The Twisted Root

chapter Eight

"And where was Miriam?" Callandra asked. Then her expression quickened. "Or did he drop Miriam wherever she wished to be and go back to Cleo Anderson? That would explain why Miriam did not know he was dead."

Hester shook her head. "Whatever the answer is, it does not help Cleo now."

They looked at each other grimly, and none could think of anything hopeful to say.

Matters only seemed worse when, an hour or so later, Hester and Callandra were summoned to the office of an extremely angry Fermin Thorpe and were ordered by him to assist Sergeant Robb in his enquiries.

Robb stood uncomfortably to the side of Thorpe's desk, looking first at Thorpe himself, then at Callandra, lastly and unhappily at Hester.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He seemed to be addressing both of them. "I'd rather not have had to place you in this position, but I need to know more about the medicines Mr. Thorpe here says are missing from your apothecary's room."

"I didn't know about it until this morning," Thorpe said furiously, his face pink. "It should have been reported to me at the very first instance. Somebody will answer for this!"

"I think first we had better see precisely what is provable, Mr. Thorpe," Callandra said coldly. "It does not do to cast accusations around freely before one is certain of the facts. It is too easy to ruin a reputation, and too difficult to mend it again when one discovers mistakes have been made." She stared at him defiantly, daring him to contradict her.

Thorpe was very conscious of his position as a governor of the hospital and of his innate general superiority. However, he also had an acute social awareness, and Callandra had a title, albeit a courtesy one because of her late father's position. He decided upon caution, at least for the meantime.

"Of course, Lady Callandra. We do not yet know the entire situation." He looked sideways at Robb. "I assure you, Sergeant, I shall do all within my power to be of assistance. We must get the facts of the matter and put an end to all dishonesty. I shall assist you myself."

It was what Hester had feared. It would be so much easier to make light of the losses, even to mislead Robb a little, if Thorpe were not there. She had no idea what the apothecary would do, where his loyalties lay, or how frightened he would be for his own position.

Thorpe hesitated, and Hester realized with a lurch of hope that he did not know enough about the medicines to conduct the search and inventory without assistance.

"Perhaps one of us might fetch Mr. Phillips?" she offered. "And perhaps come with you to make notes ... for our own needs. After all, we shall have to attend to the matter and see that it does not happen again. We need to know the truth of it even more than Sergeant Robb does."

Thorpe grasped the rescue. "Indeed, Mrs. Monk." Suddenly he found he could remember her name without the usual difficulty.

She smiled at it, but did not remark. Before he could change his mind, she glanced at Callandra, then led the way out of the office and along the wide corridor towards the apothecary's room. She knew Callandra would fetch Mr. Phillips, and possibly even have a discreet word with him as to the effects upon all of them of whatever he might say. Presumably, he would not yet know of the charge against Cleo Anderson, far less the motive attributed to her.

She did not dare look at Sergeant Robb. He might too easily guess Callandra's intention. It was not a great leap of foresight.

They walked briskly, one behind the other, and she stopped at the apothecary's door. Naturally, Thorpe had a key, as he had to all doors. He opened the door and stepped in, and they followed behind, crowding into the small space. It was lined with cupboards right up to the ceiling. Each had its brass-bound keyhole, even the drawers beneath the shelf.

"I am afraid I do not have keys to these," Thorpe said reluctantly. "But as you may see, it is all kept with the utmost safety. I do not know what more we can do, except employ a second apothecary so that there is someone on duty at every moment. Obviously, we may require medicines at night as well as during the day, and no one man can be available around the clock, however diligent."

"Who has keys at night now?" Robb asked.

"When Mr. Phillips leaves he passes them to me," Thorpe replied with discomfort, "and I give them to the senior doctor who will remain here at night."

"From your wording I assume that is not always the same person," Robb concluded.

"No. We do not operate during the night. Seldom does one of the surgeons remain. Dr. Beck does, on occasion, if he has a particularly severe case. More often it will be a student doctor." He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. Perhaps he felt the whole hospital under accusation because one of its nurses had been given the opportunity to steal, which had resulted in murder. He would have liked to distance himself from it, and it was plain in his expression.

"Who gives the medicine during the night?" Robb asked.

Thorpe was further discomfited. "The doctor on duty."

"Not a nurse?" Robb looked surprised.

"Nurses are to keep patients clean and comfortable," Thorpe said a trifle sharply. "They do not have medical training or experience, and are not given responsibilities except to do exactly as they are told." He did not look at Hester.

Robb digested that information thoughtfully and without comment. Before he could formulate any further questions the apothecary entered, closely followed by Callandra, who avoided Hester's eye.

"Ah!" Thorpe said with relief. "Phillips. Sergeant Robb here believes that a considerable amount of medicine has, gone missing from our supplies, stolen by one of our nurses, and that this fact has provided the motive and means for her to be blackmailed." He cleared his throat. "We need to ascertain if this is true, and if it is, precisely what amounts are involved, how it was taken, and by whom." He had effectively laid the fault, if not the responsibility, at Phillips's door.

Phillips did not answer immediately. He was a large man, rather overweight, with wild dark hair and a beard severely in need of trimming. Hester had always found him to be most agreeable and to have a pleasing, if somewhat waspish, sense of humor. She hoped he was not going to get the blame for this, and she would be painfully disappointed in him if it were too easy to pass it onto Cleo.

"Have you nothing to say, man?" Thorpe demanded impatiently.

"Not without thinking about it carefully," Phillips replied. "Sir," he added, "if there's medicine really missing, rather than just wastage or a miscount, or somebody's error in writing what they took, then it's a serious matter."

"Of course, it's a serious matter!"Thorpe snapped. "There's blackmail and murder involved."

"Murder?" Phillips said with a slight lift of surprise in his voice, but only slight. "Over our medicines? There's been no theft that size. I know that for sure."

"Over a period of time," Thorpe corrected him. "Or so the sergeant thinks."

Phillips fished for his keys and brought out a large collection on a ring. First he opened one of the drawers and pulled out a ledger. "How far back, sir?" he asked Robb politely.

"I don't know," Robb replied "Try a year or so. That should be sufficient."

"Don't rightly know how I can tell." Phillips obligingly opened the ledger to the same month the previous year. He scanned the page and the following one. "Everything tallies here, an' there's no way we can know if it was what we had then in the cupboards. Doesn't look like anyone's altered it. Anyway, I'd know if they had, and I'd have told Mr. Thorpe."

Thorpe stepped closer and turned the pages of the ledger himself, examining from that date to the present. There were quite obviously no alterations made to the entries. It told them nothing. The checking in of medicines was all made in the one hand, the withdrawals in several different hands of varying degrees of elegance and literacy. There were a few misspellings.

Robb looked at them. "Are these all doctors?" he asked.

"Of course," Thorpe replied tartly. "You don't imagine we give the keys to the nurses, do you? If the wretched woman has really stolen medicines from this hospital, then it will be sleight of hand while the doctor's back was turned, perhaps attending to a patient taken suddenly ill, or while he was otherwise distracted. It is a perfectly dastardly thing to do. I trust she will be punished to the fullest extent of the law as a deterrent to any other person tempted to enrich herself at the expense of those in her care!"

"Could just be wastage," Phillips observed, his eyes wide, looking from Thorpe to Robb. "Not easy to measure powders exact. Close enough, o' course, but over a couple o' dozen doses yer could be out a bit. Ever considered that, sir?"

"You couldn't blackmail anybody over that," Robb replied, but his expression indicated that he said it with reluctance. "There must be more. If there is nothing in the past that is provable now, would you check your present stocks exactly against what is in your books?"

"Of course." Phillips had very little choice, nor for that matter, had Robb.

They stood silently while Phillips went through his cupboards, weighing, measuring and counting, watched impatiently by Thorpe, anxiously by Callandra, and with unease by Robb.

Hester wondered if Robb had even a suspicion that his grandfather's suffering had been treated by this very means, with medicine stolen not for gain but out of compassion by Cleo Anderson, whom he now sought to prove guilty of murdering Treadwell. She looked at his earnest face and saw pity in it, but no doubt, no tearing of loyalties... not yet.

Was Cleo guilty? If Treadwell was a blackmailer, was it possible she had believed him the lesser victim, rather than the patients she treated?

It was hard to believe, but it was not impossible.

"The quinine seems a bit short," Phillips remarked as if it were of no great moment. "Could be bad measuring, I suppose. Or someone took a few doses in a crisis an' forgot to make a note of it."

"How far short?" Thorpe demanded, his face dark. "Damn it, man, you can be more exact than that! What do you mean, 'a bit'? You're an apothecary. You don't dose a patient with'a bit.'"

"About five hundred grains, sir," Phillips answered very quietly.

Thorpe flushed deep pink, "Good God! That's enough to dose a dozen men. This is very serious indeed. You'd better see what else is missing. Look at the morphine."

Phillips obeyed. That measurement was even farther short. Hester was not surprised. It was the obvious treatment for pain, as quinine was for fever. Cleo must have administered it, under supervision, often enough over the years to have an excellent idea of how much to give and in what circumstances. Certainly, Hester herself did.

Thorpe turned to Robb. "I regret, Sergeant, but it seems you are perfectly correct. We are missing a substantial amount of medicine, and it is impossible any random thief could have taken it. It has to be one of our nurses."

Hester drew breath to point out that it had only to be someone within the hospital staff over the last few years, but she knew that would be pointless. Thorpe would not entertain the idea of any of the doctors doing such a thing, and she had no desire to try to shift the blame onto Phillips.

Perhaps it had been Cleo Anderson ... in fact, if Hester was honest, she had no doubt. It was the reason for it they had misunderstood, and she did not wish to draw their attention to that because it would make no difference whatever to the charge.

With Cleo in prison, who would now care for the old and ill she had visited with medicines to give them respite from distress? Specifically, what of John Robb?

Callandra handed Sergeant Robb the note she had made of the missing medicines and the amounts. He took it and put it in his pocket, thanking her. He looked at Phillips again.

"Over what period has this been missed, Mr. Phillips?"

"Can't say, sir," Phillips replied instantly. "Haven't had occasion to check in that detail for some time. Could have been careless measuring. Perhaps even someone spilled something." His black eyes were bland, his voice reasonable. "More likely careless noting down of what was given out proper, but in the heat of a bad night or something of a crisis. Got to make an allowance. Medicine is an art, Mr. Thorpe, not an exact science."

"God damn it, man!" Thorpe exploded. "Don't tell me how to conduct the practice of medicine in my own hospital."

Phillips did not reply, nor did he seem particularly disturbed by Thorpe's anger, which had the effect of both heightening it and confusing Thorpe into momentary silence. He had not expected an apothecary to be indifferent to him.

Phillips turned to Robb. "If there is anything else I can do for you, Sergeant, I'm sure Mr. Thorpe would want me to. Just tell me. And before you ask, I've got no suspicions of any o' the nurses ... not in that way. Some o' them drink a spot too much porter on an empty stomach. But then I daresay half o' London does that from time to time. 'Specially as porter is included in the wages, like. You'll find me 'round an' about most any day except Sunday." And without asking anything further he handed the keys to Thorpe and went out.

"Impertinent oaf," Thorpe swore under his breath.

"But honest?" Robb asked.

Hester saw the abhorrence in Thorpe's face. He would dearly like to have paid Phillips back for his arrogance, and here was an ideal opportunity given him. On the other hand, to admit he had employed an apothecary of whom he had doubts would be a confession of his own gross incompetence.

But just in case temptation should prove too powerful, Hester answered for him.

"Of course, Sergeant," she said with a smile. "Do you imagine Mr. Thorpe would have permitted him to remain in such a responsible position if he were not trustworthy in every way? If a nurse is a little tipsy it is one thing. She may spill a pail of water or leave a floor unswept. If an apothecary is not above reproach people may die."

"Quite," Thorpe agreed hastily with a venomous look at Hester, then, with a considerable effort to alter his expression, he turned to Robb. "Please question anyone you wish to. I doubt you will find any proof that this wretched woman stole the quinine and morphine. If there were any, we should know of it ourselves. I presume you have her in custody?"

"Yes sir, we have. Thank you, sir." Robb bade them good-day and left.

Hester glanced at Callandra, men excused herself also. She had other matters to attend to, and urgently.

Hester had no difficulty in obtaining permission to visit Cleo Anderson in her cell. She simply told the jailer that she was an official from the hospital where Cleo worked and it was necessary to learn certain medical information from her in order for treatments to continue in her absence.

It transpired that the jailer knew Cleo - she had nursed his mother in her final illness - and he was only too pleased to repay the kindness in any way he could. Indeed, he seemed embarrassed by the situation, and Hester could not guess from his manner whether he thought Cleo could be guilty or not. However, word had spread that the charge was that she had killed a blackmailer, and he had a very low regard for such people, possibly sufficiently low that he was not overly concerned by the death of one of them.

The cell door shut with the heavy, echoing sound of metal on metal, sending a shiver of memory through Hester, bringing back her own few hideous days in Edinburgh, when she was where Cleo sat now, alone and facing trial, and perhaps death.

Cleo looked at her in surprise. Her face was pale, and she had the bruised, staring look of someone deeply shocked, but she seemed composed, even resigned. Hester could not recall if she had felt like that. She believed she had always wanted to fight, that inside herself she was screaming out against the injustice. There was too much to live for not to struggle, always far too much.

But then she had not killed Mary Farraline.

Even if Cleo had killed Treadwell because he had been blackmailing her over the medicines, it was a highly understandable action. Not excusable, perhaps, but surely any God worth worshiping would find more pity than blame for her?

Maybe she did not believe that? At least not now... at this moment, facing human justice.

"Can I help you?" Hester said aloud. "Is there anything I can bring for you? Clothes, soap, a clean towel, rather better food? What about your own spoon? Or cup?"

Cleo smiled faintly. The very practicality of the suggestions contrasted with what she had expected. She had anticipated anger, blame, pity, curiosity. She looked puzzled.

"I've been in prison," Hester explained. "I hated the soap and the scratchy towels. It's a little thing. And I wanted my own spoon. I remember that."

"But they let you go...." Cleo looked at her with anxiety so sharp it was close to breaking her composure. "And they let Miriam go? Is she all right?"

Hester sat in the chair, leaning forward a little. She liked Cleo more with each encounter. She could not watch her distress with any impartiality at all, or think of her fate with acceptance. "Yes, they let her go."

"Home?" She was watching Hester intently.

"No... with Lucius and Major Stourbridge." She searched Cleo's face for anything that would help her understand why Miriam had dreaded it. She saw nothing, no flicker of comprehension, however swiftly concealed.

"Was she all right?" Cleo said fearfully.

It seemed cruel to tell her the truth, but Hester did not know enough to judge which lies would do least harm.

"No," she answered. "I don't think so. Not from what my husband said. She would far rather have gone anywhere else at all - even remained in prison - but she was not given the choice. The police could not hold her because there was no charge anymore, but it was obvious to everyone that she was deeply distressed, and since she is a witness to much of what happened, they have a certain authority over where she should go."

Cleo said nothing. She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap.

Hester watched her closely. "Do you know why she ran away from Cleveland Square and why she had to be all but dragged back there?"

Cleo looked up quickly. "No - no, I don't. She wouldn't tell me."

Hester believed her. The confusion and distress in her eyes were too real. "Don't answer me whether you took the medicines or not," she said quietly. "I know you did, and I know what for."

Cleo regarded her thoughtfully for several moments before she spoke. "What's going to happen to them, miss? There's nobody to look after them. The ones with family are better off than those who haven't, but even they can't afford what they need, or they don't know what it is. They get old, and their children move on, leaving them behind. The young don't care about Trafalgar an' Waterloo now. A few years an' they'll forget the Crimea, too. Those soldiers are all the thing now, because they're young and handsome still. We get upset about a young man with no arms or no legs, or insides all to pieces. But when they get old we can't be bothered. We say they're going to die soon anyway. Wot's the point in spending time and money on them?"

There was no argument to make. Of course, it was not true everywhere, but in too many instances it was.

"What about John Robb, sailor from the victory at Trafalgar?" Hester asked. "Consumption, by the sound of him."

Cleo's face tightened, and she nodded. "I don't think he has long. His grandson does everything he can for him, but that isn't much. He can't give him any ease without the morphine." She did not ask, but it was in her eyes, willing Hester to agree.

Hester knew what that would involve. She would have to give him the morphine herself. It would involve her in the theft. But to refuse would compound the old man's suffering and his sense of being abandoned. When he understood, he would also know that his suffering was of less importance to her than keeping herself from risk. Alleviating pain was all right, as long as the cost was small - a little time, even weariness, but not personal danger.

"Yes, of course." The words were out of her mouth before she had time to weigh what she was committing herself to do.

"Thank you," Cleo said softly, a momentary gleam in her eyes, as if she had seen a light in enclosing darkness. "And I would like the soap, and the spoon, if it is not too much trouble."

"Of course." Hester brushed them aside as already done.

What she really wanted was to help with some defense, but what was there? She realized with bitterness that she was half convinced that Cleo had killed Treadwell. "Have you got a lawyer to speak for you?"

"A lawyer? What can he say? It won't make no difference." The tone of her voice was flat, as if she had suddenly been jerked back to the harshness of the present and her own reality, not John Robb's. There was a closed air about her, excluding Hester from her emotions till she felt rebuffed, an intruder. Was Cleo still somehow defending Miriam Gardiner? Or was she guilty, and believed she deserved to die?

"Did you kill Treadwell?" Hester said abruptly.

Cleo hesitated, was about to speak, then changed her mind and said nothing. Hester had the powerful impression that she had been going to deny it, but she would never know, and asking again would be useless. The mask was complete.

"Was he blackmailing you?" she asked instead.

Cleo sighed. "Yeah, 'course he was. Do most things for money, that one."

"I see." There did not seem much else to say. She had resolved without question or doubt that she would do all she could to help Cleo, it was a matter of thinking what that would be. Already, Oliver Rathbone's name was in her mind.

Cleo grasped her wrist, holding hard, startling her. "Don't tell the sergeant!" she said fiercely. "It can't change what he does, and..." - she blinked, her face bruised with hurt -  "and don't tell old Mr. Robb why I'm not there. Tell him something else... anything. Perhaps by the time they try me, and... well, he may not have to know. He could be gone his-selfbythen."

"I'll tell him something else," Hester promised. "Probably that you've gone to look after a relative or something."

"Thank you." Cleo's gratitude was so naked, Hester felt guilty. She was on the edge of saying that she intended to do far more, but she had no idea what it could be, and to raise hope she could not fulfill was thoughtlessly cruel.

"I'll come back with the soap," she promised. "And the spoon." Then she went to the door and banged for the jailer to let her out.

The next thing she did she expected to be the most difficult, and it was certainly the one of which she was most afraid. She felt guilty even as she walked up the steps and in through the hospital door. She returned the stare of two young medical students too directly, as if to deny their suspicion of her. Then she felt ridiculous, and was sure she was blushing. She had done nothing yet. She was no different from the person she had been yesterday or this morning, when she had been perfectly happy to confront Fermin Thorpe in his office and rack her brain to defend Cleo Anderson. Would Callandra in turn have to rack her brain tomorrow to defend her?

And yet she could not escape it. Quite apart from her fondness for John Robb, she had given Cleo the promise. She had tried to form a plan, but so much depended upon opportunity. It was impractical to try stealing Phillips's keys, and unfair to him. Added to which, he really was extremely careful with them, and might be the more so now.

How long would she have to wait for a crisis of some sort to present a chance, the apothecary's room open and unattended, or Phillips there but his back turned? She was suddenly furious with herself. She had been alone with Cleo and not had the wits to ask her how she had accomplished it. She had just blithely promised to do the same, without the faintest idea how to go about it. It was very humbling to realize her own stupidity.

She stood in the middle of the passage and was still there when Kristian Beck reached her.

"Hester?" he said with concern. "Are you all right?"

She recalled herself swiftly and began speaking with the idea only half formed in her mind. "I was wondering how Cleo Anderson managed to steal the morphine. Phillips is really very careful. I mean, how do you think it happened, in practical detail?"

He frowned. "Does it matter?"

Why did he ask? Was he indifferent to the thefts? Was he so certain Cleo was guilty that the details did not matter? Or was it even conceivable that he had some sympathy with her?

"I don't want to prove it," she answered steadily, meeting his eyes with complete candor. "I would like above all things to disprove it, but failing that, at least to understand."

"She is charged with murdering Treadwell," he said softly. "The jury cannot excuse that, whatever they privately feel. There is no provision or law for murdering blackmailers or for stealing medicine, even if it is to treat the old and ill for whom there is no other help ."The lacerating edge in his voice betrayed his own feelings too clearly.

"I know that," she said in little above a whisper. "I should still like to know exactly how she did it."

He stood in silence for several moments.

She waited. Part of her wanted to leave before it was too late. But escaping would be only physical. Morally and emotionally, she was still trapped. And that was trivial compared with Cleo - or John Robb.

"What do you think she took?" Kristian asked at length.

She swallowed. "Morphine, for an old man who has consumption. It won't cure him, but it gives him a little rest."

"Very understandable," he answered. "I hope she gave him some sherry in water as well?"

"I believe so."

"Good. I need a few things from the apothecary myself. I'll go and get the keys. You can help me, if you would." And without waiting for her answer, he turned sharply and strode off.

He came back a few minutes later with the keys and opened the door. He went inside and left her to follow him. He started to unlock various cupboards and take out leaves for infusions, cordials and various powders. He passed several of them to Hester while he opened bottles and jars, then closed them again. When he had finished he ushered her out, relocked the door, took some of the medicines back from her, then thanked her and left her standing in the corridor with a small bottle of cordial and a week's dosage of morphine, plus several small paper screws of quinine.

She put them quickly into her pockets and went back towards the front door and out of it. She felt as if dozens of eyes were boring holes in her back, but actually she passed only one nurse with a mop and bucket, and Fermin Thorpe himself, striding along with his face set, hardly recognizing her.

John Robb was delighted to see her. He had had a bad night but was a trifle better towards late afternoon, and the loneliness of sitting in his chair in the empty house, even with the sun slanting in through the windows, had made him melancholy. His face lit with a smile when he recognized her step, and even before she entered the room he was tidying the little space around him and making ready for her.

"How are you?" he said the moment she came through the door.

"I'm very well," she answered cheerfully. He must never know about Cleo if there was any way it could be prevented.

She could not warn Michael without explaining to him the reason, and that would place him in an impossible situation. He would then have either to benefit indirectly from the thefts, which he would find intolerable, or else have to testify against Cleo from his own knowledge. That would also be unbearable, for the old man's sake as well as his own. Such disillusion and sense of betrayal might be more than his old and frail body could take. And then Michael's guilt would be crippling.

"I'm very well indeed," she said firmly. "How are you? I hope you are well enough to share a cup of tea with me? I brought some you might like to try, and a few biscuits." She smiled back at him. "Of course, it was all an excuse so you will tell me more stories of your life at sea and the places you have been to. You were going to describe the Indies for me. You said how brilliant the water was, like a cascade of jewels, and that you had seen fishes that could fly."

"Oh, bless you, girl, I have an' all," he agreed with a smile.

"An' more than that, too. You put the kettle on an' I'll tell you all you want to know."

"Of course." She walked across the room and pulled the biscuits and tea out of the bag they were in, filled the kettle from the jug and set it on the stove, then, with her back to him, took out the cordial bottle and placed it on the shelf, half behind a blue bag of sugar. Then she slipped the morphine out of her other pocket and set it underneath the two thin papers that were left from Cleo's last visit.

"Was it very hot in the Indies?" she asked.

"You wouldn't believe it, girl," he replied. "Felt as if the sea itself were on the boil, all simmerin' an' steamin'. The air were so thick it clogged up in your throat, like you could drink it."

"I think you could drink it here, too, when it gets cold, enough!" she said with a laugh.

"Aye! An' I bin north, too!" he said enthusiastically. "Great walls of ice rising out o' the sea. You never seen anything like it, girl. Beautiful an' terrible, they was. An' they'd freeze your breath like a white fog in front of you."

She turned and smiled at him, then began to make the tea. "Mrs. Anderson had to go away for a little while. Someone in her family ill, I think." She scalded the pot, tipped out the water, then put the fresh leaves in and poured the rest of the water from the kettle. "She asked me to come and see you. I think she knew I'd like that. I hope it's all right with you."

He relaxed, looking at her with undisguised pleasure. "Sure it's all right. Then you can tell me some o' the places you've bin. About them Turks an' the like. Although I'll miss Cleo. Good woman, she is. Nothin' ever too much trouble. An' I seen her so tired she were fit to drop. I hope as her family appreciates her."

A lie was the only thing. "I'm sure they will," she said without a shadow in her voice. "And I'll get a message to her that you're fine."

"You do that, girl. An' tell her I was asking after her."

"I will." Suddenly she found it difficult to master herself. It was ridiculous to want to cry now! Nothing had changed. She sniffed hard and blew her nose, then set out the rest of the things for tea and opened the bag of biscuits. She had bought him the best she could find. They looked pretty on the plate. She was determined this should be a party.

She did not broach the subject with Monk until after they had eaten. They were sitting quietly watching the last of the light fade beyond the windows and wondering if it was time to light the gas or if it would be pleasanter just to allow the dusk to fill the room.

Naturally, she had no intention whatever of even mentioning John Robb, let alone telling Monk that she was taking over his care from Cleo. Apart from the way he would react to such information, the knowledge would compromise him. There was no need for both of them to tell lies.

"What can we do to help Cleo Anderson?" she said, taking it for granted that there was no argument as to whether they would.

He lifted his head sharply.

She waited.

"Everything we've done so far has made it worse," he said unhappily. "The best service we can do the poor woman is to leave the case alone."

"If we do that she may well be hanged," Hester argued. "And that would be very wrong. Treadwell was a blackmailer. She is guilty of a crime in law, maybe, but no sin. We have to do something. Humanity requires it."

"I discover facts, Hester," he said quietly. "Everything I've found so far indicates that Cleo killed him. I may sympathize with her - in fact, I do. God knows, in her situation I might have done the same."

She could see memory of the past sharp in his face, and knew what he was thinking. She remembered Joscelin Grey also, and the apartment in Mecklenburgh Square, and how close Monk had come to murder then.

"But that would not excuse me in law," he continued. "Nor would it alter anything the judge or jury could do. If she did kill him, there may be some mitigation, but she will have to say what it is. Then I could look for proof of it, if there is any."

She was hesitant to ask him about Oliver Rathbone. There was too much emotion involved, old friendship, old love, and perhaps pain. She did not know how much. She had not seen Rathbone since her marriage, but she remembered -  with a vividness so sharp she could see the candlelight in her mind's eye and smell the warmth of the inn dining room - the night Rathbone had very nearly asked her to marry him. He had stopped only because she had allowed him to know, obliquely, that she could not accept, not yet. And he had let the moment pass.

"It's not only what happened," she began almost tentatively. "It's the interpretation, the argument, if you like."

Monk regarded her gravely before replying. There was no criticism in his face, but an acute sadness. "Some plea of mitigation? Don't you think you are holding out a false hope to her?"

That could be true.

"But we must try ... mustn't we? We can't just give in without a fight."

"What do you want to do?"

She said what he expected. "We could ask Oliver..." She took a breath. "We could at least set it before him, for his opinion?" She made it a question.

She could see no change in his expression, no anger, no stiffening.

"Of course," he agreed. "But don't expect too much."

She smiled. "No... just to try."

Hester woke in the dark, feeling the movement as Monk got out of bed. Downstairs, there was a banging on the front door, not loud, just sharp and insistent, as of someone who would not give up.

Monk pulled his jacket on over his nightshirt, and Hester sat up, watching him go out of the bedroom in bare feet. She heard the door open and a moment later close again.

She saw the reflection of the hall light on the landing ceiling as the gas was lit.

She could bear it no longer. She slipped out of bed and put on a robe. She met Monk coming up the stairs, a piece of paper in his hand. His face was bleak with shock, his eyes dark.

"What is it?" she said with a catch in her breath.

"Verona Stourbridge." His voice shook a little. "She's been murdered! Just the same way as Treadwell. A single, powerful blow to the head ... with a croquet mallet." His fist closed over the white paper. "Robb asked me to go."

it took monk nearly a quarter of an hour to find a hansom, first striding down Fitzroy Street to the Tottenham Court Road, then walking south towards Oxford Street.

He had left Hester furious at being excluded, but it would be in every way inappropriate for him to have taken her. She could serve no purpose except to satisfy her own curiosity, and she would quite obviously be intrusive. She had not argued, just seethed inside because she felt helpless and as confused as he was.

It was a fine night. A thin film of cloud scudded over a bright moon. The air was warm, the pavements still holding the heat of the day. His footsteps were loud in the near silence. A carriage rumbled by out of Percy Street and crossed towards Bedford Square, the moonlight shining for a moment on gleaming doors and the horses' polished flanks. Whoever had murdered Verona Stourbridge, it had not been Cleo Anderson. She was safely locked up in the Hampstead police station.

What could this new and terrible event have to do with the death of James Treadwell?

He could see pedestrians on the footpath at the corner of Oxford Street, two men and a woman, laughing.

He tried to picture Mrs. Stourbridge on the one occasion he had met her. He could not bring back her features, or even the color of her eyes, only the overriding impression he had had of a kind of vulnerability. Underneath the poised manner and the lovely clothes was a woman who was acquainted with fear. Or perhaps that was only hindsight, now that she was dead... murdered.

It had to be one of her own family, or a servant - or Miriam. But why would Miriam kill her, unless she truly was insane?

He turned the corner and walked along the edge of the footpath on Oxford Street, watching the road all the time for sight of a cab. He could recall Miriam only too easily, the wide eyes, the sweep of her hair, the strength in her mouth. She had behaved without any apparent reason, but he had never met anyone who had given him more of a sense of inner sanity, of a wholeness no outside force could destroy.

Maybe that was what madness was ... something inside you which the reality of the world did not touch?

A hansom slowed down and he hailed it, giving the Stourbridge address in Cleveland Square. The driver grumbled about going so far, and Monk ignored him, climbing inside and sitting down, engulfed in silence and thought again.

He reached the Stourbridge house, paid the driver and went up the steps. It was after one o'clock in the morning. All the surrounding houses were in darkness, but here the hall and at least four other rooms blazed with light between the edges of imperfectly drawn curtains. There was another carriage outside, waiting. Presumably, it was the doctor's.

The butler answered the door the moment after Monk knocked, and invited him in with a voice rasping with tension. The man was white-faced, and his body beneath his black suit was rigid and very slightly shaking. He must have been told to expect Monk, because without seeking any instruction he showed him into the withdrawing room.

Three minutes later Robb came in, closing the door behind him. He looked almost as if he had been bereaved himself. The sight of Monk seemed to cheer him a little.

"Thank you," he said simply. "It's... it's the last thing I expected. Why should anybody attack Mrs. Stourbridge?" His voice rose with desperate incomprehension. He looked exhausted, and there was a stiffness about him that Monk recognized as fear. This was not the sort of crime he understood or the kind of people he had ever dealt with before. He knew he was out of his depth.

"Begin with the facts," Monk said calmly, more confidence in his manner than he felt. "Tell me exactly what you know. Who called you? What time? What did they say?"

Robb looked slightly startled, as if he had expected to begin with the body and accounts of where everyone was.

"A little before midnight," he began, steadying himself but still standing. "Maybe quarter to. A constable banged on my door to say there'd been a murder in Bayswater that was part of my case and the local police said I should come straightaway. They had a cab waiting. I was on my way in not more than five minutes." He started moving about restlessly, looking at Monk, then away again. "He told me it was Mrs. Stourbridge, and as soon as I knew that, I sent the beat constable around to get you." He shook his head. "I don't understand it. It can't be Cleo Anderson this time." He faced Monk. "Was I wrong about Mrs. Gardiner, and she's done this, too? Why? It makes no sense."

"If the local police were called," Monk said thoughtfully, "and they sent for you, then the body must have been found about eleven o'clock. That's over two hours ago. Who found her and where was she?"

"Major Stourbridge found her," Robb answered. "She was in her bedroom. It was only chance that he went in to say something to her after he'd said good-night and all the family had retired. He said he'd forgotten to mention something about a cousin coming to visit and just wanted to remind her. Poor man went into the bedroom and saw her crumpled on the floor and blood on the carpet."

"Did he move her?" Monk asked. It would have been a natural enough thing to do.

"He says he half picked her up." Robb's voice tightened as if his throat was too stiff to let him speak properly. "Sort of cradled her in his arms. I suppose for a moment he half hoped she wasn't dead." He swallowed. "But it's a pretty terrible wound. Looks like one very hard blow. The croquet mallet's still there, lying on the floor beside her. At least, that's what they told me it was. I've never seen one before."

Monk tried not to visualize it, and failed. His mind created the crumpled figure and the broken bone and the blood.

"He says he laid her back where she was," Robb added miserably.

"What was she wearing?" Monk asked.

"Er..."

"A nightgown or a dress?" Monk pressed.

Robb colored faintly. "A long, whitish sort of robe. I think it could be a nightgown." He was transparently uncomfortable discussing such things. They belonged in the realms where he felt a trespasser.

"Where was she lying, exactly?" Monk asked. "What do you think she was doing when she was struck? Was it from behind or the front?"

Robb thought for a moment. "She was lying half on her side about six feet away from the bed. Looked as if she had been talking to someone and turned away from them, and they struck her from behind. At least that's what I would guess. It fits."

"She had her back to them? You're sure?"

"If the major didn't move her too much, yes. The wound is at the back on one side a bit. Couldn't hit someone like that from the front." His eyes widened a little. "So considering it was in her bedroom, she would hardly turn her back on anyone she was frightened of." His lips pulled tight. "Not that I ever held out hope it was a burglar. There's no sign of anyone forcing their way in. Nothing broken. Too early for burglars anyway. Nobody breaks into a house when half the household is still up and about. It was one of them, wasn't it?" That was less than half a question.

"Looks as if the local police worked that out," Monk said dryly. "Not surprised they wanted to be rid of this. Have you asked where everyone in the house was yet?"

"Only Major Stourbridge. He seems to have a good command of himself, but he's as white as a ghost and looks pretty poorly to me. He said he was in bed. He'd dismissed his man for the night and was about to put out the light when he remembered this cousin who's coming. Seems Mrs. Stourbridge wasn't very fond of him. He was wondering whether to write tomorrow morning and say it wasn't convenient."

"What time was Mrs. Stourbridge last seen alive?"

"I don't know. Her maid is being looked after by the housekeeper, and I haven't spoken with her yet." He glanced around the spacious room where they were talking. Even in the dim light of one lamp there was a warmth to it. The glow reflected on silver frames and winked in the faceted crystal of a row of decanters. "I'm not used to this kind of people having to do with violence," he said miserably. "Questioning them. It's more often a matter of burglary, and asking the servants about strangers being by, and not locking up properly."

"This kind of thing doesn't happen very often in anybody's house," Monk replied. "But it's best to ask now, before they have time to forget - or talk to each other and think up any lies."

"Only one of them's going to lie..." Robb began.

Monk snorted. "People lie for all sorts of reasons, and about things they think have nothing to do with the case. You'd better see the maid, hysterics or not. You need to know what time Mrs. Stourbridge was left alone and alive, or if she was expecting anyone. What she said, how she seemed, anything the woman can tell you."

"Will you stay?"

"If you want."

The maid was sent for, and came, supported by the butler and looking as if she might buckle at the knees any moment. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she kept dabbing her face with a handkerchief, which was now little more than a twisted rag.

She had been guided to one of the armchairs, and the butler was permitted to remain. Robb began his questions. He was very gentle with her, as if he himself was embarrassed.

"Yes sir." She gulped. "Mrs. Stourbridge went to bed about ten o'clock, or a little after. I laid out 'er clothes for tomorrow. A green-an'-white dress for the morning. She was going to visit a picture gallery." Her eyes filled with tears.

"What time did you leave her?" Robb asked.

She sniffed fiercely and made an attempt to dab her cheeks with the wet handkerchief. "About quarter to eleven."

"Was she already in bed?" Monk interrupted.

She looked at him with surprise.

"I'm sure you'll remember, if you think for a moment," he encouraged. "It's rather important."

"Is it?"