The Twisted Root

She may spill a pail of water or leave a floor unswept. If an apothecary is not above reproach people may die."
    "Quite," Thorpe agreed hastily with a venomous look at Hester, then, with a considerable effort to alter his expression, he turned to Robb. "Please question anyone you wish to. I doubt you will find any proof that this wretched woman stole the quinine and morphine. If there were any, we should know of it ourselves. I presume you have her in custody?"
    "Yes sir, we have. Thank you, sir." Robb bade them good-day and left.
    Hester glanced at Callandra, then excused herself also. She had other matters to attend to, and urgently.
    Hester had no difficulty in obtaining permission to visit Cleo Anderson in her cell. She simply told the jailer that she was an official from the hospital where Cleo worked and it was necessary to learn certain medical information from her in order for treatments to continue in her absence.
    It transpired that the jailer knew Cleo—she had nursed his mother in her final illness-and he was only too pleased to repay the kindness in any way he could. Indeed, he seemed embarrassed by the situation, and Hester could not guess from his manner whether he thought Cleo could be guilty or not. However, word had spread that the charge was that she had killed a blackmailer, and he had a very low regard for such people, possibly sufficiently low that he was not overly concerned by the death of one of them.
    The cell door shut with the heavy, echoing sound of metal on metal, sending a shiver of memory through Hester, bringing back her own few hideous days in Edinburgh, when she was where Cleo sat now, alone and facing trial, and perhaps death.
    Cleo looked at her in surprise. Her face was pale, and she had the bruised, staring look of someone deeply shocked, but she seemed composed, even resigned. Hester could not recall if she had felt like that. She believed she had always wanted to fight, that inside herself she was screaming out against the injustice. There was too much to live for not to struggle, always far too much.
    But then she had not killed Mary Farraline.
    Even if Cleo had killed Treadwell because he had been blackmailing her over the medicines, it was a highly understandable action. Not excusable, perhaps, but surely any God worth worshiping would find more pity than blame for her?
    Maybe she did not believe that? At least not now ... at this moment, facing human justice.
    "Can I help you?" Hester said aloud. "Is there anything I can bring for you? Clothes, soap, a clean towel, rather better food? What about your own spoon? Or cup?"
    Cleo smiled faintly. The very practicality of the suggestions contrasted with what she had expected. She had anticipated anger, blame, pity, curiosity. She looked puzzled.
    "I’ve been in prison," Hester explained. "I hated the soap and the scratchy towels. It’s a little thing. And I wanted my own spoon. I remember that."
    "But they let you go...." Cleo looked at her with anxiety so sharp it was close to breaking her composure. "And they let Miriam go? Is she all right?"
    Hester sat in the chair, leaning forward a little. She liked Cleo more with each encounter. She could not watch her distress with any impartiality at all, or think of her fate with acceptance. "Yes, they let her go."
    "Home?" She was watching Hester intently.
    "No ... with Lucius and Major Stourbridge." She searched Cleo’s face for anything that would help her understand why Miriam had dreaded it. She saw nothing, no flicker of comprehension, however swiftly concealed.
    "Was she all right?" Cleo said fearfully.
    It seemed cruel to tell her the truth, but Hester did not know enough to judge which lies would do least harm.
    "No," she answered. "I don’t think so. Not from what my husband said. She would far rather have gone anywhere else at all—even remained in prison—but she was not given the choice. The police could not hold her because there was no charge anymore, but it was obvious to everyone that she was deeply distressed, and since she is a witness to much of what happened, they have a certain authority over where she should go."
    Cleo said nothing. She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap.
    Hester watched her closely. "Do you know why she ran away from Cleveland Square and why she had to be all but dragged back there?"
    Cleo looked up quickly. "No—no, I don’t. She wouldn’t tell me."
    Hester believed her. The confusion and distress in her eyes were too real.