The Twisted Root (10 page)

"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 Treadwell’s 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 that 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.

Stourbridge touched his elbow. "Perhaps, but Mr. Monk will find it more easily if we do not hamper him."

Lucius did not move.

"Come," Stourbridge said gently. "We shall only make it more difficult."

Reluctantly, still half disbelieving, Lucius bade good-bye and permitted himself to be led away.

"You realize I shall have to find this woman?" Robb shoved his hands deep in his pockets, staring grimly at Monk. He looked guarded, careful, his shoulders hunched a little. "At best she may be witness to the murder, at worst a victim herself."

It was unarguable. Monk said nothing.

"Or she may be guilty herself," Robb went on. "That blow could have been struck by a woman, if she were frightened enough or angry enough. Perhaps you will now be frank and tell me what you know of this Mrs. Gardiner. Since Mr. Stourbridge seems to have hired you to find her, presumably you know a great deal more than you have so far told me."

There was no evading it now, and perhaps it was the only way to help Lucius Stourbridge. Whatever the truth was, one day he would have to face at least part of it. Some details might be kept from him, but not the essence. If Miriam Gardiner were involved in the murder of Treadwell, it would be public knowledge sooner or later. Monk could not protect him from that, even if she were no more than a witness. And unless Treadwell had set her down somewhere before he reached the Heath, that seemed an unavoidable conclusion. It was plain in Robb’s face now as he looked grimly at Monk, ignoring the traffic passing by them and the people on foot having to walk around.

Monk told Robb the outline of his interview with Lucius Stourbridge and his visit to Bayswater. He gave no more detail than was necessary to be honest, and none of his own impressions, except that he had believed what he had been told so far.

Robb looked thoughtful, biting his lips. "And no one gave you any idea why Mrs. Gardiner should have run off in this way?"

"No."

"Where did Treadwell serve before Bayswater? Where was he born?"

Monk felt himself flush with annoyance. They were obvious questions, and he had not thought to ask them. It was a stupid oversight. He had concentrated on Miriam, thinking of Treadwell only as someone to drive the coach for her. It was instinctive to try to defend himself, but there was nothing to say which would not make his omission look worse.

"I don’t know." The words were hollow, an open failure.

Robb was tactful. He even seemed faintly relieved.

"And about her?" he asked.

This time Monk could answer, and did as fully as he knew.

Robb thought for several moments before he spoke again.

"So a relationship between Mrs. Gardiner and this coachman is unlikely, but it is not impossible. It seems she turned to him to take her away from the Stourbridge house, at least." He looked at Monk nervously. "And you still have no idea why?"

"None."

Robb grunted. "I cannot stop you looking for her also, of course, and perhaps finding her before I do. But if she is involved in this crime, even as a witness, and you assist her, I shall charge you!" His young face was set, his lips tight.

"Of course," Monk agreed. "I would in your place." That was unquestionably true. He had a suspicion from what he had learned of himself and the past that Robb was being gentler with him than he had been with others. He smiled bleakly. "Thank you for your civility. I expect we’ll meet again. Good day."

Monk arrived home at Fitzroy Street a little after seven and found dinner ready and Hester waiting for him. It was extremely satisfying. The house was clean and smelled faintly of lavender and polish. There were fresh flowers on the table, a white cloth with blue cross-stitch patterns on it, and crockery and silverware. Hester served cold game pie with crisp pastry and hot vegetables, then an egg custard with nutmeg grated over the top, and lastly cheese and crusty bread. There were even a few early strawberries to finish. He sat back with a feeling of immense well-being to watch Hester clear away the dishes, and was pleased to see her return some twenty-five minutes later ready to sit down and talk with him for the rest of the evening. He wanted to tell her about Treadwell, and about Robb and his grandfather.

"Did you find the coach yet?" she asked.

He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs.

"Yes. And I found Treadwell also." He saw her eyes widen, then the knowledge came into her face that there was far more to what he said. She understood the tragedy before he put it into words. She did not ask him, but waited.

"I went to the local police station to see if they had seen the coach. The sergeant was occupied with a murder case, but he spared me a few minutes ..." He knew she would leap to the conclusion before he told her.

"Treadwell!" She swallowed. "Not Miriam, too?" Her voice was strained with expectation of pain.

"No," he said quickly. "There’s no sign of her at all. I would not have had to mention her, except that I brought Major Stourbridge to identify Treadwell, and Lucius insisted on coming as well. Of course, they had to ask Robb about her."

"Robb is the sergeant?"

"Yes." He described him for her, trying to bring to life in words both the gentleness he had seen in the young man and the determination, and a little of the edge of his nervousness, his need to succeed.

He saw in her face that he had caught her interest. She had understood that there was far more he had not yet told her.

"How was Treadwell killed?" she asked.

"With a blow over the head with something hard and heavy."

"Did he fight?"

"No. It was as if he was taken by surprise."

"Where was he found?" She was leaning forward now, her attention wholly absorbed.

"On the path of a small house on Green Man Hill, just off the Heath."

"That’s close to the hospital," she said quietly. "One or two of our part-time nurses live around there."

"I doubt he was going to see a nurse," he said dryly, but it brought to mind his visit with Robb to the old man, and the poverty in which they lived. Robb’s return home would be so different from his own, no wife with a fine meal ready and a quiet evening in the last of the sun. He would find a sick old man who needed caring for, washing, feeding, cleaning often, and who was always either in distress or close to it. Money must be scarce. The medicines alone would be expensive, and perhaps hard to come by.

"What?" she said softly, as if reading his thoughts, or at least his emotions.

He told her about his lunchtime visit, his feelings pouring through his words in a kind of release. He had not realized how much it had cost to contain them within himself, until now that he could share them with her with the certainty that she understood. He could sense her response as surely as if she had answered every sentence, although she did not interrupt at all. Only when he was finished did she speak.

"I’ll go and see him. Perhaps the hospital can—"

He did not allow her to complete the words. "No, you won’t!" He did not even know why he said it, except that he did not want Robb to think he had interfered, implying that he was not looking after the old man adequately. For someone else to go in unasked would be an intrusion.

Hester stiffened, the whole angle of her body changed.

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice was cool.

Now was the time to make sure she understood him and it was plain between them where the bounds of authority lay.

"You are not to interfere," he stated clearly. He did not explain why. His reasons were good, but that was not the point. If he explained now, she would require an explanation every time. "It would be inappropriate."

"Why?" she asked, her eyes bright and challenging.

He had not intended to allow an argument. In fact, this was precisely what he had meant to avoid.

"I am not going to discuss it," he replied. "I’ve told you, that is sufficient." He rose to his feet to signal the end of the matter. Robb would be offended. He might very easily feel Monk believed his care of his grandfather was not good enough. Or worse, he might feel some implied pressure because he was using police time to go home and attend to the old man.

Hester rose also. Her voice was low and very precise, each word spoken carefully. "Are you telling me whether I may or may not do what I believe to be right, William?"

"You may do anything that is right," he said with a tiny smile of relief, because she had offered him a route of escape. "Always. This is not right."

"You mean I may do what you believe to be right?" she challenged.

"You may," he agreed. "You do not have to. The choice is yours." And with that he went out into the office, leaving her in the middle of the floor, furious. It was not what he wanted at all, but it was a victory that mattered. There were any number of reasons why he must be master in his own home, for the happiness of both of them. When her temper cooled, she would appreciate that.

He sat in the room alone for over an hour, but she did not join him. At first he missed her, then he became irritated. She was childish. She could not expect to have her own way in everything.

But she always had! He remembered with considerable disquiet how she had governed her own life in the past, how willful she had been. Even the hospital authorities could not tolerate her—and did not. She was opinionated in everything, and not loath to express these opinions even at the least-opportune moments—and with a wit which made them even more offensive to some. He had laughed when he had not been on the receiving end. It was less funny when he was.

Not that his own tongue was not equally sharp and every bit as well informed. That was one of the reasons she could accept marriage to him, because he was more than her equal— well, occasionally.

But she must not be allowed to sulk. That was unacceptable. He stood up and went to find her. This could not continue.

She was sitting at the table writing. She looked up when he came in.

"Ah, good," she said with a smile. "You’ve come to tell me more about it. I thought you would. The kettle is on. Would you like a cup of tea? And there is cake as well."

He thought of the night to come, and lying beside her warm, slender body, either rigid and turned away from him or gentle and willing in his arms. More than that, deeper in his soul, he thought of all that they had shared that mattered above any petty battle of wills or convention of behavior. The issue could wait until another time. There would certainly be other battles, dozens of them, perhaps hundreds.

"Yes," he agreed, sitting down on the other chair. "Tea would be nice, thank you. And cake."

Obediently, with a little smile, she rose to make it.