The Twisted Root

you’re going to stand up an’ speak for her?" the old man asked Rathbone.
    "Yes, I am," Rathbone replied.
    The elder Robb screwed up his face. His voice was hoarse, whispering. "What can you do for her, young man? Be honest with me."
    Rathbone was candid. "I don’t know. I believe she took the medicines. I don’t believe she murdered Treadwell, even though he was blackmailing her. I think there is something of great importance that we have not imagined, and I am going to try to find out what it is."
    "That why you came to speak to Michael?"
    "Yes."
    "Then you’d best get on with it. I can wait for me supper." He turned to his grandson. "You help this fellow. We can eat later."
    "Thank you," Rathbone acknowledged the gesture. "But I should feel more comfortable if you were to continue as you would have. I think I passed a pie seller on the corner about a hundred yards away. Would you allow me to fetch us one each, and then we can eat and discuss at the same time?"
    Michael hesitated only a moment, glancing at the old man and seeing his flash of pleasure at the prospect, then he accepted.
    Rathbone returned with the three best pies he could purchase, wrapped in newspaper and kept hot, and they ate together with mugs of tea. Michael was the police officer in charge, and it was his duty to gather evidence and to present it in court. A few years earlier he would also have risked being sued for false arrest had the case failed, not as witness for the Crown but in a personal capacity, and faced jail himself could he not pay the fine. Even so, he seemed as keen as his grandfather to find any mitigating evidence he could for Cleo Anderson.
    Old John Robb was convinced that if she had killed Treadwell, then he had thoroughly deserved it, and if the law condemned her, then the law was wrong and should be overturned. His faith that Rathbone could do that was fueled more by hope than realism.
    Michael did not argue with his grandfather. His desire to protect him from more pain was so evident Rathbone was greatly moved by it.
    Nevertheless, when he left as dusk was falling, he had learned nothing that was of help to him. Everything simply confirmed what he already knew from Hester. He walked briskly along the footpath in the warm evening air, the smells of the day sharp around him: horse manure, dry grass and dust from the Heath, now and then the delicacy of meat and onions or the sharpness of peppermint from one peddler or the other. There was the sound of a barrel organ playing a popular song in the distance, and children shouting.
    He hailed the first hansom that passed him and gave the driver his address, then instantly changed his mind and directed him instead to his father’s home in Primrose Hill.
    It was almost dark when he arrived. He walked up the familiar path with a sense of anticipation, even though he had taken no steps to ensure that his father was home, let alone that it was convenient for him to call.
    The sweetness of mown grass and deep shadow engulfed him, and a snare of honeysuckle so sharp it caught in his throat almost like a taste. As he walked around the house and across the lawn to the French doors, he saw that the study light was on. Henry Rathbone had not bothered to draw the curtains and Oliver could see him sitting in the armchair.
    Henry was reading and did not hear the silent footsteps or notice the shadow. His legs were crossed, and he was sucking on his pipestem, though as usual the pipe itself had gone out.
    Oliver tapped on the glass.
    Henry looked up, then as he recognized his son, his lean face filled with pleasure and he beckoned him in.
    Oliver felt the ease of familiarity wash over him like a warmth. Unreasonably, some of his helplessness left him, although he had not even begun to explain the problem, let alone address it. He sat down in the big chair opposite his father’s, leaning back comfortably.
    For a few moments neither of them spoke. Henry continued to suck on his empty pipe. Outside in the darkness a nightbird called and the branches of the honeysuckle, with its trumpet-shaped flowers, waved in the slight wind. A moth banged against the glass.
    "I have a new case," Oliver said at length. "I can’t possibly win it."
    Henry took his pipe out of his mouth. "Then you must have had a good reason for taking it ... or at least one that appeared good at the time."
    "I don’t think it was a good one." Oliver was pedantic, as his nature inclined. He had learned exactness from