The Twisted Root

in their Sunday best. Life would be conducted mostly in the kitchen and bedrooms. Prayers would be said every morning and night. The generations would be listed in the family Bible, which was probably opened once a week. Sunday morning would be very sober indeed, although Saturday night might get a little tipsy—for the men anyway.
    He tried to think what Treadwell would do when he got to Hampstead. Did he meet friends, perhaps a woman? Why not? It would certainly be very foolish for him to form a friendship with a woman in the Stourbridge house, or close enough for others to become aware of it. Backstairs gossip had ruined more than a few men in service.
    Had he come to buy or to pay for something, or to settle or collect an old debt? Or had it been simply to escape his daily life of obedience to someone else? Here, for an hour or two, he would have been his own master.
    Monk crossed the street, still strolling gently because he had reached no decision. A young woman passed him. She was wearing the starched uniform and simple dress of a nursemaid, and she had a little girl by the hand. Every now and again the child took a little skip, the ribbon in her hair bobbing, and the young woman smiled at her. Far away in the distance, probably on the Heath, a barrel organ played.
    If Treadwell had come here he would not have left the carriage and horses standing unattended. Even if he had merely stopped for a drink, he would have had to leave them in some suitable place, such as an ostler’s yard.
    There was a shop across the road ahead of him. He was not more than a quarter of a mile from Miriam Gardiner’s house. This would be an excellent place to start. He increased his pace. Now he had a specific purpose.
    He opened the door, and a bell clanked rustily somewhere inside. An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a curtain and looked at Monk hopefully.
    "Yes sir. Lovely day, in’t it? What can I get for you, sir? Tea, candles, half a pound of mint humbugs perhaps?" He waved a hand at the general clutter around him which apparently held all these things and more. "Or a penny postcard? Ball of string, maybe you need, or sealing wax?"
    "Ball of string and sealing wax sounds very useful," Monk agreed. "And the humbugs would be excellent on such a warm day. Thank you."
    The man nodded several times, satisfied, and began to find the articles named.
    "Mrs. Gardiner said you would have almost anything I might want," Monk remarked, watching the man carefully.
    "Oh, did she?" the man replied without looking up. "Now, there’s a nice lady, if you like! Happy to see her marry again, and that’s not a lie. Widowed too young, she was. Oh! There’s the sealing wax." He held it up triumphantly. "It’s a nice color, that is. Not too orange. Don’t like it to be too orange. Red’s better."
    "I suppose you’ve known her a long time," Monk remarked casually, nodding back in approval of the shade of the wax.
    "Bless you, only since she first came here as a girl, and that’s not a lie," the man agreed. "Poor little thing!"
    Monk stiffened. What should he say to encourage more confidences without showing his own ignorance or curiosity?
    The man found the string and came up from his bending with a ball in each hand.
    "There you are, sir," he said triumphantly, his face shining. "Which would you prefer? This is good string for parcels and the like, and the other’s softer, better for tying up plants. Don’t cut into the stems, you see?"
    "I’ll take both," Monk answered, his mind racing. "And two sticks of the sealing wax. As you say, it’s a good color."
    "Good! Good! And the mint humbugs. Never forget the mint humbugs!" He laid the string on the counter and disappeared below it again, presumably searching for more sealing wax. Monk hoped it was not the humbugs down in the dusty recesses.
    "I hadn’t realized she was so young when it happened," Monk observed, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.
    "Bless you, no more than twelve or thirteen, and that’s not a lie," the man answered from his hands and knees where he was searching in the cupboards under the counter. He pulled out a huge box full of envelopes and linen paper. "Poor little creature. Terrible small she was. Not a soul in the world, so it seemed. Not then. But of course our Cleo took her in." He pulled out another box of assorted papers. Monk did not care in the slightest about the sealing wax, but he did not want to interrupt the flow. "Good woman, Cleo