The Twisted Root

memory was distressing to her and she recalled it only as an act of despair.
    Rathbone had very little idea why he was asking her, only that Hester had pressed him to, and he had no other weapon to use.
    "It was a night in September, the twenty-second, I think. It was windy, but not cold." She swallowed. Her throat was dry and she began to cough.
    At the judge’s request the usher brought her a glass of water, then she continued.
    "Old Josh Wetherall, from two doors down, came beating on my door to say there was a young girl, a child, crying on the road, near in hysterics, he said, an’ covered all over in blood. He was beside himself with distress, poor man, and hadn’t an idea what to do to help." She took a deep breath.
    No one moved or interrupted her. Even Tobias was silent, although his face still reflected impatience.
    "Of course, I went to see what I could do," Cleo continued. "Anyone would, but I suppose he thought I might know a bit more, being a nurse and all."
    "And the child?" Rathbone prompted.
    Cleo’s hands gripped the rail in front of her as if she needed its strength to hold her up.
    "Josh was right, she was in a terrible state..."
    "Would you describe her for us?" Rathbone directed her, ignoring Tobias, leaning forward to object. "We need to see it as you saw it, Mrs. Anderson."
    She stared at him imploringly, denial in her eyes, in her face, even in the angle of her body.
    "We need to see her as you did, Mrs. Anderson. Please believe me, it is important." He was lying. He had no idea whether it meant anything or not, but at least the jury were listening, emotions caught at last.
    Cleo was rigid, shaking. "She was hysterical," she said very quietly.
    The judge leaned forward to hear, but he did not again request her to raise her voice.
    No one in the body of the court moved or made the slightest sound.
    Rathbone nodded, indicating she should continue.
    "I’ve never seen anyone so frightened in my life," Cleo said, not to Rathbone or to the court, but as if she were speaking aloud what was indelibly within her. "She was covered in blood; her eyes were staring, but I’m not sure she saw anything at all. She staggered and bumped into things and for hours she was unable to speak. She just gasped and shuddered. I’d have felt better if she could have wept."
    Again she stopped and the silence lengthened, but no one moved. Even Tobias knew better than to intrude.
    "How was she injured?" Rathbone asked finally.
    Cleo seemed to recall her attention and looked at him as if she had just remembered he was there.
    "How was she injured?" Rathbone repeated. "You said she was covered in blood, and obviously she had sustained some terrible experience."
    Cleo looked embarrassed. "We don’t know how it happened, not really. For days she couldn’t say anything that made sense, and the poor child was so terrified no one pressed her. She just lay curled over in my big bed, hugging herself and now and then weeping like her heart was broken, and she was so frightened of any man coming near her we didn’t even like to send for a doctor."
    "But the injuries?" Rathbone asked again. "What about the blood?"
    Cleo stared beyond him. "She was only wearing a big cotton nightgown. There was blood everywhere, right from her shoulders down. She was bruised and cut..."
    "Yes?"
    Cleo looked for the first time across at Miriam, and there were tears on her face.
    Desperately, Miriam mouthed the word no.
    "Mrs. Anderson!" Rathbone said sharply. "Where did the blood come from? If you are really innocent, and if you believe Miriam Gardiner to be innocent, only the truth can save you. This is your last chance to tell it. After the verdict is in you will face nothing but the short days and nights in a cell, too short—and then the rope, and at last the judgment of God."
    Tobias rose to his feet.
    Rathbone turned on him. "Do you quarrel with the truth of that, Mr. Tobias?" he demanded.
    Tobias stared at him, his face set and angry.
    "Mr. Tobias?" the judge prompted.
    "No, of course I don’t," Tobias conceded, sitting down again.
    Rathbone turned back to Cleo. "I repeat, Mrs. Anderson, where did the blood come from? You are a nurse. You must have some rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. Do not tell us that you did nothing to help this blood-soaked, terrified child except give her a clean nightshirt!"
    "Of course I helped her!" Cleo sobbed. "The poor little mite had just given birth—and she was only a child herself. Stillborn, I