The Twisted Root

wise." He nodded, smiling at her again. "Thank you," he said, and stepped back and turned to leave.
    He would wait until Mrs. Whitbread finished her duties and then follow her. He had real hope that she might lead him to Miriam. For the meantime, he would find something to eat and stay well out of Robb’s way when he returned to see Mrs. Whitbread himself.
    He sauntered quite casually along the pavement next to a small space of open grass and bought a beef-and-onion sandwich from a stall. It was fresh, and he ate it with considerable enjoyment. He bought a second and enjoyed that as well. He wondered how Robb had traced Mrs. Whitbread. That was a good piece of detection. It commanded his respect, and he gave it willingly. He liked Robb and admired the young man’s care for his grandfather.
    He must stay within sight of Mr. Hornchurch’s house so he could see when the housekeeper left, but not so close that Robb, when returning, would observe him.
    He expected Robb to come back the way he had seen him leave, so he was jolted by considerable surprise when he heard Robb’s voice behind him, and he swung around to see him only a yard away, his face grim, his mouth pulled tight.
    "Waiting for me, Inspector Monk?" he said coldly.
    Monk felt as if he had been slapped. In one sentence, Robb had shown that he had learned Monk’s history in the police and his reputation both for skill and for ruthlessness. It was there in Robb’s face now as he stood in sunlight dappled by the trees, his eyes guarded, challenging. Monk could see the anger in him—and something else which he thought might be fear.
    Was there any point in lying? He did not want to make an enemy of Robb, for practical reasons as well as emotional ones; in fact, he could not afford to. The first concern was Miriam. Her freedom, even her life, might depend upon this. And he had no idea whether she was guilty of anything or not. She might have killed Treadwell. On the other hand she might be in danger herself, terrified and running. He knew no more of the truth now than he had when Lucius Stourbridge had walked into his rooms a few days before.
    He shifted his weight to stand a little more casually. He raised his eyebrows. "Actually, I’d really been hoping to avoid you," he said truthfully.
    Robb’s mouth curled downward. "You thought I’d come back the way I left? I would have if I hadn’t seen you, and I admit, that was only chance. But I know this area better than you do. I have the advantage. I wondered if you’d follow me. It would seem the obvious thing to do if you had no ideas yourself." There was a contempt in his voice that stung. "Why did you wait here for me? I suppose you already knew I would be going to my grandfather."
    Monk was startled—and surprised to find himself also hurt. He had not earned that from Robb. Certainly, he was trying to beat Robb to Miriam, but that was what Lucius Stourbridge had hired him for. Robb would not have expected him to do less.
    "Of course, I knew where you were going," Monk answered, keeping his voice level and almost expressionless. "But the reason I didn’t go after you was because I wasn’t following you in the first place. Does it surprise you so much that my investigations should bring me to the same place as yours?"
    "No," Robb said instantly. "You have a wide reputation, Inspector Monk." He did not elaborate as to its nature, but the expression in his eyes told it well, leaving Monk no room to hope or to delude himself.
    Memories of Runcorn flooded back, of his anger always there, thinly suppressed under his veneer of self-control, the fear showing through, the expectation that somehow, whatever he did, Monk would get the better of him, undermine his authority, find the answer first, make him look foolish or inept. The fear had become so deep over the years it was no longer a conscious thought but an instinct, like wincing before you are struck.
    After the accident Monk had heard fragments about himself here and there and had pieced them together, learned things he had wished were not true. The cruel thing was that in the last year or so, surely they no longer were. His tongue was still quick, certainly. He was intolerant. He did not suffer fools—gladly or otherwise. But he was not unjust! Robb was judging him on the past.
    "Apparently," he said aloud, his voice cold. He also knew his reputation for skill. "Then you should not be surprised that I came to the same conclusion you did and found