The Twisted Root

the same people without having to trail behind you."
    Robb dug his hands into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched forward, his body tightening. There was contempt and dislike in his face, but also the awareness of a superior enemy, and a sadness that it should be so, a disappointment.
    "You have an advantage over me, Mr. Monk. You know my one vulnerability. You must do about it whatever you think fit, but I will not be blackmailed into stepping aside from pursuing whoever murdered James Treadwell—whether it is Mrs. Gardiner or not." He looked at Monk unblinkingly, his brown eyes steady.
    Monk felt suddenly sick. Surely he had never been a person who would descend to blackmailing a young man because he took time off his professional duty to attend to the far deeper duty of love towards an old man who was sick and alone and utterly dependent upon him? He could not believe he had ever been like that—not to pursue any thief or killer, there were other ways; and certainly not to climb up another step on the ladder of preferment!
    He found his mouth dry and words difficult to form. What did he want to say? He would not plead; it would be both demeaning and useless.
    "What you tell your superiors is your own business," he replied icily. "If you tell them anything at all. Personally, I never had such a regard for them that I thought it necessary to explain myself. My work spoke for me." He sounded arrogant and he knew it. But what he said was true. He had never explained himself to Runcorn, nor ever intended to.
    He saw the flash of recognition in Robb’s face, and belief.
    "And you’ll find plenty of sins I’ve committed," Monk went on, his voice biting. "But you’ll not find anyone who knew me to stoop to blackmail. You’ll not find anyone who damned well thought I needed to."
    Slowly, Robb’s shoulders relaxed. He still regarded Monk carefully, but the hostility faded from his eyes as the fear loosened its grip on him. He licked his lips. "I’m sorry— perhaps I underestimated your ability." That was as far as he would go towards an apology.
    It was not ability Monk cared about, it was honor, but there was no point pursuing that now. This was all he was going to get. The question was how to remain within sight of the house so he could follow Mrs. Whitbread when she left, and yet at the same time elude Robb so he did not follow them both. And, of course, that only mattered if the maid at the door did not give Robb the same information she had given to Monk, albeit unwittingly.
    He looked at Robb a moment longer, then smiled steadily, bade him farewell, and turned and walked away, in the opposite direction from the house. He would have to circle around and come back, extremely carefully.
    Mrs. Whitbread left at a quarter to five. Robb was nowhere to be seen. As Monk followed her at a discreet distance, he felt his weariness suddenly vanish, his senses become keen and a bubble of hope form inside him.
    They had not gone far, perhaps a mile and a quarter, before Mrs. Whitbread, a thin, spare woman with a gentle face, turned in at a small house on Kemplay Road and opened the front door with a key.
    Monk waited a few moments, looking both ways and seeing no one, then he crossed and went to the door. He knocked.
    After a minute or two the door was opened cautiously by Mrs. Whitbread. "Yes?"
    He had given much consideration to what he was going to say. It was already apparent Miriam did not wish to be found either by the police or by Lucius Stourbridge. If she had trusted Lucius in this matter she would have contacted him long before. Either she was afraid he would betray her to the police or she wanted to protect him.
    "Good evening, Mrs. Whitbread," he said firmly. "I have an urgent message from Mrs. Anderson—for Miriam. I need to see her immediately." Cleo Anderson was the one name both women might trust.
    She hesitated only a moment, then pulled the door wider.
    "You’d better come in," she said quickly. "You never know who’s watching. I had the rozzers ’round where I work just today."
    He stepped inside and she closed the door. "I know. It was I who sent them to you. You didn’t tell them anything?"
    " ’Course not," she replied, giving him a withering look. "Wouldn’t trust them an inch. Can’t afford to."
    He said nothing, but followed her down the passage and around the corner into the kitchen. Standing at the stove, facing them, eyes wide, was the woman he had come to find. He knew immediately