The Twisted Root

have in common with my grandfather?" he said grimly.
    "It’s all right, Michael," the old man intervened. "I’d fairly like to watch her take you on. Reckon as she might have the best of you—with her tongue, any road. Crimean nurse, she is! Seen more battles than you have—like me. She don’t mean no harm."
    Michael looked uncertainly at the old man, then back at Hester. She respected his protectiveness of his grandfather and hoped she would have done the same had she been in his place. And she was unquestionably an intruder. But the elder Robb should not be treated like a child, even if he was physically all but helpless. She must refrain from defending his judgment now, though the words were on the end of her tongue.
    The old man looked at Hester, a glint in his eye. "Wouldn’t mind getting another cup, would you, miss?"
    "Of course not," Hester said demurely, lifting the last cup from its hook on the shelf that served as a dresser. She finished scalding the pot, put in a meager portion of leaves, then poured on the boiling water, keeping her back to Michael. She heard the door close and his footsteps across the floor.
    He came up behind her, his voice very low. "Did Monk send you here?"
    "No." She was about to add that Monk did not "send" her anywhere, but on reflection, that was not true. He had frequently sent her to various places to enquire into one thing or another. "So far as I know, he has no idea I am here. I remembered what he said to me of Mr. Robb, and I felt that I wished to visit him. I have no intention of taking anything that belongs to you, Sergeant Robb, or of doing your grandfather any harm, either by meddling or by patronizing him. Nor am I interested in your police concerns with Mrs. Gardiner."
    He blushed painfully, but his eyes remained sharp and steady, and considerable animosity showed in them.
    "You are direct to a fault, ma’am."
    She smiled suddenly. "Yes—I know. Would you rather I beat around the bush a little more? I can go back and make ten minutes of obscure conversation if you wish. Well— perhaps five ..."
    "No, I would not!" In spite of himself his voice rose. "I—"
    Whatever else he had been about to say was cut short by the old man’s beginning to cough again. He had struggled forward, half out of his chair, and he was in considerable distress, his face flushed and already beads of sweat on his lip and brow.
    Michael swung around and rushed towards him, catching him in his arms and easing him back into the chair. For the moment Hester was completely forgotten.
    The old man was fighting for breath, trying desperately to drag the air into his damaged lungs, his whole body racked with violent spasms. He brought up great gobbets of phlegm, dark yellow and spotted with blood.
    Hester had already guessed how seriously ill he was, but this was agonizing confirmation. She wished that there was something she could do, but at least until the coughing subsided he was beyond all assistance except the physical support Michael was giving him.
    If they had been at the hospital she could have got him a tiny dose of morphine, which would have calmed the wrenching lungs and given him the opportunity to rest. Sherry and water would have been good as a restorative. She looked around the shelves to see what there was, her mind racing to think of a way of giving him what he lacked without hurting his pride. She knew perfectly well that anxiety could make people ill, that fear could destroy the passion to survive. Humiliation and the conviction that one was useless, a burden to those one loved, had precipitated the death of many a person who might well have recovered had he perceived himself as valuable.
    She saw bread and cheese, three eggs, a carefully covered piece of cold beef, some raw vegetables and a slice of pie. It was not much to feed two men. Perhaps Michael Robb bought his lunch while on duty. On the other hand, he very possibly sacrificed much of his own welfare to care for his grandfather, but in such a way that the old man was unaware of it.
    There was a closed cupboard, and she hesitated, reluctant to intrude any further. Was there some way that she could get Kristian Beck to come and visit Mr. Robb and then prescribe morphine for him? He was too old and his illness too far progressed for treatment to accomplish anything beyond alleviating his distress, but surely that was a side of medicine which was just as important. Many things could not be cured. No nurse worth her