The Twisted Root

it was Miriam Gardiner. She was just as Lucius had described, barely average height, softly rounded figure, a beautifully proportioned, gentle face but with an underlying strength. At first glance she might have seemed a sweet-natured woman, given to obedience and pleasing those she loved, but there was an innate dignity to her that spoke of something far deeper than mere agreeableness, something untouchable by anything except love. Even in those few moments Monk understood why Lucius Stourbridge was prepared to spend so much heartache searching for her, regardless of the truth of James Treadwell’s death.
    "Mrs. Gardiner," he said quietly. "I am not from the police. But nor am I from Mrs. Anderson. I lied about that because I feared you would leave before I could speak to you if you knew I came from Lucius Stourbridge."
    She froze, oblivious of the pots on the stove steaming till their lids rattled in the silence that filled the room. Her terror was almost palpable in the air.
    Monk was aware of Mrs. Whitbread beside him. He saw the fury in her eyes, her body stiff, lips drawn into a thin line. He was grateful the skillet was on the far wall beyond her reach, or he believed she might well have struck him with it.
    "I haven’t come to try to take you back to Bayswater," he said quietly, facing Miriam. "Or to the police. If you would prefer that I did not tell Mr. Stourbridge where you are, then I will not. I shall simply tell him that you are alive and unhurt. He is desperate with fear for you, and that will offer him some comfort, although hardly an explanation."
    Miriam stared back, her face almost white, an anguish in it that made him feel guilty for what he was doing, and frightened for what he might discover.
    "He does not know what to believe," he said softly. "Except that you could and would do no intentional evil."
    She drew in her breath, and her eyes spilled over with tears. She wiped the moisture away impatiently, but it was a moment before she could control herself enough to speak.
    "I cannot go back." It was a statement of absolute fact. There was no hope in her voice, no possibility of change.
    "I can try to keep the police from you," he replied, as if it were the answer to what she had said. "But I may not succeed. They are not far behind me."
    Mrs. Whitbread walked around him and went over to the stove, taking the pans off it before they boiled over. She looked across at Monk with bitter dislike.
    Miriam stepped out of her way, farther into the middle of the room.
    "What happened?" Monk asked as gently as he could.
    She coughed a little, clearing her throat. Her voice was husky. "Is Cleo—Mrs. Anderson—all right?"
    "Yes." There was no purpose in pointing out Cleo Anderson’s danger if Robb felt she was concealing information or even that it was not coincidence that had taken Treadwell to her front path.
    Miriam seemed to relax a little. A faint tinge of color returned to her cheeks.
    "Where did you last see Treadwell?" he asked.
    Her lips tightened, and she shook her head a tiny fraction, not so much a denial to him as to herself.
    He kept his voice low, patient, as devoid of threat as he could.
    "You’ll have to answer sometime, if not to me, then to the police. He was murdered, beaten over the head—" He stopped. She had turned so ashen-pale he feared she was going to faint. He lunged forward and caught her by the arms, steadying her, pushing her sideways and backwards into the kitchen chair, for a moment supporting her weight until she sank into it.
    "Get out!" Mrs. Whitbread commanded furiously. "You get out of here!" She reached for the rolling pin or the skillet to use on him.
    He stood his ground, but wary of her. "Put the kettle on," he ordered. "Sending me away isn’t going to answer this. When the police come, and they will, they’ll not come in friendship as I do. All they will want will be evidence and justice—or what they believe to be justice."
    Miriam closed her eyes. It was all she could do to breathe slowly in and out, or to keep consciousness.
    Mrs. Whitbread, reluctantly, turned and filled the kettle, putting it on the hob. She eyed Monk guardedly before she took out cups, a teapot, and the round tin caddy. Then she went to the larder for milk, her heels tapping on the stone floor.
    Monk sat down opposite Miriam.
    "What happened?" he asked. "Where was Treadwell when you last saw him? Was he alive?"
    "Yes ..." she whispered, opening her eyes, but they were filled with