Anne Perry - The Twisted Root

She had already made up her mind to call upon old Mr. Robb to see if there was anything she could do to help him. She could not forget Monk’s description of his distress, and that was at least one thing she could accomplish regardless of Fermin Thorpe’s power.

It was a fine summer afternoon, and not a long walk to the street where Monk had said Robb lived. She did not know the number, but only one enquiry was necessary to discover the answer.

The houses were all clean and shabby, some with whited steps, others merely well swept. She debated whether to knock or not. From what Monk had said, the old man could not rise to answer, and yet to walk in unannounced was a terrible intrusion into the privacy of a man too ill to defend even his own small space.

She settled for standing in the doorway and calling out his name. She waited a few moments in silence, then called again.

"Who is it?" The voice was a deep, soft rumble.

"My name is Hester … Monk." She had so very nearly said "Latterly." She was not used to her new name yet. "My husband called on you the other day." She must not make him feel pitied, a suitable case for charity. It would be so easy to do with a careless phrase. "He spoke of you so well, I wished to call upon you myself."

"Your husband? I don’t remember …" He started to cough, and it became worse so quickly that she abandoned polite-ness, pushed the door open and went in.

The room was small and cluttered with furniture, but it was clean and as tidy as possible when it was occupied all the time and the necessities of life had to be kept available.

She went straight over to the sink and found a cup, filled it with water from the ewer standing on the bench, and took it over to him, holding it to his lips. There was little else she could do for him. His body shuddered as he gasped for breath, and she could hear the rattling of phlegm in his chest, but it was too deep for him to bring up.

After a minute or two the coughing subsided, more rapidly than she had expected, and he took the water from her gratefully, sipping it and letting it slide down his throat. He handed her back the cup.

"Sorry, miss," he said huskily. "Touch o’ the bronchitis. Silly this time o’ the year."

"It can happen any time, if you are subject to it," she answered, smiling at him. "Sometimes in the summer it’s worse. Harder to get rid of."

"You’re surely right," he agreed, nodding slightly. He was still pale and his cheeks were a little flushed. She guessed he probably had a low fever.

"What can I do for you, miss? If you’re looking for my grandson, he isn’t here. He’s a policeman, and he’s at work. Very good he is, too. A sergeant." His pride was obvious, but far more than that, a kind of shining certainty that had nothing to do with the nature of his grandson’s work but everything to do with the nature of the man.

"It was you I came to see," she reminded him. She must find a reason he would accept. "My husband said you were a sailor and had seen some great days-some of the most important battles in England’s history."

He looked at her sideways. "An’ what would a young lady like you want with stories of old battles what was over and won before you were even born?"

"If they were over and lost, I’d be speaking French," she replied, meeting his eyes with a laugh.

"Well … I s’pose that’s true. Still, you know that without coming all the way here to see me." He was faintly suspicious of her. Young women of educated speech and good manners did not casually call on an old and ill sailor who, from the contents of the room, was having desperate trouble finding sufficient money merely to eat, let alone buy fuel for the winter.

A portion of the truth was the best answer, perhaps not as irrelevant as it first seemed.

"I was an army nurse in the Crimea," she told him. "I know more about war than you may think. I don’t imagine I’ve seen as many battles as you have, but I’ve seen my share, and closer than I’d wish. I’ve certainly been part of what happens afterwards." Suddenly she was speaking with urgency, and the absolute and fiercely relevant truth. "And there is no one I know with whom I can discuss it or bring back the miseries that still come into my dreams. No one expects it in a woman. They think it all better forgotten … easier. But it isn’t always…."

He stared at her, his eyes wide. They were clear, pale blue. They had probably been darker when he was young.

"Well, now … did you really? And you such a slip of a thing!" He regarded her rather too slender body and square, thin shoulders, but with admiration, not disapproval. "We found, at sea, sometimes the wiry ones outlasted the great big ones like a side o’ beef. I reckon strength, when it comes to it, is all a matter o’ spirit."

"You’re quite right," she agreed. "Would you like a hot drink now? I can easily make one if you would. It might ease your chest a little." Then, in case he thought she was patronizing him, she added, "I should like very much to talk with you, and I can’t if you are taken with coughing again."

He understood very well what she was doing, but she had softened the request sufficiently. "You’re a canny one." He smiled at her, pointing to the stove. "Kettle’s over there, and tea in the tin. Little milk in the larder, maybe. Could be we’re out till Michael comes home again."

"Doesn’t matter," she replied, standing up. "It’s all right without milk, if it isn’t too strong."

She was scalding the pot, ready to make the tea, when the door opened, and she turned to see a young man standing just inside the room. He was of average height, slender, with very handsome dark eyes. At this moment he was obviously angry.

"Who are you?" he demanded, coming farther in. "And what are you doing?" He left the door open behind him, as if for her to leave the more easily.

"Hester Monk," she replied, looking at him squarely. "I called upon Mr. Robb to visit with him. We have much in common, and he was kind enough to listen to me. In order that he might speak with more comfort, he permitted me to make a cup of tea."

The young man looked at her with total disbelief. From the expression in his eyes one might have presumed he thought she was there to steal the meager rations on the shelf behind her.

"What on earth could you 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."