The Twisted Root

briskly along the pavement. Robb seemed to be in a hurry, glancing once or twice at his watch. It was apparently more than a simple desire to be away from the presence of death which urged him on.
    Monk would have freed Robb from the necessity of showing him the carriage and horses if he felt he could overlook them, but they were the deciding factor whether to bring Harry or Lucius Stourbridge all the way to Hampstead and distress them with identifying the body. It would certainly cause them additional anguish.
    Robb was going at such a pace he stepped out into the street almost under the wheels of a hansom, and Monk had to grasp him by the arm to stop him.
    Robb flushed and apologized.
    "Have you an appointment?" Monk enquired. "This is only a courtesy you are doing me. I can wait."
    "The horses are in a stable about a mile away," Robb answered, watching the traffic for a break so they could cross. "It’s not exactly an appointment..." The subject seemed to embarrass him.
    A coach and four went by, ladies inside looking out, a flash of pastels and lace. It was followed by a brewer’s dray, drawn by shire horses with braided manes and feathered feet, their flanks gleaming. They tossed their heads as if they knew how beautiful they were.
    Monk and Robb seized the chance to cross behind them. On the farther side Robb drew in breath, looking straight ahead of him. "My grandfather is ill. I drop in to see him every so often, just to help. He’s getting a little ..." His features tightened and still he did not look at Monk. Strictly speaking, he was taking police time to go home in the middle of the day.
    Monk smiled grimly. He had no happy memories of the police hierarchy. He knew his juniors had been afraid of him with just cause, which was painful to him now. He had seen it in their nervousness in his presence, the expectation of criticism, just or not, the not-well-enough-concealed dislike.
    His own superior had been another matter. Runcorn was the only one he could recall, and between them there had been friendship once, long ago. But for years before the final quarrel which had led to Monk’s dismissal there had been nothing but rivalry and bitterness.
    He felt his own body tighten, but he could not help it.
    "We’d better go and see him," he answered. "I’ll get a pie or a sandwich and eat it while you do whatever you have to do for him. I’ll tell you what I know about Treadwell. If this is him, it’ll help."
    Robb considered it only for a second before he accepted.
    The old man lived in two rooms in a house about five minutes’ swift walk from the police station. Inside, the house was shabby but clean, and Robb deliberately made no apology. What Monk thought did not matter to him. All his emotions and his attention were on the old man who sat hunched up in the one comfortable chair. His shoulders were wide but thin now, and bowed over as if his chest hurt when he breathed. His white hair was carefully combed, and he was shaved, but his face had no color and it cost him a great effort that his grandson should have brought a stranger into his sanctuary.
    "How do you do, sir," Monk said gravely. "Thank you for permitting me to eat my pie in your house while I speak with Sergeant Robb about the case we are working on. It is very civil of you."
    "Not at all," the old man said huskily, obliged to clear his throat even for so few words. "You are welcome." He looked at Robb anxiously.
    Monk sat down and busied himself with the pie he had bought from a barrow on the way, keeping his eyes on it so as to not appear to be aware of Robb helping the old man through to the privy and back again, washing his hands for him and heating some soup on the stove in the corner which seemed to be burning even in the heat of midsummer, as if the old man felt cold all the time.
    Monk began to talk, to mask the sounds of the old man’s struggle to breathe and his difficulty swallowing the soup and the slices of bread Robb had buttered for him and was giving to him a little at a time. He had already thought clearly how much he would say of Lucius’s request. For the time being he would leave out references to Miriam. It was a great deal less than the truth. He would be deliberately misleading Robb, but until he knew more himself, to speak of her would have set Robb on her trail instantly, and that would not be in her interest—yet.
    "Mr. Lucius Stourbridge told me Treadwell had taken the coach, without permission, in the middle