The Twisted Root

way?"
    "No."
    "Where did Treadwell serve before Bayswater? Where was he born?"
    Monk felt himself flush with annoyance. They were obvious questions, and he had not thought to ask them. It was a stupid oversight. He had concentrated on Miriam, thinking of Treadwell only as someone to drive the coach for her. It was instinctive to try to defend himself, but there was nothing to say which would not make his omission look worse.
    "I don’t know." The words were hollow, an open failure.
    Robb was tactful. He even seemed faintly relieved.
    "And about her?" he asked.
    This time Monk could answer, and did as fully as he knew.
    Robb thought for several moments before he spoke again.
    "So a relationship between Mrs. Gardiner and this coachman is unlikely, but it is not impossible. It seems she turned to him to take her away from the Stourbridge house, at least." He looked at Monk nervously. "And you still have no idea why?"
    "None."
    Robb grunted. "I cannot stop you looking for her also, of course, and perhaps finding her before I do. But if she is involved in this crime, even as a witness, and you assist her, I shall charge you!" His young face was set, his lips tight.
    "Of course," Monk agreed. "I would in your place." That was unquestionably true. He had a suspicion from what he had learned of himself and the past that Robb was being gentler with him than he had been with others. He smiled bleakly. "Thank you for your civility. I expect we’ll meet again. Good day."

    Monk arrived home at Fitzroy Street a little after seven and found dinner ready and Hester waiting for him. It was extremely satisfying. The house was clean and smelled faintly of lavender and polish. There were fresh flowers on the table, a white cloth with blue cross-stitch patterns on it, and crockery and silverware. Hester served cold game pie with crisp pastry and hot vegetables, then an egg custard with nutmeg grated over the top, and lastly cheese and crusty bread. There were even a few early strawberries to finish. He sat back with a feeling of immense well-being to watch Hester clear away the dishes, and was pleased to see her return some twenty-five minutes later ready to sit down and talk with him for the rest of the evening. He wanted to tell her about Treadwell, and about Robb and his grandfather.
    "Did you find the coach yet?" she asked.
    He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs.
    "Yes. And I found Treadwell also." He saw her eyes widen, then the knowledge came into her face that there was far more to what he said. She understood the tragedy before he put it into words. She did not ask him, but waited.
    "I went to the local police station to see if they had seen the coach. The sergeant was occupied with a murder case, but he spared me a few minutes ..." He knew she would leap to the conclusion before he told her.
    "Treadwell!" She swallowed. "Not Miriam, too?" Her voice was strained with expectation of pain.
    "No," he said quickly. "There’s no sign of her at all. I would not have had to mention her, except that I brought Major Stourbridge to identify Treadwell, and Lucius insisted on coming as well. Of course, they had to ask Robb about her."
    "Robb is the sergeant?"
    "Yes." He described him for her, trying to bring to life in words both the gentleness he had seen in the young man and the determination, and a little of the edge of his nervousness, his need to succeed.
    He saw in her face that he had caught her interest. She had understood that there was far more he had not yet told her.
    "How was Treadwell killed?" she asked.
    "With a blow over the head with something hard and heavy."
    "Did he fight?"
    "No. It was as if he was taken by surprise."
    "Where was he found?" She was leaning forward now, her attention wholly absorbed.
    "On the path of a small house on Green Man Hill, just off the Heath."
    "That’s close to the hospital," she said quietly. "One or two of our part-time nurses live around there."
    "I doubt he was going to see a nurse," he said dryly, but it brought to mind his visit with Robb to the old man, and the poverty in which they lived. Robb’s return home would be so different from his own, no wife with a fine meal ready and a quiet evening in the last of the sun. He would find a sick old man who needed caring for, washing, feeding, cleaning often, and who was always either in distress or close to it. Money must be scarce. The medicines alone would be expensive, and perhaps hard to come by.
    "What?" she said softly, as