The Twisted Root

Henry, and he never measured what he said to him. It was part of the basis of their friendship. "It was compelling. They are not the same."
    Henry smiled. "Not in the slightest," he agreed.
    "Monk asked me to," Oliver added.
    Henry nodded.
    "There was a moral imperative," Oliver said, justifying the choice. He did not want his father to think it was because of Monk, still less because of Hester.
    "I see. Are you going to tell me what it is?"
    "Of course." Oliver moved and crossed his legs comfortably. He gave a succinct outline of the cases against both Cleo Anderson and Miriam Gardiner, then he waited while Henry sat deep in thought for several moments. Outside it was now completely dark except for the patch of luminous moonlight on the grass just short of the old apple tree at the end of the lawn.
    "And you assume that this woman Cleo Anderson did not kill the coachman," Henry said at last. "Even in a manner for which there might be some mitigating circumstances—or possibly a struggle in which he died accidentally?"
    Oliver thought for a moment before answering. The truth was that that was exactly what he had accepted. Cleo had said she was not present, and he had believed her. He still did.
    "Yes. Yes, I am assuming that," he agreed. "She never denied taking the medicines. I have no proof of exactly how she did it, or any of the circumstances. I have deliberately avoided finding them."
    Henry made no comment. "How is Monk involved?" he asked instead.
    Rathbone explained.
    "And Hester?" Henry asked, his voice gentle.
    Oliver had not forgotten how fond his father was of Hester, nor his unspoken desire that Oliver should marry her. He sometimes feared Hester’s regard for him was at least in part the affection she had for Henry and the desire to belong to a family in which she could know the safety her own had not given her. Her father had shot himself after a financial disgrace visited upon him at the end of the Crimean W a r by a man who had traded upon their friendship in order to cheat. Hester’s mother had died shortly afterwards, largely of grief. Hester had spoken of it only once, unless she had done so more often to Henry when Oliver was not there, perhaps needing to share the burden.
    This was a topic of conversation he was dreading. He had deliberately avoided it as long as possible, even to the extent of not coming to Primrose Hill but meeting his father in the City, where private conversations were too liable to interruption. Now it could no longer be deferred.
    "Hester seems very well," he answered expressionlessly. At least he thought he had, but judging by Henry’s face, perhaps he deluded himself. "Of course, she is deeply concerned for this nurse, both personally and in principle," he added, feeling the warmth rush up his cheeks.
    Henry nodded. "I can imagine that she is consumed with her usual fire." He did not say anything about Oliver’s motives for accepting what seemed a hopeless case. He was the only person who induced Oliver to make explanations of himself where none had been asked for.
    "It matters!" Oliver said urgently, leaning forward a little. He looked at Henry, at his lean and slightly stooped form, his hair very gray, and imagined what he would feel if he had been a soldier or a sailor instead of a mathematician, if he were broken in body, bewildered and alone, unable to afford the care he needed, stripped of the dignity of old age and left only with its helplessness. It was so painful it caught his breath. Now the battle was for John Robb, for Henry, for all those affected by injury and age, or who would be in time to come. "It matters far more than any one person," he said passionately. "More than Cleo Anderson or even than Hester— or winning for its own sake. If we allow this injustice without doing all we can against it, what are we worth?"
    Henry regarded him gravely, all the humor gone from his eyes. "Very little," he said quietly. "But emotion will not win for you, Oliver. It is an excellent driving force, the best, and it will keep your courage high. Anger at injustice has righted more wrongs than most other things, and it is one of the great creative forces in a civilized society." He shook his head. "But in order not to replace one enemy with another, albeit innocently intended, you must use your intelligence. You told me that you are certain that both Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Gardiner are lying to you. You cannot go into court without knowing at least what the lie