The Twisted Root

force her to keep it going, and she wanted to end it because of Stourbridge."
    Hester did not argue anymore. Reason was all on his side, and she had nothing to marshal against it. She turned her attention to the kettle.
    When she arrived home Monk was already there, and she was startled to see that he had prepared cold game pie and vegetables for dinner and it was set out on the table. She realized how late it was, and apologized with considerable feeling. She was also deeply grateful. She was hot and tired, and her boots felt at least a size too tight.
    "What is it?" he asked, seeing the droop in her shoulders and reading her too well to think it was only weariness.
    "They’ve found Miriam," she replied, looking up at him from where she had sat down to unlace her boots.
    He stood still in the doorway, staring at her.
    "They arrested her," she finished quietly. "Michael Robb thinks she killed Treadwell, either because he knew something about her which would have ended her chance of marrying Lucius or because she was having an affair with him and wanted to end it."
    His face was grave, the lines harder. "How do you know that?"
    She realized the necessity for explanation, a little late. "I was visiting his grandfather, because he is seriously ill, when Sergeant Robb came home."
    "And Robb just told you this?" His eyes were wide and steady.
    "He knew I was your wife."
    "Oh." He hesitated. "And do you think Miriam killed Treadwell?" He was watching her, trying to read not only her words but her feelings. He looked strangely defeated, as if he had felt the same unreasoning hope that Miriam could be innocent.
    It was very sweet not to be alone in her sense of disappointment, even disillusion.
    She took her boots off and wriggled her feet, then stood up and walked over to him. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for the dinner."
    He grinned with satisfaction. "Don’t make a habit of it," he said smugly.
    She knew better than to reply. She walked a step behind him to the table.

6
    MONK WAS UNABLE to rid his mind of the thought of Miriam Gardiner’s arrest. He slept deeply, but when he awoke the memory of her distress twisted his thoughts until he had no choice but to determine to see her.
    In case there might be any difficulty with the prison authorities, he lied without compunction, meeting the jailer’s gaze with candor and saying he was her legal adviser, with whom, of course, she was entitled to consult.
    Monk found her sitting alone in a cell, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale but so composed as to be in a way frightening. There was no anger in her, no will to fight, no outrage at injustice. She seemed neither pleased nor displeased to see him, as if his presence made no difference with regard to anything that mattered.
    The cell door clanged behind him, and he heard the heavy bolt shoot home. The floor was perhaps five paces by five, black stone, the walls whitewashed. A single high aperture was heavily glassed, letting in light but not color. The sky beyond could have been blue or gray. The air was stuffy, smelling of decades, perhaps centuries, of anger and despair.
    "Mrs. Gardiner ..." he began. He had rehearsed what to say to her, but now it seemed inadequate. Intelligence was needed, even brilliance, if he was to help her in this dreadful situation of confusion and pain, and yet all that seemed natural or remotely appropriate was emotion. "I hoped Robb would not find you, but since he has, please allow me to do what I can to help."
    She looked at him blankly, her face almost expressionless. "You cannot help, Mr. Monk. I mean that as no reflection upon your abilities, simply that my situation does not allow it."
    He sat down facing her. "What happened?" he asked urgently. "Do you know who killed Treadwell?"
    She kept her eyes averted, staring into some dark space that only she could see.
    "Do you know?" he repeated more sharply.
    "There is nothing I can tell you which will help, Mr. Monk." There was finality in her voice, no lift of hope, not even of argument. She had no will to fight.
    "Did you kill him?" he demanded.
    She lifted her head slowly, her eyes wide. Before she spoke, he knew what she was going to say.
    "No."
    "Then who did?"
    She looked away again.
    His mind raced. The only reason for her silence must be to protect someone. Had she any conception of what it was going to cost her?
    "Did Treadwell threaten you?" he asked.
    "No." But there was no surprise in her voice