The Twisted Root

of the afternoon of the day he was killed," he began. He took another mouthful of the pie. It was good, full of meat and onions, and he was hungry. When he had swallowed it he went on. "He lives with his parents in Bayswater."
    "Is it his coach or theirs?" Robb asked, offering his grandfather another slice of bread and waiting anxiously while the old man had a fit of coughing, spitting up blood-streaked phlegm into a handkerchief. Robb automatically passed him a clean handkerchief—and a cup of water, which the old man sipped without speaking.
    It was a good question, and to answer it Monk was forced to be devious.
    "A family vehicle, not the best one." That was true if not the whole truth.
    "Why you and not the police?" Robb asked.
    Monk was prepared for that. "Because he hoped to recover it without the police being involved," he said smoothly. "Treadwell is the nephew of their cook, and he did not want any criminal proceedings."
    Robb was very carefully measuring powder from a twist of paper, making certain he used no more than a third, and then rewrapping what was left and replacing it on the cabinet shelf. He returned to the table and mixed water into the dose he had prepared, then held the glass to the old man’s lips.
    Monk glanced at the shelf where the paper had been replaced and noticed several other containers: a glass jar with dried leaves, presumably for an infusion; a vial of syrup of some sort; and two jars with more paper twists of powder. So much medicine would cost a considerable amount. He recalled noticing Robb’s frayed cuffs, carefully darned, the worn heels of his boots, an overstitched tear in the elbow of his jacket. He was taken by surprise with how hard compassion gripped him for the difficulty of it, for the pain, and then felt a surge of joy for the love which inspired it. He found himself smiling.
    Robb was wiping the old man’s face gently. He then turned to his own meal of bread and soup, which was now rapidly getting cold.
    "Do you know anything else about this Treadwell?" he asked, beginning to eat quickly. Perhaps he was hungry, more probably he was aware of the amount of time he had been away from police business.
    "Apparently not entirely satisfactory," Monk replied, remembering what Harry Stourbridge had told him. "Only kept on because he is the cook’s nephew. Many families will go to considerable lengths to keep a really good cook, especially if they entertain." He smiled slightly as he said it.
    Robb glanced at him quickly. "And a scandal wouldn’t help. I understand. But if this is your man, I’m afraid it can’t be avoided." He frowned. "Doesn’t throw any light on who killed him, though, does it? What was he doing here? Why didn’t whoever killed him take the coach? It’s a good one, and the horses are beauties."
    "No idea," Monk admitted. "Every new fact only makes it harder to understand."
    Robb nodded, then turned back to his grandfather. He made sure the old man was comfortable and could reach everything he would need before Robb could come home again, then he touched him gently, smiled, and took his leave.
    The old man said nothing, but his gratitude was in his face. He seemed better now that he had had his meal and whatever medicine Robb had given him.
    They walked the three quarters of a mile or so to the stable where the horses and the carriage were being housed. Robb explained to the groom in charge who Monk was.
    Monk needed only to glance at the carriage to remove any doubt in his own mind that it was the Stourbridges’. He examined it to see if there were any marks on it, or anything left in the inside which might tell him of its last journey, but there was nothing. It was a very well kept, cleaned, polished and oiled family coach. It had slight marks of wear and was about ten years old. The manufacturer was the one whose name Henry Stourbridge had given him. The description answered exactly.
    The horses were also precisely as described.
    "Where exactly were they found?" Monk asked again.
    "Cannon Hall Road," Robb replied. "It’s yours, isn’t it?" That was barely a question. He knew the answer from Monk’s face.
    "And the body?"
    "On the path to number five, Green Man Hill. It’s a row of small houses close onto the Heath."
    "And, of course, you’ve asked them about it." That, too, was a statement, not a question.
    Robb shrugged. "Of course. No one is saying anything."
    Monk was not surprised. Whether they did or not, few people admitted to