The Twisted Root

horror so deep the words gave him no comfort at all.
    "Were you there when he was killed?"
    She shook her head, barely an inch.
    "Do you know who killed him or why?"
    She said nothing.
    Mrs. Whitbread came back with a jug of milk in her hand. She glared at Monk, but she did not interrupt. She crossed the floor and tipped a little boiling water into the pot to warm it.
    "Who killed Treadwell?" Monk repeated. "And why?"
    Miriam stared at him. "I can’t tell you," she whispered. "I can’t tell you anything. I can’t come with you. Please go away. I can’t help—there’s nothing—nothing I can do."
    There was such a terrible, hopeless pain in her voice the argument died on his lips.
    The kettle started to shrill. Mrs. Whitbread lifted it off the stove and turned to Monk.
    "Go now," she said levelly, her eyes hard. "There’s nothing for you here. Tell Lucius Stourbridge whatever you have to, but go. If you come back, Miriam won’t be here. There’s plenty others who’ll hide her. If Mr. Stourbridge is the friend he says he is, he’ll leave well enough alone. You can see yourself out." She still held the kettle, steam pouring out of its spout. It wasn’t exactly a threat, but Monk did not misunderstand the determination in her.
    He rose to his feet, took a last glance at Miriam, then went to the door. Then he remembered Robb and changed his mind. The back kitchen door probably led to an area for coal or coke and then an alleyway.
    "I’ll tell Mr. Stourbridge you are alive and well," he said softly. "No more than that. But the police won’t be far behind me, I know that for certain. I’ve been dodging them for the last two days."
    Mrs. Whitbread understood his thought. She nodded. "Go left," she ordered. "You’ll come to the street again. Watch for the ash cans."
    "Was that all she said?" Hester was incredulous when he recounted to her what had happened. They were in the comfortable room where he received clients and which also served as sitting room. The windows were open to the warm evening air drifting in. There was a rustle of leaves from a tree close by, and in the distance the occasional clip of hooves from the traffic on the street.
    "Yes," he answered, looking across at her. She was not sewing, as other women might have been. She did needle-work only as necessity demanded. She was concentrating entirely upon what he was saying, her back straight, her shoulders square, her eyes intent upon his face. All the confusion and tragedy he was aware of could not stifle the deep well of satisfaction within him that underlay everything else. She infuriated him at times; they still disagreed over countless things. He could have listed her faults using the fingers of both hands. And yet as long as she was there, he would never be alone and nothing was beyond bearing.
    "What was she like?" she asked.
    He was startled. "Like?"
    "Yes," she said impatiently. "She didn’t give you any explanations? She didn’t tell you why she ran away from the Stourbridges’ party? You did ask her, I suppose?"
    He had not asked. By that point he already knew she would not tell him.
    "You didn’t!" Hester’s voice rose an octave.
    "She refused to tell me anything," he said clearly. "Except that she was not there when Treadwell was killed. I don’t think she even knew he was dead. When I told her that, she was so horrified she was almost incapable of speech. She all but fainted."
    "So she knows something about it!" Hester said instantly.
    That was an unwarranted leap of deduction, and yet he had made exactly the same one. He looked across at her and smiled bleakly.
    "So you have learned no new facts," she said.
    "There’s the fact that Mrs. Whitbread was prepared to fight to defend her, and risk the police coming after her instead," he pointed out. "And the fact that almost certainly Robb will find her, sooner or later." He did not want to tell Hester about Robb’s opinion of him. It was painful, a dark thing he preferred she did not know.
    "So, what was she like?" she asked again.
    He did not make any evasions or comments on the obscurity of feminine logic.
    "I’ve never seen anyone more afraid," he said honestly. "Or more anguished. But I don’t believe she will tell me—or anyone else—what happened or why she is running. Certainly, she won’t tell Lucius Stourbridge."
    "What are you going to do?" Her voice was little more than a whisper, and her eyes were full of pity.
    He realized he had already made his