The Twisted Root

who he was blackmailing, or even that he was, but I fear I might guess. It is something I have learned in the course of caring for the sick, therefore I cannot tell you. I’m sorry." It was very plain in her face that indeed she was sorry, and equally plain that she would not change her position.
    He hurt for her. He ached to be able to help. Being shut out was almost like a physical coldness. He must protect her from being damaged by it herself. That was a greater danger than she might understand.
    "Hester—are you aware of any crime committed?"
    "Not morally," she answered instantly. "Nothing has been done that would offend the sensibilities of any Christian person."
    "Except a policeman," he concluded without hesitation.
    Her eyes widened. "Are you a policeman?"
    "No..."
    "That’s what I thought. Not that it makes any difference. It would be dishonorable to tell you, even if you were. I can’t."
    He said nothing. It was infuriating. She might hold the missing piece which would make sense of the confusion. She knew it also, and yet she would not tell him. She set her belief in trust, in her own concept of honor, before even her love for him. It was a hard thing, and beautiful, like clean light. It did not really hurt. He was quite sure he wanted it to be so. He was almost tempted to press her, to be absolutely certain she would not yield. But that would embarrass her. She might not understand his reason, or be quite sure he was not disappointed or, worse, childishly selfish.
    "William?"
    "Yes?"
    "Do you know something anyway?"
    "No. Why?"
    "You are smiling."
    "Oh!" He was surprised. "Am I? No, I don’t know anything. I suppose I am just ... happy ..." He leaned forward and much to her surprise, kissed her long and slowly, with increasing passion.
    The following day was the eleventh since Monk had first been approached by Lucius Stourbridge to find his fiancée. Now she was in prison charged with murder, and Monk had very little further idea what had happened the day of her flight. He had still less idea what had occasioned it, unless it was some threat of disclosure of a portion of her past which she believed would ruin either her or someone she loved. And it seemed she would tell no one. Even trial and execution appeared preferable.
    What secret could be so fearful?
    He could not imagine any, even though as he took a hansom to the Hampstead police station, his mind would not leave it alone.
    He arrived still short of nine o’clock to be told that Sergeant Robb had been working until dark the previous evening and was not yet in. Monk thanked the desk sergeant and left, walking briskly in the sun towards Robb’s home. He had no time to waste, even though he feared his discoveries, if he made them, would all be those he preferred not to know. Perhaps that was why he hurried. Good news could be savored, bad should be bolted like evil-tasting medicine. The anticipation at least could be cut short, and hope was painful.
    There was little he wanted to tell Robb, only his discoveries about Treadwell’s extravagant spending habits. He had debated whether to mention the subject or not. It gave Miriam a powerful motive, if she were being blackmailed. But a man who would blackmail one person might blackmail others, therefore there would be other suspects. Perhaps one of them had lain in wait for him, and Miriam had fled the scene not because she was guilty but because she could not prove her innocence.
    It was a slender hope, and he did not believe it himself. What if there was an illegitimate child somewhere, Miriam’s and Treadwell’s? Or simply that he knew of one? That would be enough to ruin her marriage to Lucius Stourbridge.
    But was any blackmail worth the rope?
    Or had she simply panicked, and now believed all was lost? That was only too credible.
    He could not alone pursue all the other possible victims Treadwell might have had. That required the numbers of the police, and their authority.
    He reached Robb’s home and knocked on the door. It was opened after several minutes by Robb himself, looking tired and harassed. He greeted Monk civilly but with a further tightening of the tension inside him.
    "What is it? Be as brief as you may, please. I am late and I have not yet given my grandfather his breakfast."
    Monk would like to have helped, but he had no skills that were of use. He felt the lack of them sharply.
    "I have learned rather more about James Treadwell, and I thought I should share it with you.