The Twisted Root

know wot ter look fer. You know, yer a bit pleased wif yerself, an’ all!"
    Monk smiled ruefully. He knew it was true.
    The ostler grinned back, pleased there was no offense.
    Monk thanked him and left, digesting the information he had gained, not only about Treadwell’s being here but about Miriam’s strange early life and the coincidence of Treadwell’s being murdered on the doorstep of the woman who had found Miriam and had taken her in years before. And, of course, Robb had had the same idea. Monk must be extremely careful he did not inadvertently lead him right to Miriam.
    Out in the street again, he walked slowly. He did not put his hands in his pockets. That would pull his suit out of shape. He was too vain for that. Why was he so fearful of leading Robb to Miriam? The answer was painful. Because he was afraid she was involved in Treadwell’s death, even if indirectly. She was hiding from Lucius, but she was hiding from the police as well. Why? What was Treadwell to her beyond the driver of Stourbridge’s carriage? What did he know—or suspect?
    It was time he went to see Cleo Anderson. He did not want to run into Robb, so he approached cautiously, aware that he was a conspicuous figure with his straight, square shoulders and slightly arrogant walk.
    He was already on Green Man Hill when he saw Robb crossing the street ahead of him, and he stopped abruptly, bending his head and raising his hands as if to light a cigar, then he turned his back, making a gesture as if to shelter a match from the wind. Without looking up, in spite of the intense temptation, he strolled away again and around the first corner he came to.
    He stopped and, to his annoyance, found he was shaking. This was absurd. What had it come to when he was scuttling around street corners to keep from being recognized by the police? And a sergeant at that! A short handful of years before, sergeants all over London knew his name and snapped to attention when they heard it. In rediscovering himself after the accident he had witnessed just how deeply the fear of him was rooted. People cared what he thought of them, they wanted to please him and they dreaded his contempt, earned or not.
    How much had changed!
    He felt himself ridiculous, standing there on the footpath pretending to light an imaginary cigar so Robb would not see his face. And yet the man he had been then, in hindsight gave him little pleasure. Robb would have feared him, possibly respected his skills, but that fear would have been based in the power he had had and his will to use it—and to exercise the sharp edge of his tongue.
    He was still impatient, at times sarcastic. He still despised cowardice, hypocrisy and laziness, and took no trouble to conceal it. But he equally despised a bully and felt a sharp stab of pain to think that he might once have been one.
    If Robb had gone to see Cleo Anderson, either with regard to Miriam or simply because Treadwell had been found on her pathway, then there was no point waiting there for him to leave. It might be an hour or two. Better to go and buy himself a decent supper, then return in the early evening, when Robb would have gone back home, probably to minister to his grandfather.
    Monk ate well, then filled in a little more of the waiting time asking further questions about Miriam. He pretended he had a sister who had recently married and was considering moving into the area. He learned more than he expected, and Miriam’s name cropped up in connection with a botanical society, the friends of a missionary group in Africa, a circle of women who met every other Friday to discuss works of literature they had enjoyed, and the rota of duties at the nearest church. He should have thought of the church. He kicked himself for such an obvious omission. He would repair that tomorrow.
    Altogether, by the time he stood on Cleo Anderson’s doorstep in the early-evening sunlight, the shadows so long across the street that they nearly engulfed his feet, he was feeling, as the ostler had remarked, pleased with himself.
    Considering that Cleo Anderson had already sacrificed a great deal of her evening answering the questions of Sergeant Robb, she opened the door to Monk with remarkable courtesy. It occurred to him that she might have believed him to be a patient. After all, caring for the sick was her profession.
    It took her only a moment to see that he was a stranger, and unlikely to belong to the immediate neighborhood. Nevertheless, she did