The Twisted Root

anything you do here will make a difference, because it won’t," he went on levelly. "I won’t stop looking for Miriam Gardiner. And when I find her, which I will, if she’s guilty of killing James Treadwell, I’ll arrest her and charge her, whatever you do for my grandfather." His face tightened even more, his voice a little hoarse. "And whether you tell the police station or not." He colored slightly. "And if that insults you, I’m sorry."
    "I’m used to being insulted, Sergeant Robb," she replied, surprised at how much the suggestion hurt. "But I admit, this is a totally new manner of saying my work is worthless, incompetent or generally of morally questionable nature."
    "I didn’t mean ..." he began, then bit the words back, the pink deepening in his cheeks.
    "Yes, you did," she contradicted him, making the most of his embarrassment. "But I suppose I can understand it. You must feel very vulnerable, coming away from your post to care for your grandfather. I swear to you that I have no motive for being here except to offer him some care, according to my profession, and to talk with him over old memories I can share with no one who has not had the experiences from which they spring. You must believe me, or not, as circumstances prove me." And without waiting to see his response, she turned and went back in through the door, leaving it ajar behind her for the warm air to come in. She was only half aware of Michael’s footsteps as he walked away.
    She remained far longer than she had originally intended. To begin with she had talked comparatively little, answering a few questions about what life had been like for her in the hospital at Scutari, and even describing Florence Nightingale. Robb was interested to hear about her, what she looked like, her demeanor, her voice, even her manner of dress. Such was her reputation that the smallest details held his attention. Hester was happy to answer, feeling memory so sharp she could almost smell the blood and vinegar again, and the sickening odor of gangrene and the other acrid stenches of disease. She could feel the summer heat and hear the buzzing of flies, as if the mild English sun coming in through the windows were the same, and it would be a Turkish street outside.
    Halfway through the afternoon he fell asleep, and she was able to stand up and tidy the kitchen space a little, ready to prepare him another cup of tea, should he want it. She would certainly welcome one herself, milk or no milk to go with it. She considered going out to purchase some but decided not to. It would be a slight to his hospitality, a small and needless hurt. Tea was perfectly adequate without.
    She tried the closed cupboard, to see if there was anything in it which might help him should he have another attack, any herbal leaves such as camomile to settle the stomach, or feverfew to help headache or even a little quinine to reduce temperatures. She was pleased to find all those things, and also a small packet that suggested morphine to her. A taste on a moistened finger confirmed it. This was quite a respectable medicine cabinet, too accurate to his needs to have been collected by an amateur or by chance, and too expensive to have been purchased out of a police sergeant’s pay, except by the most desperate economies elsewhere.
    She closed the cupboard silently and stood facing the room, her mind whirling. Morphine was one of the principal medicines missing from the hospital. She had assumed, as everyone else had, that it was being taken for addicts who had been given it for pain and now could not survive without it. But perhaps it was being taken to heal the sick who could not come to the hospital, people like John Robb. Certainly, that was still theft, but she could not find it in herself to disapprove of it.
    The questions that burned in her mind were who had brought them and did Michael Robb know. Was that, even in part, the cause of his concern at her being here?
    She did not believe it. Intelligence told her it was possible, instinct denied it without consideration.
    The old man himself, so peacefully asleep in the afternoon sun, undoubtedly must know who had brought them, but would he know they might be stolen? He might guess, but she thought it unlikely. She would not ask him. There was no decision to make. The question did not arise that she should pursue it. She sat down and waited patiently until he should awaken, then she would make him tea again, with a little more honey. It