The Twisted Root

Anderson. Heart of gold, whatever anybody says," the man continued vehemently.
    "Please don’t go to trouble." Monk was abashed by the work he was causing, and he had what he wanted. "I don’t need more wax, I merely liked the color."
    "Mustn’t be beaten," the shopkeeper mumbled from the depth of the cupboard. "That’s what they said at Trafalgar— and Waterloo, no doubt. Can’t have a customer leaving dissatisfied."
    "I suppose you know Mr. Treadwell also?" Monk tried the last question.
    "Not as I recall. Ah! Here it is! I knew I had some more somewhere. Half a box of it." He backed out and stood up, his shoulders covered in dust, a lidless cardboard box in one hand. He beamed at Monk. "Here you are, sir. How much would you like?"
    "Three sticks, thank you," Monk replied, wondering what on earth he could use it for. "Is there a good ostler’s yard near here?"
    The man leaned over the counter and pointed leftwards, waving his arm. "About half a mile up that way, and one street over. Can’t miss it. Up towards Mrs. Anderson’s, it is. But you’d know that, knowing Mrs. Gardiner an’ all. That’ll be tenpence ha’penny altogether, sir, if you please. Oh ... an’ here are the humbugs. That’ll be another tuppence, if you please."
    Monk took his purchases, thanked him and paid, then set out towards the ostler’s yard feeling pleased with himself.
    He needed to find Miriam. The details of her youth were of value only inasmuch as they either explained her extraordinary behavior or indicated where she was now.
    The ostler’s yard was precisely where the shopkeeper had pointed.
    "Yes," an old man said, sucking on a straw. He was bow-legged and smelled of the stable yard, horse sweat, hay and leather. " ’E come ’ere often. Right ’andsome pair, they was. Perfick match, pace fer pace."
    "Good with horses, was he?" Monk enquired casually.
    "Not as I’d say ’good,’ " the ostler qualified. " ’Fair,’ more like it." He looked at Monk through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to explain himself.
    Monk made a grimace of disgust. "Not what he told me. That’s why I thought I’d check."
    "Don’t make no matter now." The ostler spat out the straw, "Dead, poor swine. Not that I’d much time fer ’im. Saucy bastard, ’e were. Always full o’ lip. But I wouldn’t wish that on ’im. Yer not from ’round ’ere, or yer’d o’ know’d ’e were dead. Murdered, ’e were. On Mrs. Anderson’s footpath, practically, an’ ’er a good woman, an’ all. Looked after my Annie, she did, summink wonderful." He shook his head. "Nuffink weren’t too much trouble for ’er."
    Monk seized the chance. "A very fine woman," he agreed. "Took in Mrs. Gardiner, too, I believe, when she was just a child."
    The ostler selected himself another straw and put it in his mouth. "Oh, yeah. Found her wandering around out of ’er wits, they did. Babblin’ like a lunatic an’ scarce knew ’er own name, poor thing. It were Cleo Anderson wot took ’er in an’ cleaned ’er up and raised ’er like she was ’er own. Shame that no-good braggart got ’isself killed on her doorstep. That kind o’ trouble nobody needs."
    "Can’t prevent accidents," Monk said sententiously, but his mind was wondering what could have happened to the young Miriam to cause her such agony of mind. He could imagine it only too vividly, remembering his own fear after the accident, the horrors that lay within himself. Had she experienced something like that? Did she also not know who she was? Was that what terrified her and drove her away from Lucius Stourbridge, who loved her so much?
    The ostler spat out his straw. "Weren’t no haccident!" He said derisively. "Like I told yer, ’e were murdered! ’It over the ’ead, ’e were."
    "He left his horses here quite often," Monk observed, recalling himself to the present.
    "I told you that, too, didn’t I? ’Course, ’e did. Best place fer miles, this is. In’t nuthin’ abaht ’orses I don’t know as is worth knowin’." He waited for Monk to challenge him.
    Monk smiled and glanced at the nearest animal. "I can see that," he said appreciatively. "It shows. And your judgment of Treadwell is probably much what I’d concluded myself. An arrogant piece of work."
    The ostler looked satisfied. He nodded. "That’s wot I told that policeman wot come ’round ’ere askin’. Treadwell weren’t much good, I told ’im. Yer can learn a lot abaht a man by the way ’e ’andles an ’orse, if yer