The Twisted Root

had not deserved, and a death he could not save her from. "Don’t you think the loss of her baby was what she was actually thinking of? Was it a girl?"
    "I don’t know. She didn’t say." Cleo looked as if she had caught his despair. "She seemed so—so sure it was a woman... someone she cared for... who had helped her, even loved her... I—" She stopped, too weary, too hurt, to go on.
    "I’m sorry," Rathbone said gently. "You were right to tell me about the baby. If Campbell was lying, at least we may be able to make something of that. Even if we do no more than save Miriam’s reputation, I am sure that will matter to her." He was making wild promises and talking nonsense. Would Miriam care about such a thing when she faced death?
    He banged on the door to be released again, and as soon as they were outside he turned to Hester.
    But before he could begin to say how sorry he was, she spoke.
    "If this woman really was killed, then her body must still be there."
    "Hester—she was delirious, probably weak from loss of blood and in a state of acute distress from delivering a dead child."
    "Maybe. But perhaps she really did see a woman murdered," Hester insisted. "If the body was never found, then it is out there on the Heath."
    "For twenty-two years! On Hampstead Heath! For heaven’s sake..."
    "Not in the open! Buried—hidden somewhere."
    "Well, if it’s buried no one would find it now."
    "Perhaps it’s not buried." She refused to give up. "Perhaps it’s hidden somehow, concealed."
    "Hester..."
    "I’m going to find Sergeant Robb and see if he will help me look."
    "You can’t. After all this time there’ll be nothing..."
    "I’ve got to try. What if there really was a woman murdered? What if Miriam was telling the truth all the time?"
    "She isn’t!"
    "But what if she was? She’s your client, Oliver! You’ve got to give her the benefit of every doubt. You must assume that what she says is true until it is completely proved it can’t be."
    "She was thirteen, she’d just given birth to a dead child, she was alone and hysterical..."
    "I’m going to find Sergeant Robb. He’ll help me look, whatever he believes, for Cleo’s sake. He owes her a debt he can never repay, and he knows that."
    "And doubtless if he should forget, you will remind him."
    "Certainly!" she agreed. "But he won’t forget."
    "What about Monk?" he challenged her as she turned to leave.
    "He’s still busy trying to find out more about Treadwell and the corpses," she said over her shoulder.
    "Hester, wait!"
    But she had walked off, increasing her pace to a run, and short of chasing after her there was nothing he could do— except try to imagine how he was going to face the court the next morning.
    Michael Robb was sitting alone in the room where until recently his grandfather had spent his days. The big chair was still there, as if the old man might come back to it one day, and there was a startling emptiness without him.
    "Mrs. Monk," Robb said with surprise. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
    "Everything is wrong," she answered, remaining standing in spite of his invitation to sit. "Cleo is going to be convicted unless we can find some sort of evidence that Miriam also is innocent, and our only chance of that is to find the body of the woman..."
    "What woman? Just a minute!" He held up his hand. "What has happened in court? I wasn’t there."
    With words falling over each other, she told him about Rathbone’s calling Cleo to the stand and her story of how she had first met Miriam, and then Aiden Campbell’s denial and explanation.
    "We’ve got to find the woman that Miriam said was murdered," she finished desperately. "That would prove what she said was true! At least they would have to investigate."
    "She’s been out there for twenty-two years," he protested. "If she exists at all!"
    "Can you think of anything better?" she demanded.
    "No—but..."
    "Then, help me! We’ve got to go and look!"
    He hesitated only a moment. She could see in his face that he considered it hopeless, but he was feeling lonely and guilty because Cleo had helped him in the way he valued the most and he could do nothing for her. Silently, he picked up his bull’s-eye lantern and followed her out into the gathering dusk.
    Side by side they walked towards Green Man Hill and the row of cottages where Cleo Anderson had lived until her arrest. They stopped outside, facing the Heath. It was now almost dark; only the heavy outlines of the trees showed black