The Twisted Root

stout, dark, about forty. She did not look to either side of her as she passed the waiting people. She hiccuped as she went out of the far door. She was in a world of her own, exhausted by hard physical labor, lifting, bending, carrying, scrubbing. Mealtimes and, more important, drink times would be the highlights of her day. Then she could share the odd joke with the other women, and the brief euphoria of alcohol which shut out reality.
    It was all a long way from the dream of a sweet-faced woman with a lamp in her hand who would murmur words of hope and miraculously save the dying.
    And that too was a long way from the passionate, tireless, short-tempered, vulnerable woman who sat in her house passing out orders, pleas and advice—almost all of it good—and being stoically ignored by men like Fermin Thorpe.
    It was six o’clock before the last patient had been seen. Hester had managed to persuade the physician to admit Harry Jackson for a few days, and she savored that small victory. She was consequently smiling as she tidied the waiting room.
    The door opened, and she was pleased to see Callandra, who now looked even more disheveled than usual. Her skirt was crumpled, her blouse open at the neck in the heat, and she had obviously been working, because her sleeves were rolled up and stained with splashes of water and blood. Her hair was coming out of its pins in all directions. It needed taking down, brushing, and doing again.
    Absentmindedly, Callandra pulled out a pin, caught up a bunch of hair and replaced it all, making the whole effect worse.
    She closed the door and glanced around to make sure the room was empty and all other doors were closed also.
    "He’s gone," Hester assured her.
    Callandra rubbed the back of her hand across her brow.
    "There’s more medicine gone today," she said wearily. "I checked it this morning, and again now. It’s not a lot, but I’m quite sure."
    Hester should not have been surprised, but she felt a cold grip inside her close tighter. It was systematic. Someone was taking medicines every day or two and had been doing so for a long time, perhaps months, possibly even years. A certain amount of error or theft was expected, but not of this order.
    "Does Mr. Thorpe know yet?" she asked quietly.
    "Not about this," Callandra replied. "It’s getting worse."
    For a wild moment Hester actually entertained the idea that the thefts could be used to pressure Fermin Thorpe into seeing the necessity for training and paying better nurses. Then she realized that disclosure of the problem would only end in a full-scale investigation, possibly involving the police, and all the present staff, innocent and guilty alike, would suffer, possibly even be dismissed. In all probability not one would be able to prove her honesty, still less her sobriety. The whole hospital would grind to a standstill, and no good would be achieved at all.
    "He’s going to find out soon," Callandra said, interrupting Hester’s thoughts. "They’ll have to be replaced."
    "Have we any idea who it is?" Hester struggled for something tangible to pursue. "We’ve got twenty-eight women here doing one thing or another. All of them are hard up, very few of them can read or write more than a few words, some not that much. Half of them live in the hospital, the other half come and go at all hours."
    "But the apothecary’s rooms are locked," Hester pointed out. "Are they stealing the keys? Or do you suppose they can pick the lock?"
    "Pick the lock," Callandra said without hesitation. "Or sneak in and out when he’s got his back turned. He’s as careful as he can be."
    "But he knows there are losses?"
    "Oh, yes. He doesn’t like Thorpe any more than we do. Well, not much. He’ll not report it till he has to. He knows what chaos it will be. But he can’t carry on hiding it much longer."
    There was a knock on the door. Callandra opened it, and Cleo stood there, a look of polite enquiry on her face. "Yer ’ungry, love?" she said cheerfully. "There’s a nice bit o’ cold beef an’ pickle goin’ if yer fancy it. An’ fresh bread. A glass o’ porter?"
    Hester had not realized it, but at mention of the food she was aware of how long it had been since she last ate, or sat down comfortably, without the need to find words to comfort a frightened, inarticulate old man or woman, powerless as she was to give any real help.
    "Yes," she accepted quickly. "Please."
    Cleo jerked her hand to the right. "Along there, love, same as