The Twisted Root

by Anne Perry

  "She shouldn’t have," Cleo said sadly, her face pinched, emotion raw in her voice. "She’s a good woman, but she doesn’t have money to spend on the likes o’ you. I’m sorry for your trouble, but there’s no job for you here."

  He was prepared for her answer.

  "She told me that you took certain medicines from the hospital and gave them to patients who you knew were in need of them but were unable to pay."

  Cleo stared at him.

  He had not expected a confession. "If that were so, it would be theft, of course, and illegal," he continued. "But it would be an act which many people would admire, perhaps even wish that they had had the courage to perform themselves."

  "Maybe," she agreed with a tiny smile. "But it’s still theft, like you said. Do you want me to admit it? Would it help Miriam if I did?"

  "That was not my purpose in discussing it, Mrs. Anderson." He held her gaze steadily. "But a person who would do such a thing obviously placed the welfare of other people before her own. As far as I can see, it was an act, a series of acts, for which she expected no profit other than that of having done what she believed to be right and of benefit to others for whose welfare she cared. Possibly she believed in a cause."

  She frowned. "Why are you saying all this? You’re talking about ’ifs’ and ’maybes.’ What do you want?"

  He smiled in spite of himself. "That you should accept that occasionally people do things without expecting to be paid, because they care. Not only people like you—sometimes people like me, too."

  A flush of embarrassment spread up her cheeks, and the line of her mouth softened. "I’m sorry, Mr. Rathbone, I didn’t mean to insult you. But with the best will in the world, you can’t clear me of thieving those medicines, unless you find a way to blame some other poor soul who’s innocent—and if you did that, how would I go to my Maker in peace?"

  "That’s not how I work, Mrs. Anderson." He did not bother to correct her as to his title. It seemed remarkably unimportant now. "If you took the medicines, I have two options: either to plead mitigating circumstances and hope that they will judge you from the charity of your intent rather than the illegality of your act, or else to try to misdirect their attention from the theft altogether and hope that they concentrate on other matters."

  "Other matters?" She shook her head. "They’re saying as I killed Treadwell because he was blackmailing me over the medicines. You can’t misdirect anybody away from that."

  "And was he?"

  She hesitated. Something inside her seemed to crumple. She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Yes."

  He waited for her to say more, but she remained silent.

  "How did he find out about the medicines?" he asked.

  "I suppose it wasn’t hard." She stared ahead of her, a shadow of self-mockery in her expression. "Lot o’ people could have, if they’d wanted to think about it, and watch. I took stuff to about a score o’ the old ones who were really in a bad way. I don’t know why I talk about it in the past—they still are, an’ here’s me sittin’ here useless." She looked up at him. "There’s nothing you can do, Mr. Rathbone. All the questions in the world aren’t going to make any difference. I took the medicines, and it’ll be easy enough to prove. Treadwell worked it out. I don’t know how."

  There was no argument to make. He heard footsteps along the corridor outside, but they continued on and no one disturbed them. He wondered briefly if the jailers here sympathized with her; even were it possible, they might sooner have had the law turn a blind eye to her thefts. Maybe they had little time for a blackmailer.

  It was academic, only a wish. The power was not in their hands. Maybe it was a thought each would have had individually and never dared voice.

  She was regarding him earnestly, her eyes anxious.

  "Mr. Rathbone-don’t let them go talking to all the people I took medicines to. It’s bad enough they won’t get any help now. I don’t want them to know they were part of a crime— even though they never understood it."

  He wished there was some way he could prevent that from happening, but it would soon enough become common knowledge. The trial would be written up in all the newspapers, told and retold by the running patterers, and in the gossip on every street corner. What should he tell her?

  She was waiting, a flicker of hope in her face.

  He regarded her almost as if he had not seen her before, not been speaking to her, forming judgments those last ten minutes. She had risked her own freedom, taken her own leap of moral decision in order to help the old and ill who could not help themselves. She had faced the most painful of realities and dealt with it. She did not deserve the condescension of being lied to. She would know the truth eventually anyway.

  "I can’t stop them, Mrs. Anderson," he said gently, startled by the respect in his own voice. "And they’ll know anyway when it comes to trial. That is perhaps the only good thing about this whole affair. All London will hear of the plight of our old people to whom we owe so much—and choose not to pay. We may even hope that a few will take up the fight to have things changed."

  She looked at him, hope and denial struggling in her face. She shook her head, pushing the thought away and yet unable to let go completely.

  "D’you think so?"

  "It is worth fighting for." He smiled very slightly. "But my first battle is for you. How long have you been paying Treadwell, and how much?"

  Her voice hardened, and the pity vanished from her eyes. "Five years—an’ I paid him all I had, except a couple of shillings to live on."

  Rathbone felt a tightening around his heart.

  "And he asked you for more the night of his death. How much?"

  Her voice sank to a whisper. She hesitated a moment before answering at all. "1 never saw him the night he died. That’s God’s truth."

  He asked the question whose answer he did not want to hear and possibly he would not believe.

  "Do you know who did?"

  She answered instantly, her voice hard. "No, I don’t! Miriam told me nothing, except it wasn’t her. But she was in a terrible state, frightened half out of her mind an’ like the whole world had ended for her." She leaned towards him, half put out her hand, then took it back, not because the emotion or the urgency was any less, simply that she dared not touch him. "Never mind about me, Mr. Rathbone. I took the medicines. You can’t help me. But help Miriam, please! That’s what I want. If you’re my lawyer, like you said, you’ll speak up for her. She never killed him. I know her—I raised her since she was thirteen. She’s got a good heart an’ she never deliberately hurt anyone, but somebody’s hurt her so bad she’s all but dead inside. Help her—please! I’d go to the rope happy if I knew she was all right...."

  He met her eyes and felt his throat choke. He believed her. It was a wild statement. She might have no real conception of what it would be like when the moment came, when the judge put on his black cap, and later when she was alone in the end, walking the short corridor towards the trap in the floor, and the short drop. Then it would be too late. But he still believed her. She had seen much death. There could be little of loneliness or pain that she was not familiar with.

  "Mrs. Anderson, I am not sure there is anything I can do, but I promise I will not secure any leniency—or indeed, any defense—for you at Miriam Gardiner’s expense. And I will certainly do all I can to secure her acquittal, if she wishes it, and you do—"

  "I do!" she said with fierce intensity. "And if she argues with you—for me—tell her that is my wish. I’ve had a good life with lots of laughter in it and done the things I wanted to. She’s very young. It’s your profession to convince people of things. You go and convince her of that, will you?"

  "I can only work within the facts, but I will try," he promised. "Now, if there is anything more of that night you can tell me, please do."

  "I don’t know anything else of that night," she protested. "I wish I did, then maybe I could help either one of us. I knew nothing until the police came because
someone had reported finding a body on the pathway."

  "When was that, what time?" he interrupted her.

  "About an hour after dark. I didn’t look at the clock. I suppose Miriam must have left the party in late afternoon, and it would be close on dark by the time the carriage got as far as the Heath. I don’t know where he was attacked, but I heard say he crawled from there to where they found him."

  "And when did you see Miriam Gardiner?"

  "Next morning, early. About six, or something like that. She’d been out on the Heath all night and looked like the devil had been after her."

  "Like she’d been in a fight?" he asked quickly. "Were her clothes torn, dirty, stained with mud or grass?"

  Something inside her closed. She was afraid he was trying to implicate Miriam. "No. Only like she’d been running, p’raps, or frightened."

  Was that a lie? He had no way of knowing. He recognized that she was not going to tell him any more. He rose to his feet. The fact that she had withdrawn her trust, at least as far as Miriam was concerned, did not alter his admiration for her or his intent to do all he could to find some way of helping.

  "I shall go and speak with Mrs. Gardiner," he told her. "Please do not discuss this with anyone else. I shall return when I have something to tell you or if I need to ask you anything further. You have my word I shall take no steps without your permission."

  "Thank you," she answered. "I—I am grateful, Mr. Rathbone. Will you tell Mrs. Monk that, too ... and..."

  "Yes?"

  "No—nothing else."

  He banged on the door, and the jailer let him out. He walked away along the dim corridor with a fluttering fear inside him as to what else she might have been going to say to Hester. She was a woman prepared to go to any lengths, make any sacrifice, for what she believed to be right and to save those she loved. No wonder Hester was keen in her defense. In the same place she might so easily have done the same things. He could picture Hester with just this blind loyalty, sacrificing herself rather than denying the greater principle. Was that what Cleo had been going to say—some instruction or warning to Hester about the medicines? Was it a request, or was Hester already doing it even now?

  He felt sick at the thought. His stomach knotted and sweat broke out on his skin. What could he do to help her if she was caught? He could not even think clearly about Cleo Anderson, whom he had never seen before today.

  Start with Miriam Gardiner, that was the only thing. Usually, he would have told himself that the truth was his only ally, always to know the truth before he began. But in this case he was afraid there were truths he might prefer not to know—though he was uncertain which they were. He would have looked the other way, if only he was certain which way that was.

  Rathbone was allowed in to see Miriam, but not as easily as when he had been to see Cleo Anderson. The atmosphere was different. Cleo was in police cells, a local woman known to the men—by repute, if not personally—to be undoubtedly a good woman, one whose life they valued far more than that of any blackmailing outsider.

  Miriam was in prison, accused of murdering her prospective mother-in-law in order to inherit money the sooner—or possibly because the unfortunate mother-in-law was aware of some scandal in her past which would have prevented the marriage. Greed was an altogether different matter.

  Miriam was not at all as he had expected. It was not until he saw her that he realized he had pictured in his mind some rather brashly handsome, bold-eyed woman with accomplished charm, who would quickly try to win him to her cause. Instead he found a small woman, a little too broad of hip, with a fair, tired face full of inner quietness and a strength which startled him. She maintained a deep reserve, even after he had explained to her who he was and the exact circumstances and reasons for his having come.

  "It is good of you to take the time, Sir Oliver," she said so softly he had to lean forward to catch her words. "But I don’t believe you can help me." She did not meet his eyes, and he was aware that in a sense she had already dismissed him.

  If he could not appeal to her mind, he would have to try her emotions. He sat down in the chair opposite her and crossed his legs as if he intended to make himself comfortable.

  "Have they told you that you and Mrs. Anderson are to be charged together with conspiracy in the murders of Treadwell and Mrs. Stourbridge?"

  She stared at him, her eyes wide and troubled. "That’s absurd! How can they possibly think Mrs. Anderson had anything to do with Mrs. Stourbridge’s death? She was in their own prison at the time. You must be mistaken."

  "I am not mistaken. They know all that. They are saying that they believe you and Mrs. Anderson planned from the beginning that you should marry Lucius Stourbridge, thus gaining access to a very great deal of money, some now, far more later, on Major Stourbridge’s death, whenever that might be."

  "Why should he die?" she protested. "He is quite young, not more than fifty, and in excellent health. He could have another thirty years, or more."

  He sighed. "The mortality rate among those who seem to stand in the way of your plans is very high, Mrs. Gardiner. They would not consider his age or his health to be matters which would deter you."

  She closed her eyes. "That is hideous."

  Studying the lines of her face, of her mouth, and the way it tightened, the sadness and the momentary surprise and anger in her, he could not believe she had even thought of Harry Stourbridge’s death until this moment, and now that she did, the idea hurt her. But he could not afford to be gentle.

  "That is what they are accusing you of—you and Mrs. Anderson together. Unless you accuse each other, which neither of you has done, you will both either stand or fall."

  She looked up at him slowly, searching his eyes, his face, trying to read him.

  "You mean I am to defend myself if I do not wish Cleo to suffer with me?"

  "Yes, exactly that."

  "It is completely untrue. I ... loved Lucius." She swallowed, and he could almost feel the pain in her as if it had been in himself. "I had no thought of anything but marrying him and being happy simply to be with him. Had he been a pauper it would have made not the slightest difference."

  He felt she was telling the truth, and yet why had she hesitated? Why had she spoken of her love for Lucius in the past? Was that because the love had died, or simply the hope?

  "James Treadwell was blackmailing Mrs. Anderson over the medicines she stole from the hospital to treat her patients. Was he blackmailing you also?"

  Her head jerked up, her eyes wide. She seemed about to deny it vehemently, then instead she said nothing.

  "Mrs. Gardiner," he said urgently, leaning forward towards her, "if I am to help either of you then I must know as much of the truth as you do. I am bound to act in your interest, and believe me when I say that the outlook could not be worse for either of you than it already is. Whatever you tell me, it cannot harm you now, and it may help. In the end, when it comes to trial, I shall take your instructions, or at the very worst, if I cannot do that, then I shall decline the case. I cannot betray you. If I did so I should be disbarred and lose not only my reputation but my livelihood, both of which are of great value to me. Now—was James Treadwell blackmailing you or not?"

  She seemed to reach some decision. "No, he wasn’t. He could not know anything which would harm me. Except, I suppose, a connection with Cleo and the medicines, but he never mentioned it. I had no idea he was blackmailing her. If I had, I would have tried to do something about it."

  "What could you do?" He tried to keep the edge from his voice.

  She gave a tiny, halfhearted shrug. "I don’t know. I suppose if I had told Lucius, or Major Stourbridge, they might have dismissed him, without references, and made certain it was very hard for him to find new employment."

  "Would that not have driven him to expose Mrs. Anderson in retaliation?" he asked.

  "Perhaps." Then she stiffened and twisted around to stare at him, her face bleached with horror. "You think I killed him to
protect Cleo?"

  "Did you?"

  "No! I didn’t kill him—for any reason!" The denial was passionate, ringing with anger and hurt. "Neither did Cleo!"

  "Then who did?"

  Her expression closed again, shutting him out. She averted her eyes.

  "Who are you protecting, if it isn’t Mrs. Anderson?" he asked very gently. "Is it Lucius?"

  She shivered, glanced up at him, then away again.

  "Did Treadwell injure you in some way, and Lucius fought with him and it went further than he intended?"

  "No." She sounded as if the idea surprised her.

  It had seemed to him so likely an answer he was disappointed that she denied it, and startled at himself for believing her for no better reason than the intonation of her voice and the angle and stiffness of her body.

  "Do you know who killed him, Mrs. Gardiner?" he demanded with sudden force.

  She said nothing. It was as good as an admission. He was frustrated almost beyond bearing. He had never felt more helpless, even though he had certainly dealt with many cases where people accused of fearful crimes had refused to tell him the truth and had in the end proved to be innocent, morally if not legally. Nothing in his experience explained Miriam Gardiner’s behavior.

  He refused to let it go. If anything, he was even more determined to defend both Miriam and Cleo, not for Hester and certainly not to prove himself to Monk, but for the case itself, for these two extraordinary, devoted and blindly stubborn women, and perhaps because he would not rest until he knew the truth. And maybe also for the principle.

  "Did Mrs. Stourbridge know anything about Treadwell or about Cleo Anderson?" he pursued.

  Again she was surprised. "No ... I can’t imagine how she could. I didn’t tell her, and I can hardly think that Treadwell would tell her himself. He was a—" She stopped. She seemed to be torn by emotions which confused her, pulling one way and then another: anger, pity, horror, despair.

  Rathbone tried to read what she was feeling, even to imagine what was in her mind, and failed utterly. There were too many possibilities, and none of them made sense entirely.