The Twisted Root

him before I can be certain."
    Stourbridge put his hand on Lucius’s arm. "There was nothing to indicate that Miriam was with him," he said gently. "We don’t know what happened or why. Stay here. I will do what is necessary. But be discreet. Until we are sure, there is no purpose in distressing Cook."
    Lucius recalled with an effort that he was not the only one to be affected, even bereaved. He looked at Monk. "Treadwell is dead?"
    "I think it is Treadwell," Monk replied. "But he was found alone, and the coach is empty and undamaged."
    A fraction of the color returned to Lucius’s cheeks. "I’m coming with you."
    "There is no need..." Stourbridge began, then, seeing the determination in his son, and perhaps realizing it was easier to do something than simply to wait, he did not protest any further.
    It was a miserable journey from Bayswater back to Hampstead. They took the Stourbridges’ remaining carriage, driven now by the groom, and rode for the most part in silence, Lucius sitting upright with his back to the way they were going, his eyes wide and dark, consumed in his own fears. Stourbridge sat next to Monk, staring ahead but oblivious of the streets and the houses they were passing. Once or twice he made as if to say something, then changed his mind.
    Monk concentrated on determining what he would tell Robb if the body proved to be Treadwell, and he had no real doubt that it was. It was also impossible to argue whether or not it was murder. The body, whosever it was, had not come by such an injury by any mischance. To conceal such information as his flight with Miriam Gardiner, and the fact that she had gone without explanation and was still missing, would now be a crime. Also, it would suggest that they had some fear that she was implicated. Nothing they said afterwards would be believed unless it carried proof.
    Not that either Harry or Lucius Stourbridge would be remotely likely to hide the truth. They were both far too passionately involved to conceal anything at all. Their first question to Robb would be regarding anything he would know about Miriam. They were so convinced of her entire innocence in anything wrong beyond a breach of good manners that they would only think of how she might be implicated when it was too late.
    How would Monk then explain to Robb his own silence about the other person in the carriage? He had not so far even mentioned her.
    They jolted to a stop as traffic ahead of them thickened and jammed the streets. All around, drivers shouted impatiently. Horses stamped and whinnied, jingling harnesses.
    Lucius sat rigid, still unspeaking.
    Stourbridge clenched and unclenched his hands.
    They moved forward again at last.
    Monk would tell Robb as little as possible. All they knew for certain was that Miriam had left at the same moment as Treadwell. How far they had gone together was another matter. Should he warn Stourbridge and Lucius to say no more about Miriam than they had to?
    He looked at their tense faces, each staring into space, consumed in their fears, and decided that any advice would only be overridden by emotion and probably do more harm than good. If they remembered it to begin with, then forgot, it would give the impression of dishonesty.
    He kept silent also.
    They reached the morgue at ten minutes past four. Robb was already there, pacing restlessly up and down, but he made no comment on the time as they alighted. They were all too eager to complete the business for which they had come to do more than acknowledge each other with the briefest courtesies and then follow Robb inside.
    The morgue attendant drew the sheet back from the body, showing only the head.
    Lucius drew in his breath sharply and seemed to sway a little on his feet.
    Stourbridge let out a soft sigh. He was a soldier, and he must have seen death many times before, and usually of men he had known to a greater or lesser extent, but this was a man of his own household, and murder was different from war. War was not an individual evil. Soldiers expected to kill and be killed. Frequently, they even respected their enemies. There was no hatred involved. The violence was huge and impersonal. It did not make the pain less, or the death or the bereavement less final, but death in war was mischance. This was different, a close, intended and covert evil, meant for this man alone.
    "Is it your coachman, sir?" Robb asked, but he could not help being aware that the question was unnecessary. The recognition was in