not!" In spite of himself his voice rose. "I - "

Whatever else he had been about to say was cut short by the old man's beginning to cough again. He had struggled forward, half out of his chair, and he was in considerable distress, his face flushed and already beads of sweat on his lip and brow.

Michael swung around and rushed towards him, catching him in his arms and easing him back into the chair. For the moment Hester was completely forgotten.

The old man was fighting for breath, trying desperately to drag the air into his damaged lungs, his whole body racked with violent spasms. He brought up great gobbets of phlegm, dark yellow and spotted with blood.

Hester had already guessed how seriously ill he was, but this was agonizing confirmation. She wished that there was something she could do, but at least until the coughing subsided he was beyond all assistance except the physical support Michael was giving him.

If they had been at the hospital she could have got him a tiny dose of morphine, which would have calmed the wrenching lungs and given him the opportunity to rest. Sherry and water would have been good as a restorative. She looked around the shelves to see what there was, her mind racing to think of a way of giving him what he lacked without hurting his pride. She knew perfectly well that anxiety could make people ill, that fear could destroy the passion to survive. Humiliation and the conviction that one was useless, a burden to those one loved, had precipitated the death of many a person who might well have recovered had he perceived himself as valuable.

She saw bread and cheese, three eggs, a carefully covered piece of cold beef, some raw vegetables and a slice of pie. It was not much to feed two men. Perhaps Michael Robb bought his lunch while on duty. On the other hand, he very possibly sacrificed much of his own welfare to care for his grandfather, but in such a way that the old man was unaware of it.

There was a closed cupboard, and she hesitated, reluctant to intrude any further. Was there some way that she could get Kristian Beck to come and visit Mr. Robb and then prescribe morphine for him? He was too old and his illness too far progressed for treatment to accomplish anything beyond alleviating his distress, but surely that was a side of medicine which was just as important. Many things could not be cured. No nurse worth her calling abandoned such cases.

What was there she could find in the meantime? Even hot tea alone might soothe, as soon as he could master himself enough to drink it. Then she saw a small jar of clear honey.

She poured a cup of tea for him, added the honey and suffi-cent cold water to make it drinkable, and carried it over, waiting for a moment's ease in his coughing. Then she stepped in front of Michael and held the cup to the old man's lips.

"Take a sip," she told him. "It will help."

Fumblingly he obeyed, and perhaps the honey soothed the spasms of his throat, because his body eased and he began to relax, sipping again, and then again. It seemed as if, for the moment at least, the attack was over.

She took the cup away and set it down, then went back to the sink and found a bowl that would serve for washing, poured the rest of the water from the kettle into it and automatically put more on to heat. She added a little cold, tested it with her hand, and with a cloth and a towel returned to the old man's chair.

He was exhausted and very pale, but far calmer. The fact that he had been, for a while, unable to control himself was obviously an embarrassment to him.

Michael stood anxiously, aware of the older man's emotions, angry and protective. This should have been private, and Hester was an intruder.

Hester wrung out the cloth in the hot water and gently bathed the old man's face, then his neck, then, as he did not protest, unfastened his shirt and took it off, very aware of Michael's eyes on her. Wringing out the cloth every few moments, she bathed the old man's arms and body. All the time she did not speak, and neither did they.

Once Michael had ascertained what she was doing, and that his grandfather was eased by it rather than further discomforted, he went to find a clean shirt and returned carrying it. It was rough-dried, but it smelled fresh and was quite, soft to the touch. Hester helped the old man into it, then took away the bowl of water and emptied it outside down the drain.

She came back into the room to find John Robb smiling at her, the hectic color fading from his cheeks, and Michael still guarded but less aggressive.

"Thank you, miss," Robb said a little anxiously. "I'm real sorry to have put you out."

"You didn't." She smiled. "I still hope in time we may talk, and you will tell me tales of things I've only imagined."

"I can that," he agreed with a return of enthusiasm.

"Another day," Michael said sharply. "You're tired - "

"I'm all right," Robb insisted. "Don't you worry yourself, Michael. I told you, this lady here's one o' them Crimean nurses, so I reckon she knows all she needs to about the sick. You go back to your watch, lad. I know there's important things only you can do." He looked at him steadily, his voice getting stronger, a touch of old authority back again. "Don't you be worrying."

Michael looked at Hester, frowning a little, his lips drawn tight.

"I appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Monk." He hesitated, the battle within him clear in his face. "And I'm sure my grandfather will enjoy your company."

"And I his," Hester replied. "I shall look forward to coming by whenever I am able to. I am frequently at the hospital, not far away. It is no journey at all."

"Thank you." He must be sensitive to what a relief it would be to the old man to have company and assistance he could look forward to without the anxiety of knowing that he was keeping Michael from his job, and that every minute spent there was in some essence a risk for Michael. But the young policeman was still angry beneath the gratitude, for all its sincerity.

"It is not a trouble," Hester repeated.

Michael moved towards the door, indicating that she should go with him.

"Good-bye, Grandpa," he said gently. "I'll try not to be late."

"Don't worry," Robb assured him. "I'll be all right." They were brave words, and he said them as if they could be true, although they all knew they might not be.

Just outside on the step Michael lowered his voice and fixed Hester with an intense stare.

"You're a good nurse, Mrs. Monk, and I surely appreciate the way you look after him, better than I can. And you didn't make him feel like it's charity. You've got a way with you. I suppose that comes from being out at the war, and all that."

"It also comes from liking him," she replied honestly.

There was no indication in his eyes as to whether he believed her.

"But don't be thinking anything you do here will make a difference, because it won't," he went on levelly. "I won't stop looking for Miriam Gardiner. And when I find her, which I will, if she's guilty of killing James Treadwell, I'll arrest her and charge her, whatever you do for my grandfather." His face tightened even more, his voice a little hoarse. "And whether you tell the police station or not." He colored slightly. "And if that insults you, I'm sorry."

"I'm used to being insulted, Sergeant Robb," she replied, surprised at how much the suggestion hurt. "But I admit, this is a totally new manner of saying my work is worthless, incompetent or generally of morally questionable nature."

"I didn't mean ..." he began, then bit the words back, the pink deepening in his cheeks.

"Yes, you did," she contradicted him, making the most of his embarrassment. "But I suppose I can understand it. You must feel very vulnerable, coming away from your post to care for your grandfather. I swear to you that I have no motive for being here except to offer him some care, according to my profession, and to talk with him over old memories I can share with no one who has not had the experiences from which they spring. You must believe me, or not, as circumstances prove me." And without waiting to see his response, she turned and went back in through the door, leaving it ajar behind her for the warm air to come in. She was only half aware of Michael's footsteps as he walked away.

She remained far longer than she had originally intended. To begin with she had talked comparatively little, answering a few questions about what life had been like for her in the hospital at Scutari, and even describing Florence Nightingale. Robb was interested to hear about her, what she looked like, her demeanor, her voice, even her manner of dress. Such was her reputation that the smallest details held his attention. Hester was happy to answer, feeling memory so sharp she could almost smell the blood and vinegar again, and the sickening odor of gangrene and the other acrid stenches of disease. She could feel the summer heat and hear the buzzing of flies, as if the mild English sun coming in through the windows were the same, and it would be a Turkish street outside.

Halfway through the afternoon he fell asleep, and she was able to stand up and tidy the kitchen space a little, ready to prepare him another cup of tea, should he want it. She would certainly welcome one herself, milk or no milk to go with it. She considered going out to purchase some but decided not to. It would be a slight to his hospitality, a small and needless hurt. Tea was perfectly adequate without.

She tried the closed cupboard, to see if there was anything in it which might help him should he have another attack, any herbal leaves such as camomile to settle the stomach, or feverfew to help headache or even a little quinine to reduce temperatures. She was pleased to find all those things, and also a small packet that suggested morphine to her. A taste on a moistened finger confirmed it. This was quite a respectable medicine cabinet, too accurate to his needs to have been collected by an amateur or by chance, and too expensive to have been purchased out of a police sergeant's pay, except by the most desperate economies elsewhere.

She closed the cupboard silently and stood facing the room, her mind whirling. Morphine was one of the principal medicines missing from the hospital. She had assumed, as everyone else had, that it was being taken for addicts who had been given it for pain and now could not survive without it. But perhaps it was being taken to heal the sick who could not come to the hospital, people like John Robb. Certainly, that was still theft, but she could not find it in herself to disapprove of it.

The questions that burned in her mind were who had brought them and did Michael Robb know. Was that, even in part, the cause of his concern at her being here?

She did not believe it. Intelligence told her it was possible, instinct denied it without consideration.

The old man himself, so peacefully asleep in the afternoon sun, undoubtedly must know who had brought them, but would he know they might be stolen? He might guess, but she thought it unlikely. She would not ask him. There was no decision to make. The question did not arise that she should pursue it. She sat down and waited patiently until he should awaken, then she would make him tea again, with a little more honey. It would be a good idea to bring him a further supply, to make up for what she had drunk herself.

He awoke greatly refreshed and delighted to find her still there. He started to talk straightaway, not even waiting while she served tea and brought it for them both.

"You asked about my sailing days," he said cheerfully. "Well, o' course the greatest o' them was the battle, weren't it!" He looked at her expectantly, his eyes bright.

"The battle?" she asked, turning around to face him.

"C'mon, girl! There's only one battle for a sailor - only one battle for England - really for England, like!"

She smiled at him. "Oh... you mean Trafalgar?"

" 'Course, I mean Trafalgar! You're teasin' me, aren't you? You've gotta be."

"You were at Trafalgar! Really?" She was impressed, and she allowed it to show in her voice and her eyes.

"Surely I was. Never forget that if I live to be a hundred -  which I won't. Great day that was ... an' terrible, too., I reckon there's bin none other like it, nor won't be again."

She poured the water onto the tea. "What ship were you on?"

"Why, the Victory, o' course." He said it with pride in his voice so sharp and clear that for a moment she could hear in it the young man he had been over half a century before, when England had been on the brink of invasion by Napoleon's armies and nothing stood between them and conquest except the wooden walls of the British fleet - and the skill and bravado of Horatio Nelson and the men who sailed with him. She felt a stirring of the same pride in herself, a shiver of excitement and knowledge of the cost, because she, too, had seen battle and knew its reality as well as its dream.

She brought the tea over to him and offered him a cup. He took it, and his eyes met hers over the rim.

"I was there," he said softly. "I remember that morning like it were yesterday. First signal come in about six. That was on the nineteenth of October. Enemy had their tops'l yards hoisted. Least that's what we heard later. Then they were coming out o' port under sail. Half past nine and bright light over the sea when we heard it on the Victory." He shook his head. "All day we tacked and veered around toward Gibraltar, but we never saw 'em. Visibility was poor - you got to understand that. Weather gettin' worse all the time. Under close-reefed topsails, we were, an' too close to Cadiz."

She nodded, sipping her tea, not interrupting.

"Admiral gave the signal to wear and come northwest, back to our first position. Next day, that was, you see?"

"Yes, I see. I know the battle was on the twenty-first."

He nodded again, appreciation in his face. "By dawn o' the twenty-first the admiral had it exactly right. Twenty-one miles north by west o' Cape Trafalgar, we were, and to windward o' the enemy." His eyes were smiling, shining blue, like the sea that historic day. "I can smell the salt in the air," he said softly, screwing up his face as if the glare of the water blinded him still. "Ordered us into two columns and make full sail."

She did not speak.

He was smiling, his tea forgotten. "Made a notch on me gun, I did, like the man next to me. He was an Irishman, I remember. The admiral came around to all of us. He asked what we were doin'. The Irishman told him we were making a mark for another victory, like all the others, just in case he fell in the battle. Nelson laughed an' said as he would make notches enough in the enemy's ships.

"About eleven in the morning the admiral went below to pray, and wrote in his diary, as we learned afterwards. Then he came up to be with us all. That was when he had the signal run up." He smiled and shook his head as if some thought consumed him. "He was going to say 'Nelson confides,' but Lieutenant Pascoe told him that 'expects' was in the Popham code, an' he didn't have to spell it out letter by letter. So what he sent was 'England expects that every man will do his duty.' " He gave a little shrug, looking at her to make sure she knew how those words had become immortal. He saw it in her face, and was satisfied.

"I don't really know what happened in the lee column," he went on, still looking at her, but his eyes already sea blue and far away, his inner vision filled with the great ships, sails billowing in the wind, high up masts that scraped the sky, coming around to face the enemy, men at the ready, muscles taut, silent by their guns, the decks behind them painted red, not to show the blood when the slaughter began.

She could see in his eyes and the curve of his lips the memory of a sharper light than this English summer, the pitch of the deck as the ship hit the waves, the waiting, and then the roar and slam of cannon fire, the smell of saltpeter, the sting of smoke in the eyes and nose.

"You can't imagine the noise," he said so softly it was almost a whisper. "Make them train engines they got now sound like silence. Gunner, I was, an' a good one. Nobody knows how many broadsides we fired that day. But it was about half past one that the admiral was hit. Pacing the quarterdeck, he was. With the captain - Captain Hardy." He screwed up his face. "There was some idiots as says he was paradin' with a chest full o' medals. They haven't been in a sea battle! Anyway, when he was at sea he never dressed like that. Shabby, he was, wore an ordinary blue jacket, like anyone else. He wore sequin copies of his orders, but if you ever spent time at sea, you'd know they tarnish in a matter o' days." He shook his head in denial again. "And you couldn't hardly see anybody to make 'em out clear during a battle. Smoke everywhere. Could miss your own mother not a dozen feet from you." He stopped for a few minutes to catch his breath.

Hester thought of offering him more tea, fresh and hot, but she could see that memory was more important, so she sat and waited.

He resumed his story, telling her of the knowledge of victory and the crushing grief felt by the entire fleet when they knew Nelson was dead. Then of the other losses, the ships and the men gone, the wounded, the securing of the prizes, and then the storm which had arisen and caused even further devastation. He described it in simple, vivid words, and his emotion was as sharp as if it had all happened weeks before, not fifty-five years.

He told of putting Nelson's body in a cask of brandy to preserve it so it could be buried in England, as he had wished.

"Just a little man, he was. Up to my chin, no more," he said with a fierce sniff. "Funny that. We won the greatest victory at sea ever - saved our country from invasion - an' we came home with flags lowered, like we lost - because he were dead." He fell silent for some time.

She rose and boiled the kettle again, resetting the tray and making a light supper for him with a piece of pie cut into a thin slice, and hot tea.

After he had eaten with some pleasure, he told her of Nelson's funeral and how all London had turned out to wish him a last farewell.

"Buried in a special coffin, he was," he added with pride. "Plain an' simple, like death, or the sea. Made from wood taken from the wreckage of the French flagship at the Battle of the Nile. Pleased as punch when Hallowell gave it to him way back, he was. Kept it all those years. Laid in the Painted Hall in Greenwich Hospital. First mourners come on January fourth." He smiled with supreme satisfaction. "Prince o' Wales hisself."

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rasping cough, but held up his hand to prevent her from interrupting him. "Laid there four days. While all the world went by to pay their respects. Then we took him up the river, on Wednesday morning. The coffin was placed on one of the royal barges made for King Charles II, an' all covered over in black velvet, with black ostrich plumes, and went in a flotilla up to London. Eleven other barges, there were, all the livery companies with their banners flying. Never seen so much gold and color. Stiff wind that day, too. Fired the guns every minute, all the way up to Whitehall Stairs."

He stopped again, blinking hard, but he could not keep the tears from spilling over and running down his cheeks.

"Next day we took him to Saint Paul's. Great procession, but mostly army. Only navy there was us - from the Victory herself." His voice cracked, but it was from pride as well as grief. "I was one of them what carried our battle ensigns. We opened them up now and again so the crowd could see the shot holes in them. They all took their hats off as we passed. It made a sound like the noise of the sea." He rubbed his hand across his cheek. "There isn't anything I'd take this side o' heaven to trade places with any man alive who wasn't there."

"I wouldn't understand it if you did," she answered, smiling at him and unashamed to be weeping, too.

He nodded slowly. "You're a good girl. You know what it means, don't you." That was a statement, not a question. He drew in his breath as if to thank her, then knew it was unnecessary, even inappropriate. It would have implied debt, and there was none.

Before she could say anything in answer the door opened and Michael Robb came in. Only then did she realize how long she had been there. It was early evening. The shadows of the sun were long across the floor and touched with a deeper color. She felt a warmth of self-consciousness wash up her face. Automatically, she stood up.

Michael's disapproval and alarm were too obvious to hide. He saw the tears on the old man's face and turned to glare at Hester.

"I had the best afternoon in years," Robb said gently, looking up at his grandson. "She kept me real company. We talked about all sort o' things. I've got a kind o' peace inside me. Come, sit down and have a cup o' tea. You look like your feet hurt, boy, and you're mortal tired."

Michael hesitated, confusion filling his face. He looked from one to the other of them, then finally accepted that his grandfather was telling the truth about his pleasure and Hester really had given him a rare gift of companionship, unspoiled by duty or the seeking of recompense. A wide smile of relief lit his face, cutting through the weariness and showing for a moment the youth he wanted to be.

"Yes," he agreed vehemently. "Yes, I will." He turned to Hester. "Thank you, Mrs. Monk." His eyes shadowed. "I'm sorry... I found Miriam Gardiner."

Hester felt a sudden coldness inside. The sweetness of the moment before was gone.

"I had to arrest her for TreadwelFs murder," he finished, watching her to see her reaction.

"Why?" she protested. "Why on earth would Miriam Gardiner murder the coachman? If she wanted to escape from Lucius Stourbridge, for whatever reason, all she had to do was have Treadwell leave her somewhere. He would never have known where she went after that." She drew in her breath. "And if she simply went somewhere near her home, Lucius would know more about that than Treadwell anyway."

Michael looked as if the answer gave him no pleasure, barely even any satisfaction. He would probably dearly like to have taken off his boots, which were no doubt tight and hot after the long day, but her presence prevented him. "The most obvious reason is that Treadwell knew something about her which would have ruined her prospects of marriage into the Stourbridge family," he answered. "I daresay she loved young Mr. Stourbridge, but whether she did or not, there's a great deal of money to it, more than she'll even have seen in her life."

Hester wanted to protest that Miriam had no regard for the money, but she did not know if that was true. She had impressions, feelings, but barely any real knowledge.

She walked over to the kettle, refilled it from the ewer, which was now almost empty, and set it on the stove again.

"I'm sorry," Michael said wearily, sinking into the chair. "It's too plain to ignore. The two of them left the Stourbridge house together. They came as far as Hampstead Heath. His body was found, and she ran away. Surely any innocent person would have stayed, or at least come back and reported what had happened."

She thought quickly. "What if they were both attacked by someone else, and she was too afraid of that person to tell anyone what happened?"

He looked at her doubtfully. "So afraid that even when we arrested her she still wouldn't say?" His voice denied his belief in it.

"Do you know this Miriam Gardiner, girl?" Robb asked, looking at Hester sadly.

"No ... no, I haven't met her." She was surprised that that was true, since she felt so strongly about it. It defied sense. "I... I just know a little about her... I suppose I put myself in her place... a little."

"In her place?" Michael echoed. "What would make you leave a man, beaten, dying, but still alive, and run away, never to come forward until the police hunted you down, and then give no explanation even when you were arrested for killing him?"

"I don't know," she admitted reluctantly. "I... can't think of anything ... but that doesn't mean there couldn't be a reason."

"She's protecting someone," the old man said, shaking his head. "Women'll do all sorts to protect someone they love. I'll lay you odds, girl, if she didn't kill him herself, she knows who did."

Michael glanced at Hester. "Could be she was having an affair with Treadwell," he said, pursing his lips. "Could be he tried to force her to keep it going, and she wanted to end it because of Stourbridge."

Hester did not argue anymore. Reason was all on his side, and she had nothing to marshal against it. She turned her attention to the kettle.

When she arrived home Monk was already there, and she was startled to see that he had prepared cold game pie and vegetables for dinner and it was set out on the table. She realized how late it was, and apologized with considerable feeling. She was also deeply grateful. She was hot and tired, and her boots felt at least a size too tight.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing the droop in her shoulders and reading her too well to think it was only weariness.

"They've found Miriam," she replied, looking up at him from where she had sat down to unlace her boots.

He stood still in the doorway, staring at her.

"They arrested her," she finished quietly. "Michael Robb thinks she killed Treadwell, either because he knew something about her which would have ended her chance of marrying Lucius or because she was having an affair with him and wanted to end it."

His face was grave, the lines harder. "How do you know that?"

She realized the necessity for explanation, a little late. "I was visiting his grandfather, because he is seriously ill, when Sergeant Robb came home."

"And Robb just told you this?" His eyes were wide and steady.

"He knew I was your wife."

"Oh." He hesitated. "And do you think Miriam killed Treadwell?" He was watching her, trying to read not only her words but her feelings. He looked strangely defeated, as if he had felt the same unreasoning hope that Miriam could be innocent.

It was very sweet not to be alone in her sense of disappointment, even disillusion.

She took her boots off and wriggled her feet, then stood up and walked over to him. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for the dinner."

He grinned with satisfaction. "Don't make a habit of it," he said smugly.

She knew better than to reply. She walked a step behind him to the table.

monk was unable to rid his mind of the thought of Miriam Gardiner's arrest. He slept deeply, but when he awoke the memory of her distress twisted his thoughts until he,had no choice but to determine to see her.

In case there might be any difficulty with the prison authorities, he lied without compunction, meeting the jailer's gaze with candor and saying he was her legal adviser, with whom, of course, she was entitled to consult.

Monk found her sitting alone in a cell, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale but so composed as to be in a way frightening. There was no anger in her, no will to fight, no outrage at injustice. She seemed neither pleased nor displeased to see him, as if his presence made no difference with regard to anything that mattered.

The cell door clanged behind him, and he heard the heavy bolt shoot home. The floor was perhaps five paces by five, black stone, the walls whitewashed. A single high aperture was heavily glassed, letting in light but not color. The sky beyond could have been blue or gray. The air was stuffy, smelling of decades, perhaps centuries, of anger and despair.

"Mrs. Gardiner ..." he began. He had rehearsed what to say to her, but now it seemed inadequate. Intelligence was needed, even brilliance, if he was to help her in this dreadful situation of confusion and pain, and yet all that seemed natural or remotely appropriate was emotion. "I hoped Robb would not find you, but since he has, please allow me to do what I can to help."

She looked at him blankly, her face almost expressionless. "You cannot help, Mr. Monk. I mean that as no reflection upon your abilities, simply that my situation does not allow it."

He sat down facing her. "What happened?" he asked urgently. "Do you know who killed Treadwell?"

She kept her eyes averted, staring into some dark space that only she could see.

"Do you know?" he repeated more sharply.

"There is nothing I can tell you which will help, Mr. Monk." There was finality in her voice, no lift of hope, not even of argument. She had no will to fight.

"Did you kill him?" he demanded.

She lifted her head slowly, her eyes wide. Before she spoke, he knew what she was going to say.

"No."

"Then who did?"

She looked away again.

His mind raced. The only reason for her silence must be to protect someone. Had she any conception of what it was going to cost her?

"Did Treadwell threaten you?" he asked.

"No." But there was no surprise in her voice or in the profile of her face. Whom was she protecting? Cleo Anderson, who had been almost a mother to her? Some other lover from the past, or a relative of her first husband?

"Was he threatening someone else? Blackmailing you?" he persisted. All sorts of arguments sprang to his lips about not being able to help her if she would not help herself, but they died unspoken because it was too painfully apparent she had no belief that help was possible. "Was Treadwell blackmailing you about something in your life here in Hampstead?"

"No." She lifted her head again. "There was nothing to blackmail me about." Tears filled her eyes. Emotion had broken through the ice of despair for a few moments, then it withered again. The stark cell with its wooden cot and straw mattress, the bare walls and stifling air were hardly real to her. Her world was within herself and her own pain. Surely, she had not yet even imagined what would follow if she did not present some defense. Either she had some reason for attacking Treadwell or else it was simply someone else who had killed him. The only other alternative was that she had not even been present and had no idea what had happened. Then why did she not say so?

He looked at her hunched figure where she sat, half turned away from him, unresponsive.

"Miriam!" He put out his hand and touched her. Her body was rigid. "Miriam! What happened? Why did you leave the Stourbridge house? Was it something to do with Treadwell?"

"No..." There was a driving core of emotion in her voice. "No," she repeated. "It had nothing to do with Treadwell. He was merely good enough to drive me."

"You simply asked him, and he agreed?" he said with surprise. "Did he not require some reason?"

"Not reason. Recompense."

"You paid him?"

"My locket. It doesn't matter."

That she would part so easily with a personal item of jewelry was a measure of how desperate she had been. He wondered what had become of the locket. It had not been with Treadwell's clothes. Had his murderer taken it?

"Where is it now?" he asked. "Did you take it back?"

She frowned. "Where is it? Isn't it with him ... with his body?"

"No."

She lifted her shoulders very slightly, less than a shrug. "Then I don't know. But it doesn't matter. Don't waste your effort on it, Mr. Monk. Maybe it will find its way to someone who will like it. I would rather it were not lost down some drain, but if it is, I can't help it now."

"What should I put my effort into, Miriam?"

She did not answer for so long he was about to repeat himself when at last she spoke.

"Comfort Lucius ..." Without warning, her composure broke and she bent her head and covered her face, sobs shaking her body.

He longed to be able to help her. She was alone, vulnerable, facing trial and almost certainly one of the ugliest of deaths.

Impulse overcame judgment. He reached out and took hold of her arm.

"Words won't comfort him when you are in the dock, or when the judge puts on his cap and sentences you to hang! Tell me the truth while I can do something about it! Why did you leave the Stourbridge house? Or if you won't tell me that, at least tell me what happened in Hampstead. Who killed Treadwell? Where were you? Why did you run away? Who are you afraid of?"

It took her several moments to master herself again. She blew her nose, then, still avoiding meeting his eyes, she answered in a low, choked voice.

"I can't tell you why I left, only that I had to. What happened in Hampstead is that Treadwell was attacked and murdered. I think perhaps it was my fault, but I did not do it, that I swear. I never injured anyone with intent." She looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed. "Please tell Lucius that, Mr. Monk. I never willfully harmed anyone. I want him to believe that..." Her voice trailed off into a sob.

"He already believes that," he said more gently. "It is not Lucius you have to be concerned about. I doubt he will ever think ill of you. It is the rest of the world, especially Sergeant Robb, and then whatever jury he brings you before. And he will! Unless you give some better account. Did you see who attacked Treadwell? At least answer me yes or no."

"Yes. But no one would believe me, even if I would say... and I will not." She spoke with finality. There was no room to imagine she hoped to be dissuaded. She did not care what Monk thought, and he knew it from everything about her, from the slump of the body to the lifelessness of her voice.

"Try me!" he urged desperately. "Tell me the truth and let me decide whether I believe it or not. If you are innocent, then someone else is guilty, and he must be found. If he isn't, you will hang!"

"I know. Did you think I didn't understand that?"

He had wondered fleetingly if she was of mental competence, if perhaps she was far more frail than Lucius had had any idea, but the thought had lasted only moments.

"Will you see Lucius? Or Major Stourbridge?" he asked.

"No!" She pulled away from him sharply, for the first time real fear in her voice. "No... I won't. If you have any desire to help me, then do not ask me again."

"I won't," he promised.

"You give me your word?" She stared at him, her eyes wide and intense.

"I do. But I warn you again that no one can help you until you tell the truth. If not to me, would you tell a lawyer, someone who is bound to keep in confidence whatever you say, regardless of what it is?"

A smile flickered over her face and vanished. "It would make no difference whatever. It is the truth itself that wounds, Mr. Monk, not what you may do with it. Thank you for coming. I am sure your intention was generous, but you cannot help. Please leave me to myself." She turned away again, dismissing him.

He had no alternative but to accept. He stood up, hesitated a moment longer, without purpose, then called the jailer to let him out.

Just outside the gates he encountered Michael Robb. Robb looked tired, and it was obscurely pleasing to Monk that there was no air of triumph in him.

They stood facing each other on the hot, dusty footpath.

"You've been to see her," Robb said, stating what was obvious between them.

"She won't tell you anything," Monk said, not in answer but as a statement of fact. "She won't speak to anyone. She won't even see Stourbridge."

Robb looked him up and down, from his neat cravat and the shoulders of the well-cut jacket to the tips of his polished boots. "Do you know what happened?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No," Monk replied.

Robb put his hands in his pockets, deliberately casual, even sloppy by contrast. "I shall find out," he promised. "No matter how long it takes me, I will know what happened to Treadwell - or enough to make a prosecution. There's something in his past, or hers, that made this happen." He was watching Monk's face as he spoke, weighing his reaction, trying to read what he knew.

"You will have to," Monk agreed wryly. "All you have at the moment is suspicion - not enough to hang anyone on."

Robb winced almost imperceptibly, just a stiffening of his body. It was an ugly word, an ugly reality. "I will." His voice was very soft. "Treadwell may have been an evil man, for all I know deserving some kind of retribution, but the day we allow the man in the street to decide that for himself, without trial, without answering to anyone, then we lose the right to call ourselves civilized. Then law belongs to the quickest and the strongest, not to justice. We aren't a society anymore." He was self-conscious as he said it, daring Monk to laugh at him, but he was proud of it also.

Monk hoped he had never done anything in the past which made Robb imagine he would mock that decision. He would probably never know. A dray rumbled noisily past them.

"I won't stand in your way," he answered levelly. "None of us could afford private vengeance." He wondered if Robb had any idea how true that was.

"She'd be better if she told us." Robb frowned. "Can't you persuade her of that? Otherwise I'll have to dig for it, go through all her life, all her friends, her first husband ... everything."

"That's one of the things about murder." Monk nodded and lifted his shoulders very slightly. "You have to learn more about everybody than you want to know, all the secrets that have nothing to do with the crime, as well as those that do. Innocent people are stripped of their masks of pretense, sometimes of decently covered mistakes they've long since mended. You have to know everything the victim ever did that could make someone take the last, terrible step of killing him, creep as close as his skin till you see every blemish and can read the hatred that destroyed him. Of course, you'll know Treadwell ... and you'll come to pity him - and probably hate him as well."

People passed by, and they ignored them.

"Have you solved a lot of murders?" Robb asked. It was not a challenge; there was respect and curiosity in his face>.

"Yes," Monk answered him. "Some I understood, and might have done the same myself. Others were so coldblooded, so consumed in self, it frightened me that another human being I had talked with, stood beside, could have hidden that evil behind a face which looked to me like any other."

Robb stared at him. For several seconds neither of them moved, oblivious of the noisy street around them.

"I think this is going to be one of the first," Robb said at last. "I wish it weren't. I wish I weren't going to find some private shame in Mrs. Gardiner's life that Treadwell was blackmailing her about, threatening to ruin the happiness she'd found. But I have to look. And if I find it, I have to bring it to evidence." That was a challenge.

Monk thought how young he was. And he wondered what evidence he had found - or lost - when he was that age. And for that matter, what he would do now if he were in Robb's place.

But he was not. He had no further interest in the case. His task was over, not very satisfactorily.

"Of course you do," he answered. "There are hundreds of judgments to make. You have to check which are yours and which aren't. Good day, Sergeant Robb."

Robb stood facing him in the sun. "Good day, Mr. Monk. It's been an interesting experience to meet you." He looked as if he was about to add something more, then changed his mind and went on past Monk towards the prison gate.

Monk had no duties in the case now. Even moral obligation took him no further. Miriam had refused to explain anything, either of her flight from Cleveland Square or what had happened in Hampstead. There was nothing more he could do.

Hester was still at the hospital, although it was now late.