Anne Perry - The Twisted Root

"All right, it wasn’t a very good idea," she conceded. "But it isn’t the only one! "

He looked up at her in some surprise, not for her words in themselves but for the meekness of them.

She knew what was in his mind, and blushed the more hotly. This was ridiculous and most irritating.

"I wish I could help her," he said gently. "But I know of no way, and neither do you. Leave it alone, Hester. Don’t meddle."

She regarded him steadily, trying to judge how surely he meant what he said. Was it advice or a command?

There was no anger in his face, but neither was there any hint that he would change his mind. It was the first time he had forbidden her anything that mattered to her. She had never before found it other than slightly amusing that he should exercise a certain amount of authority, and she had been quite willing to indulge him. This was different. She could not abandon Cleo, even to please Monk. Or if it came to the worst, and it might, even to avoid a serious quarrel with him. To do so would make it impossible to live with herself. All happiness would be contaminated, and if for her, then for him also. How would she explain that to him? It was the first real difficulty between them, the first gulf which could not be bridged by laughter or a physical closeness.

She saw the shadow in his face. He understood, if not in detail, then at least in essence.

"Perhaps you could enquire," he suggested cautiously. "But you will have to be extremely careful or you will make things worse. I don’t imagine the hospital authorities will look on her kindly."

It was retreat, made gracefully and so discreetly it was barely perceptible, but very definitely a retreat all the same. The rush of gratitude inside her was so fierce she felt dizzy. A darkness had been avoided. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him, feel the warmth and the strength of his body next to hers, the touch of his skin. She almost did, until intelligence warned her that it would be clumsy. It would draw attention to his retreat and that would be small gratitude for it. Instead she lowered her eyes.

"Oh, yes," she said gravely. "I shall have to be very careful indeed-should I make any enquiry. Actually, at the moment I can’t think of anything to ask. I shall merely listen and observe… for the time being."

He smiled with the beginning of satisfaction. He was aware of her gratitude to him, and she knew he was. It was even a sense of obligation for the immense weight lifted, and he knew that also. She could either be annoyed or see the funny aspect of it. She chose the latter, and looked at him, smiling.

He smiled back, but only for a moment. It was still delicate ground.

She prepared dinner: cold ham and vegetables, and hot apple pie with cream. Sitting at the table and sharing it with considerable pleasure, she asked him a little more about Miriam and the Stourbridge family.

He obviously considered hard before answering, and waited several minutes, eating the last of his pie and accepting a second serving.

"All the facts I know seem to mean nothing," he said at last. "They have made Miriam more welcome than one might have foreseen, considering that she has no money or family connections and she is to marry their only son. Everything I can observe supports their assertion that they are fond of her and accept that she is the one woman who can make him happy. Whether she will give him an heir or not. But she is young enough."

"But she did not have any children in her marriage to Mr. Gardiner," Hester pointed out. "That would make the possibility less likely."

"I am sure they have considered that." He took more cream, pouring it liberally over the pie and eating with unconcealed pleasure.

She watched with relief. She was still an unconfident pastry cook, and she had had no time even to look for a woman to come in during the days. It was something she really must attend to, and soon. A well-ordered domestic life was halfway not only to Monk’s happiness but to her own. She did not wish to have to spend either time or emotional energy upon the details of living. She would make enquiries tomorrow- unless, of course, she was too busy with matters at the hospital and with whatever might be done for Cleo Anderson. That was immeasurably more important, even if they ate sandwiches from a peddler!

"Cleo Anderson!" Callandra said. "Are you sure?" It was a protest against the truth rather than a real question. Hester was alone with Dr. Beck and Callandra for a few moments in the surgeons’ waiting room.

Kristian stood a yard away from Callandra, but any careful observer would have seen the silent communication between them. There was never a meeting of eyes-almost the opposite, an awareness on a deeper level.

"I had no idea," he said softly. "What risks she was taking … all the time. How long have you known?" He was looking at Hester.

"I don’t really know." She was still being overcareful, as if Sergeant Robb were just beyond the door. "At least … not with evidence."

"Of course not," Kristian said, twisting his lips a little. "No one wishes to find evidence. You were quite right not to tell anyone of it. Poor woman." His hands clenched more tightly by his sides. "It is profoundly wrong that any person should have to take such risks to assist the poor and the sick."

"It’s monstrous!" Callandra agreed without looking at him. "But we must help. There has to be a way. What does William say?"

Hester had no intention of repeating the conversation, merely the conclusion, and that slightly altered. "That we should be extremely careful in making any enquiries," she replied.

"More than careful," Kristian agreed. "Thorpe would be delighted to brand all nurses as thieves-"

"He will do!" Callandra cut across him, her face pinched with unhappiness. "He’ll know soon enough. No doubt the police will be here to ask questions."

"Is there anything we can conceal?" Hester looked from one to the other of them. She had no idea what good it would do, it was instinctive rather than rational. If they convicted Cleo Anderson of murdering Treadwell, a bottle or two of morphine one way or another was hardly going to make a difference. She knew the moment the words were out that it was foolish.

"What proof do they have that it was she?" Kristian asked more levelly. The first shock was wearing off. "Possibly he was blackmailing her, but then he may have blackmailed others as well. She was hardly on an income to provide him with much."

"Unless she gave him morphine," Callandra said with quiet sadness. "And he sold it. That would be worth a great deal more:’

Hester had not even thought of that. She did not believe Cleo would sell morphine herself, but she could understand the necessity if Treadwell had been pressing her for money. But what had made the difference that suddenly, on that particular night, that she had resorted to murder? Desperation … or simply opportunity?

Why was she accepting Cleo’s guilt, even in her own mind?

"But what evidence?" Kristian repeated. "Did anyone see her? Did she leave anything behind at the scene? Is there anything which excludes another person?"

"No … simply that his body was found on the path near her house, and he had crawled there from wherever he was attacked." Hester could see the reasoning all too clearly. "It was assumed at first that he had been trying to get help. Now they will be thinking it was no coincidence, but he was deliberately pointing towards her."

Kristian frowned. "You mean they met somewhere close by, she attacked him, left believing him dead, but, still conscious, he crawled after her?"

Callandra’s face pulled tight with distress.

"Why not?" Hester loathed saying it, but it was there in the air between them. "He came to blackmail her, and she had reached the point of desperation-perhaps she had nothing more to pay him-and either she intended it before she went to kill him, or it happened on the spur of the moment."