The Twisted Root

murmur around the court.
    Rathbone allowed himself to smile; indeed, he could not help it.
    Tobias controlled his temper with grace, but it cost him an effort. Rathbone could see it in the angle of his shoulders and the pull of the cloth in his expensive coat.
    "I stand corrected," he conceded. "By all means, let us have the bare facts. Will you describe this dead man that you found. Was he young or old? In good health or ill? Let us see him through your eyes, Sergeant Robb. Let us feel as you did when you stood on the pavement and stared down at this man, so lately alive and full of hopes and dreams, and so violently torn from them." He spread his arms wide in invitation. "Take us with you."
    Robb stared at him glumly. Never once did he lift his glance towards the two women sitting white-faced and motionless in the dock. Nor did he look beyond Tobias and Rathbone to search the audience for other faces familiar to him: Monk or Hester.
    "He was fairly ordinary. It was difficult to tell his height lying down. He had straight hair, strong hands, callused as if he’d held reins often enough."
    "Any signs of a fight?" Tobias cut in. "Any bruises or cuts as if he had tried to defend himself?"
    "I saw none. Just the grazes on his hands—from crawling."
    "I shall naturally ask the surgeon also, but thank you for your observation. Exactly where was this poor man, Sergeant?"
    "On the pathway between number five and number six on Green Man Hill, near Hampstead Heath."
    "And which way was he facing?"
    "Towards number five."
    "And is that where he was killed?"
    "I don’t think so. He looked to have crawled some distance. His trouser knees were all torn and muddy, and his elbows in places."
    "How far? Can you tell?"
    "No. At least two or three hundred yards, maybe more."
    "I see. What did you do then, Sergeant?"
    Step by step, Tobias drew from Robb the account of finding the carriage and the horses, and presuming they were connected with the dead man. Then he led him through Monk’s arrival, seeking someone answering the dead man’s description.
    "How very interesting!" Tobias said with triumph. "Presumably, you took this Mr. Monk to look at your corpse?"
    "Yes sir."
    "And did he identify him?"
    "No sir. He couldn’t say. But he fetched two gentlemen from Bayswater who said he was James Treadwell, who had been their coachman."
    "And the names of these gentlemen?"
    "Major Harry Stourbridge and his son, Mr. Lucius Stourbridge."
    There was a rustle of movement in the court as people’s attention was caught. Several straightened in their seats. "The same Lucius Stourbridge who is the son of Mrs. Verona Stourbridge and who was engaged to marry Mrs. Miriam Gardiner?"
    More movement in the gallery. Two women craned forward to stare at the dock.
    "Yes sir," Robb answered.
    "And when was Treadwell last seen alive, and by whom?"
    Reluctantly, Robb told of Miriam’s flight from the garden party, Monk’s duplicity on the matter, and how first Monk had tracked down Miriam, and then how Robb had himself. There was nothing Rathbone could do to stop him.
    "Most interesting," Tobias said sagely. "And did Mrs. Gardiner give you a satisfactory account of her flight from Bayswater and any reason for this most strange behavior?"
    "No sir."
    "Did she tell you who had killed Treadwell? I assume you did ask her?"
    "I did, and no, she did not give me any answer, except to say she did not do it."
    "And did you believe her?"
    Rathbone half rose to his feet.
    The judge glanced at him.
    Tobias smiled. "Perhaps that could be better phrased. Sergeant Robb, did you subsequently arrest Mrs. Gardiner for the murder of James Treadwell?"
    "Yes, I did."
    Tobias raised his eyebrows. "But you have not charged her with it!"
    Robb’s face was tight and miserable. "She’s charged with conspiracy..."
    "That you should be sad about such a fearful tragedy is very proper, Sergeant," Tobias observed, staring at him. "But you seem more than that, you seem reluctant, as if you do this against your will. Why is that, Sergeant Robb?"
    Rathbone’s mind raced. Should he object that this was irrelevant, personal? He had intended to use Robb’s high opinion of Cleo, his knowledge of her motives, as his only weapon in mitigation. Now Tobias had stolen it. He could hardly object now and then raise it himself later. Even if he did so obliquely, Tobias himself would then object.
    There was nothing he could do but sit quietly and try to keep his face from betraying