by Anne Perry
"Mr. Lucius Stourbridge told me Treadwell had taken the coach, without permission, in the middle of the afternoon of the day he was killed," he began. He took another mouthful of the pie. It was good, full of meat and onions, and he was hungry. When he had swallowed it he went on. "He lives with his parents in Bayswater."
"Is it his coach or theirs?" Robb asked, offering his grandfather another slice of bread and waiting anxiously while the old man had a fit of coughing, spitting up blood-streaked phlegm into a handkerchief. Robb automatically passed him a clean handkerchief—and a cup of water, which the old man sipped without speaking.
It was a good question, and to answer it Monk was forced to be devious.
"A family vehicle, not the best one." That was true if not the whole truth.
"Why you and not the police?" Robb asked.
Monk was prepared for that. "Because he hoped to recover it without the police being involved," he said smoothly. "Treadwell is the nephew of their cook, and he did not want any criminal proceedings."
Robb was very carefully measuring powder from a twist of paper, making certain he used no more than a third, and then rewrapping what was left and replacing it on the cabinet shelf. He returned to the table and mixed water into the dose he had prepared, then held the glass to the old man’s lips.
Monk glanced at the shelf where the paper had been replaced and noticed several other containers: a glass jar with dried leaves, presumably for an infusion; a vial of syrup of some sort; and two jars with more paper twists of powder. So much medicine would cost a considerable amount. He recalled noticing Robb’s frayed cuffs, carefully darned, the worn heels of his boots, an overstitched tear in the elbow of his jacket. He was taken by surprise with how hard compassion gripped him for the difficulty of it, for the pain, and then felt a surge of joy for the love which inspired it. He found himself smiling.
Robb was wiping the old man’s face gently. He then turned to his own meal of bread and soup, which was now rapidly getting cold.
"Do you know anything else about this Treadwell?" he asked, beginning to eat quickly. Perhaps he was hungry, more probably he was aware of the amount of time he had been away from police business.
"Apparently not entirely satisfactory," Monk replied, remembering what Harry Stourbridge had told him. "Only kept on because he is the cook’s nephew. Many families will go to considerable lengths to keep a really good cook, especially if they entertain." He smiled slightly as he said it.
Robb glanced at him quickly. "And a scandal wouldn’t help. I understand. But if this is your man, I’m afraid it can’t be avoided." He frowned. "Doesn’t throw any light on who killed him, though, does it? What was he doing here? Why didn’t whoever killed him take the coach? It’s a good one, and the horses are beauties."
"No idea," Monk admitted. "Every new fact only makes it harder to understand."
Robb nodded, then turned back to his grandfather. He made sure the old man was comfortable and could reach everything he would need before Robb could come home again, then he touched him gently, smiled, and took his leave.
The old man said nothing, but his gratitude was in his face. He seemed better now that he had had his meal and whatever medicine Robb had given him.
They walked the three quarters of a mile or so to the stable where the horses and the carriage were being housed. Robb explained to the groom in charge who Monk was.
Monk needed only to glance at the carriage to remove any doubt in his own mind that it was the Stourbridges’. He examined it to see if there were any marks on it, or anything left in the inside which might tell him of its last journey, but there was nothing. It was a very well kept, cleaned, polished and oiled family coach. It had slight marks of wear and was about ten years old. The manufacturer was the one whose name Henry Stourbridge had given him. The description answered exactly.
The horses were also precisely as described.
"Where exactly were they found?" Monk asked again.
"Cannon Hall Road," Robb replied. "It’s yours, isn’t it?" That was barely a question. He knew the answer from Monk’s face.
"And the body?"
"On the path to number five, Green Man Hill. It’s a row of small houses close onto the Heath."
"And, of course, you’ve asked them about it." That, too, was a statement, not a question.
Robb shrugged. "Of course. No one is saying anything."
Monk was not surprised. Whether they did or not, few people admitted to knowing anything about a murder.
"I’ll need the body identified formally," Robb said. "And I’ll have to speak to Major Stourbridge, of course. Ask him all I can about Treadwell." He did not even bother to add "if it is him."
"I’ll go to Cleveland Square and bring someone," Monk offered. He wanted to be the one to tell Harry and Lucius, and preferably to do it without Robb present. He could not avoid the sergeant’s being there when they identified the body.
"Thank you," Robb accepted. "I’ll be at the morgue at four."
Monk took a hansom back to Bayswater, and when the footman admitted him, he asked if he could speak to Major Stourbridge. He would prefer, if possible, to tell the major without Lucius’s having to know until it was necessary. Perhaps it was also cowardice. He did not want to be the one to tell Lucius.
He was shown into the withdrawing room with French doors wide open onto the sunlit lawn. Harry Stourbridge was standing just inside, but Monk could see the figure of his wife in the garden beyond, her pale dress outlined against the vivid colors of the herbaceous border.
"You have news, Mr. Monk?" Stourbridge said almost before the footman had closed the door from the hall. He looked anxious. His face was drawn, and there were dark smudges under his eyes as if he had slept little. It would be cruel to stretch out the suspense. It was hard enough to have to kill the hope struggling in him as it was.
"I am sorry, it is not good," Monk said bluntly. He saw Harry Stourbridge’s body stiffen and the last, faint touch of color drain from his skin. "I believe I have found your coach and horses," he continued. "And the body of a man I am almost certain is Treadwell. There is no sign whatever of Mrs. Gardiner."
"No sign of Miriam?" Stourbridge looked confused. He swallowed painfully. "Where was this, Mr. Monk? Do you know what happened to Treadwell, if it is he?"
"Hampstead, just off the Heath. I’m very sorry; it seems Treadwell was murdered."
Stourbridge’s eyes widened. "Robbery?"
"Perhaps, but if so, what for? He wouldn’t be carrying money, would he? Have you missed anything from the house?"
"No! No, of course not, or I should have told you. But why else would anyone attack and kill the poor man?"
"We don’t know..."
"We?"
"The police at Hampstead. I traced the carriage that far, then went to ask them," Monk explained. "A young sergeant called Robb. He told me he was working on a murder and I realized from his description that it could be Treadwell. Also, the carriage and horses were found half a mile away, quite undamaged. I have looked at them, and from what you told me, they appear to be yours. I am afraid you will need to send someone to identify them—and the body—to be certain."
"Of course," Stourbridge agreed. "I will come myself." He took a step forward across the bright, sunlit carpet. "But you have no idea about Miriam?"
"Not yet. I’m sorry."
Verona was walking towards them across the grass, her curiosity too powerful to allow her to remain apart.
Stourbridge squared his shoulders as she came in through the door.
"What is it?" she asked him, only glancing at Monk. "You know something." That was a conclusion, not a question. "Is it Miriam?"
Monk searched her expression for the slightest trace of relief, or false surprise, and saw none.
"Not yet," Stourbridge answered before Monk could. "But it appears he may have found Treadwell..."
"May?" She picked up the inference instantly, looking from her husband to Monk. "You di
d not approach him, speak with him? Why? What has happened?"
"He has met with misfortune," Stourbridge put in. "I am about to accompany Mr. Monk to see what else may be learned. I shall tell you, of course, when I return." There was finality in his voice, sufficient to tell her it was useless pressing any further questions now.
Monk’s relief at not having to tell Lucius what he had discovered was short-lived. They were crossing the hall towards the front door when Lucius came down the stairs, his face pale, eyes wide.
"What have you found?" he demanded, fear sharp in his voice. "Is it Miriam? Where is she? What has happened to her?"
Stourbridge turned and put up his hands as if to take Lucius by the shoulders to steady him, but Lucius stepped back. His throat was too tight to allow him to speak, and he gulped air.
"I don’t know anything about Mrs. Gardiner," Monk said quickly. "But I may have found Treadwell. I need someone to identify him before I can be certain."
Stourbridge put his hand on Lucius’s arm. "There was nothing to indicate that Miriam was with him," he said gently. "We don’t know what happened or why. Stay here. I will do what is necessary. But be discreet. Until we are sure, there is no purpose in distressing Cook."
Lucius recalled with an effort that he was not the only one to be affected, even bereaved. He looked at Monk. "Treadwell is dead?"
"I think it is Treadwell," Monk replied. "But he was found alone, and the coach is empty and undamaged."
A fraction of the color returned to Lucius’s cheeks. "I’m coming with you."
"There is no need..." Stourbridge began, then, seeing the determination in his son, and perhaps realizing it was easier to do something than simply to wait, he did not protest any further.
It was a miserable journey from Bayswater back to Hampstead. They took the Stourbridges’ remaining carriage, driven now by the groom, and rode for the most part in silence, Lucius sitting upright with his back to the way they were going, his eyes wide and dark, consumed in his own fears. Stourbridge sat next to Monk, staring ahead but oblivious of the streets and the houses they were passing. Once or twice he made as if to say something, then changed his mind.
Monk concentrated on determining what he would tell Robb if the body proved to be Treadwell, and he had no real doubt that it was. It was also impossible to argue whether or not it was murder. The body, whosever it was, had not come by such an injury by any mischance. To conceal such information as his flight with Miriam Gardiner, and the fact that she had gone without explanation and was still missing, would now be a crime. Also, it would suggest that they had some fear that she was implicated. Nothing they said afterwards would be believed unless it carried proof.
Not that either Harry or Lucius Stourbridge would be remotely likely to hide the truth. They were both far too passionately involved to conceal anything at all. Their first question to Robb would be regarding anything he would know about Miriam. They were so convinced of her entire innocence in anything wrong beyond a breach of good manners that they would only think of how she might be implicated when it was too late.
How would Monk then explain to Robb his own silence about the other person in the carriage? He had not so far even mentioned her.
They jolted to a stop as traffic ahead of them thickened and jammed the streets. All around, drivers shouted impatiently. Horses stamped and whinnied, jingling harnesses.
Lucius sat rigid, still unspeaking.
Stourbridge clenched and unclenched his hands.
They moved forward again at last.
Monk would tell Robb as little as possible. All they knew for certain was that Miriam had left at the same moment as Treadwell. How far they had gone together was another matter. Should he warn Stourbridge and Lucius to say no more about Miriam than they had to?
He looked at their tense faces, each staring into space, consumed in their fears, and decided that any advice would only be overridden by emotion and probably do more harm than good. If they remembered it to begin with, then forgot, it would give the impression of dishonesty.
He kept silent also.
They reached the morgue at ten minutes past four. Robb was already there, pacing restlessly up and down, but he made no comment on the time as they alighted. They were all too eager to complete the business for which they had come to do more than acknowledge each other with the briefest courtesies and then follow Robb inside.
The morgue attendant drew the sheet back from the body, showing only the head.
Lucius drew in his breath sharply and seemed to sway a little on his feet.
Stourbridge let out a soft sigh. He was a soldier, and he must have seen death many times before, and usually of men he had known to a greater or lesser extent, but this was a man of his own household, and murder was different from war. War was not an individual evil. Soldiers expected to kill and be killed. Frequently, they even respected their enemies. There was no hatred involved. The violence was huge and impersonal. It did not make the pain less, or the death or the bereavement less final, but death in war was mischance. This was different, a close, intended and covert evil, meant for this man alone.
"Is it your coachman, sir?" Robb asked, but he could not help being aware that the question was unnecessary. The recognition was in both their faces.
"Yes, it is," Stourbridge said quietly. "This is James Treadwell. Where did you find him?"
The morgue attendant drew back the sheet to cover the face.
"In the street, sir," Robb replied, leading them away from the table and back towards the door. "On the path to one of a row of houses on Green Man Hill, about half a mile or so from here." Robb was sympathetic, but the detective in him was paramount. "Are you aware of his knowing anyone in this area?"
"What?" Stourbridge looked up. "Oh ... no, I don’t think so. He is a nephew of our cook. I can ask her. I have no idea where he went on his days off."
"Was it one of his days off when he disappeared, sir?"
"No..."
"Did he have your permission to use your coach, sir?"
Stourbridge hesitated a moment before replying. He looked across at Lucius, then away again.
"No, he did not. I am afraid the circumstances of his leaving the house are somewhat mysterious, and not understood by any of us, Sergeant. We know when he left, but nothing more than that."
"You knew he had taken your coach," Robb pointed out. "But you did not report it to the police. It is a very handsome coach, sir, and exceptionally well matched horses. Worth a considerable amount."
"Major Stourbridge has already mentioned that Treadwell was related to his cook," Monk interrupted, "who is a longstanding servant of the family. He wished to avoid scandal, if possible. He hoped Treadwell would come to his senses and return ... even with a reasonable explanation."
Lucius could bear it no longer. "My fiancée was with him!" he burst out. "Mrs. Miriam Gardiner. It was to find her that we employed Mr. Monk’s services. Treadwell is beyond our help, poor soul, but where is Miriam? We should be turning all our skill and attention to searching for her! She may be hurt ... in danger ..." His voice was rising out of control as his imagination tortured him.
Robb looked startled for a moment, then his jaw hardened. He did not even glance at Monk. "Do I understand Mrs. Gardiner left your house in the carriage with Treadwell driving?" he demanded.
"We believe so," Stourbridge answered before Lucius could speak. "No one saw them go." He seemed to have appreciated something of the situation in spite of Monk’s silence. "But we have not heard from her since, nor do we know what has happened to her. We are at our wits’ end with worry."
"We must look for her!" Lucius cut across them. "Treadwell is dead and Miriam may be in danger. At the very least she must be in fear and distress. You must deploy every man you can to search for her!"
Robb stood still for a moment, surprise taking the words from him. Then slowly he turned to Monk, his eyes narrow and hard. "You omitted to mention that a young woman was a passenge
r in the carriage when Treadwell was murdered and that she has since disappeared. Why is that, Mr. Monk?"
Monk had foreseen the question, though there was no excuse that was satisfactory, and Robb would know that as well as he did.
"Mrs. Gardiner left with Treadwell," he replied with as honest a bearing as he could. "We have no idea when she left him...."
Lucius was staring at him, his eyes wide and horrified.
"Sophistry!" Robb snapped.
"Reality!" Monk returned with equal harshness. "This was five days ago. If anything happened to Mrs. Gardiner we are far too late to affect it now, except by careful thought and consideration before we act." He was acutely conscious of Lucius and of Harry Stourbridge. Their emotions filled the air. "If she met with violence as well, she would have been found long before now." He did not glance at either of them but kept his eyes level on Robb. "If she was kidnapped, then a ransom will be asked for, and it has not so far. If she witnessed the murder, then she may well have run away, for her own safety, and we must be careful how we look for her, in case we bring upon her the very harm she fears." He drew in his breath. "And until Major Stourbridge identified the body as that of Treadwell, we did not know that it was anything more than a domestic misunderstanding between Mr. Stourbridge and Mrs. Gardiner."
Lucius stood appalled.
Stourbridge looked from one to the other of them. "We know now," he said grimly. "The question is what we are to do next."
"Discover all the facts that we can," Monk answered him. "And then deduce what we can from them."
Robb bit his lip, his face pale. He turned to Lucius. "You have no idea why Mrs. Gardiner left your home?"
"No, none at all," Lucius said quickly. "There was no quarrel, no incident at all which sparked it. Mrs. Gardiner was standing alone, watching the croquet match when, without warning or explanation, she simply left."
