The Twisted Root

by Anne Perry

  Oliver felt the ease of familiarity wash over him like a warmth. Unreasonably, some of his helplessness left him, although he had not even begun to explain the problem, let alone address it. He sat down in the big chair opposite his father’s, leaning back comfortably.

  For a few moments neither of them spoke. Henry continued to suck on his empty pipe. Outside in the darkness a nightbird called and the branches of the honeysuckle, with its trumpet-shaped flowers, waved in the slight wind. A moth banged against the glass.

  "I have a new case," Oliver said at length. "I can’t possibly win it."

  Henry took his pipe out of his mouth. "Then you must have had a good reason for taking it ... or at least one that appeared good at the time."

  "I don’t think it was a good one." Oliver was pedantic, as his nature inclined. He had learned exactness from Henry, and he never measured what he said to him. It was part of the basis of their friendship. "It was compelling. They are not the same."

  Henry smiled. "Not in the slightest," he agreed.

  "Monk asked me to," Oliver added.

  Henry nodded.

  "There was a moral imperative," Oliver said, justifying the choice. He did not want his father to think it was because of Monk, still less because of Hester.

  "I see. Are you going to tell me what it is?"

  "Of course." Oliver moved and crossed his legs comfortably. He gave a succinct outline of the cases against both Cleo Anderson and Miriam Gardiner, then he waited while Henry sat deep in thought for several moments. Outside it was now completely dark except for the patch of luminous moonlight on the grass just short of the old apple tree at the end of the lawn.

  "And you assume that this woman Cleo Anderson did not kill the coachman," Henry said at last. "Even in a manner for which there might be some mitigating circumstances—or possibly a struggle in which he died accidentally?"

  Oliver thought for a moment before answering. The truth was that that was exactly what he had accepted. Cleo had said she was not present, and he had believed her. He still did.

  "Yes. Yes, I am assuming that," he agreed. "She never denied taking the medicines. I have no proof of exactly how she did it, or any of the circumstances. I have deliberately avoided finding them."

  Henry made no comment. "How is Monk involved?" he asked instead.

  Rathbone explained.

  "And Hester?" Henry asked, his voice gentle.

  Oliver had not forgotten how fond his father was of Hester, nor his unspoken desire that Oliver should marry her. He sometimes feared Hester’s regard for him was at least in part the affection she had for Henry and the desire to belong to a family in which she could know the safety her own had not given her. Her father had shot himself after a financial disgrace visited upon him at the end of the Crimean War by a man who had traded upon their friendship in order to cheat. Hester’s mother had died shortly afterwards, largely of grief. Hester had spoken of it only once, unless she had done so more often to Henry when Oliver was not there, perhaps needing to share the burden.

  This was a topic of conversation he was dreading. He had deliberately avoided it as long as possible, even to the extent of not coming to Primrose Hill but meeting his father in the City, where private conversations were too liable to interruption. Now it could no longer be deferred.

  "Hester seems very well," he answered expressionlessly. At least he thought he had, but judging by Henry’s face, perhaps he deluded himself. "Of course, she is deeply concerned for this nurse, both personally and in principle," he added, feeling the warmth rush up his cheeks.

  Henry nodded. "I can imagine that she is consumed with her usual fire." He did not say anything about Oliver’s motives for accepting what seemed a hopeless case. He was the only person who induced Oliver to make explanations of himself where none had been asked for.

  "It matters!" Oliver said urgently, leaning forward a little. He looked at Henry, at his lean and slightly stooped form, his hair very gray, and imagined what he would feel if he had been a soldier or a sailor instead of a mathematician, if he were broken in body, bewildered and alone, unable to afford the care he needed, stripped of the dignity of old age and left only with its helplessness. It was so painful it caught his breath. Now the battle was for John Robb, for Henry, for all those affected by injury and age, or who would be in time to come. "It matters far more than any one person," he said passionately. "More than Cleo Anderson or even than Hester— or winning for its own sake. If we allow this injustice without doing all we can against it, what are we worth?"

  Henry regarded him gravely, all the humor gone from his eyes. "Very little," he said quietly. "But emotion will not win for you, Oliver. It is an excellent driving force, the best, and it will keep your courage high. Anger at injustice has righted more wrongs than most other things, and it is one of the great creative forces in a civilized society." He shook his head. "But in order not to replace one enemy with another, albeit innocently intended, you must use your intelligence. You told me that you are certain that both Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Gardiner are lying to you. You cannot go into court without knowing at least what the lie is—and why they are telling it at the risk of their own deaths. The reason must be a very powerful one indeed."

  "I know that," Oliver agreed. "And I have racked my brain to think what it could be."

  "Is it the same reason for each?"

  "I don’t even know that."

  Henry sat thoughtfully, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled together. "I assume that you warned each of them that not only her own life, but the life of the other, rests upon the verdict. Therefore they each have a compelling reason for not telling you the truth. From what you say it seems possible that Mrs. Anderson does not know it, but certainly Mrs. Gardiner does. Why would a woman hang for a crime she did not commit?" He looked very steadily at Oliver. "Only because the alternative to her is worse."

  "What could be worse than hanging?" Oliver asked.

  "I don’t know. That is what you must find out."

  "The hanging of someone you love..." Oliver said, as much to himself as to Henry.

  "Is Lucius Stourbridge guilty?" Henry asked him.

  "I don’t know," Oliver replied. "I don’t know why he could kill either Treadwell or his own mother."

  "Treadwell is easier," Henry said thoughtfully. "The man may have threatened Mrs. Gardiner, or threatened the marriage, either through Mrs. Anderson or in some other way. He was a blackmailer. Much is possible. It is far more difficult to think of any motive for Lucius to have killed his mother."

  "I’ve searched for one," Oliver admitted. "I’ve found nothing."

  "It would be extraordinary if the two murders were not connected," Henry pursued, drawing his brows together. "What elements do they have in common?"

  "Treadwell himself, and Miriam Gardiner," Oliver replied, "and the nature of the attacks."

  "And the unknown," Henry added. "One must always include the possibility of a factor we have not considered, perhaps something outside our knowledge entirely. From what you have told me so far, it seems this may be the case here. Proceed with logic, eliminate what is impossible, and then examine what is left, no matter how ugly it may be. I have a feeling, Oliver, that this case may stretch your compassion to its limits and require more of you than you had thought to give. I am sorry. I appreciate that this is not easy for you, especially considering Hester’s involvement in it."

  "Her involvement makes no difference!" As soon as the words were on his lips he knew that they were untrue, and quite certainly that Henry knew it also, but it was difficult to withdraw them.

  Henry shook his head so minutely it was barely a movement at all.

  "It makes no difference to the issues," Oliver amended. What he really meant—the aloneness, the knowledge of having held something precious and having let it slip through his fingers because he would not commit his passions fully enough, the regret—was all there between them, unsaid. Henry knew him well enough that truth was no
t necessary and lies were not only impossible but damaging. Henry understood as well as he did that Hester made all the difference in the world to the way he felt about it, to know he would continue to fight regardless of what he himself might lose in reputation, self-esteem or money.

  Henry was smiling. Oliver knew in that moment that he approved. Much as he revered the law himself, and understood the dedication of a man to his chosen field, to his principles that superseded any individual, he also understood that to do all these things without caring was a kind of death to the heart. He would rather Oliver fought because he cared, and lost, than won with all the rewards but without belief.

  They sat in silence for another half hour or so, then Oliver rose and took his leave. Henry strolled with him down the lawn in the darkness, heavy with the scent of wet grass, to look at the moonlight reflected on the leaves in the orchard, then walked back up again towards the road.

  It did not need to be said that tomorrow Oliver must begin to prepare a sensible case to defend his clients and to look for whatever alternative was so hideous Miriam Gardiner would rather hang than have it revealed.

  And if Oliver found it, where did his loyalty lie then? To Miriam or to the truth?

  But after they had parted and Oliver walked towards the main thoroughfare he felt a strength restored inside him, a balance returned. He had faced certain lies and no longer allowed them to govern him.

  10

  FIVE WEEKS LATER, Cleo Anderson and Miriam Gardiner sat in the dock accused of conspiracy and murder. The courtroom was packed to suffocation, people sitting so close to one another that when they moved in discomfort the sound of fabrics rubbing together was audible. The shuffling and squeaking of boots were broken by a cough and the occasional murmur.

  When the business of calling to order, reading the charge and pleadings had been accomplished, Robert Tobias opened for the prosecution. He was a man Rathbone had faced several times before and to whom he had lost as often as he had won. Tobias was of a fraction less than average height, slender in his youth, and now, at sixty, still supple and straight-backed. He had never been handsome, strictly speaking, but his intelligence and the power and beauty of his voice made him remarkable—and both intimidating and attractive. More than one society lady had begun by flirting with him for her own entertainment and ended by caring for him more than she wished to, eventually being hurt. He was a widower who intended to retain his freedom to do as he chose.

  He smiled at Rathbone and called his first witness, Sergeant Michael Robb.

  Rathbone watched as Robb climbed the short staircase to the witness stand and faced the court. He looked unhappy and extraordinarily young. He must have been in his mid-twenties, but he had the scrubbed and brushed look of a child sent off to Sunday school and who would far rather be almost anywhere else.

  Tobias sauntered out into the middle of the open space of the floor with the jury on one side, the witness ahead of him, and the judge to his right, high up against the wall in his magnificent seat, surrounded by panels of softly gleaming wood and padded red velvet.

  "Sergeant Robb," Tobias began politely, "this whole case is very distressing. No decent man likes to imagine two women, especially when one is young and agreeable to look upon and the other is entrusted with the care of the sick"—he lifted his hand very slightly towards the dock—"would be capable of conspiring together to commit cold-blooded murder for gain. Fortunately, it is not your task, nor mine either, to determine if this is indeed what happened." He turned with a graceful gesture to face the jury and gave a little bow in their direction. "It is the awful duty of these twelve good men and true, and I do not envy them. Justice is a mighty weight. It takes a strong man, a brave man, an honest man, to bear it."

  Rathbone was tempted to interrupt this piece of blatant flattery, but he knew Tobias would be only too happy if he did. He remained in his seat, nodding very slightly as if he agreed.

  Tobias turned back to Robb. "All we need from you is a simple, exact account of the facts you know. May we begin with the discovery of the body of James Treadwell?"

  Robb stood to attention. Rathbone wondered if it was as apparent to the jury as it was to him how much Robb disliked his task. Would they imagine it was repugnance for the crime, or would they know, as he did, that it was a deeper knowledge of complex tragedy, right and wrong so inextricably mixed he could not single out one thread?

  How did people judge? On instinct? Intelligence? Previous knowledge and experience? Emotion? How was evidence interpreted? How often he had seen two people describe a single chain of events and draw utterly different conclusions from it.

  Robb began by talking with bare, almost schoolboy simplicity of having been called out to see the dead body of a man who had apparently died of a blow to the head.

  "So you decided immediately that he was the victim of murder?" Tobias said with surprise and evident satisfaction. He barely glanced at Rathbone, as if he half expected to be interrupted and took it as a sign of Rathbone’s foreknowledge of defeat that he was not.

  Robb breathed in deeply. "From the kind of marks on his clothes, sir, I didn’t think he’d fallen off a coach or carriage, or been struck by one that maybe didn’t see him in the dark."

  "Very perceptive of you. You judged the matter of great seriousness right from the outset?"

  "Death is always serious," Robb answered.

  "Of course. But murder has a gravity that accident does not. It is a dark and dreadful thing, a violation of our deepest moral order. Accident is tragic, but it is mischance. Murder is evil!"

  Robb’s face was pink. "With respect, sir, I thought you said you and I were not here to judge, just to establish the facts. If you don’t mind, sir, I’d prefer to stick to that."

  There was a murmur around the court.

  Rathbone allowed himself to smile; indeed, he could not help it.

  Tobias controlled his temper with grace, but it cost him an effort. Rathbone could see it in the angle of his shoulders and the pull of the cloth in his expensive coat.

  "I stand corrected," he conceded. "By all means, let us have the bare facts. Will you describe this dead man that you found. Was he young or old? In good health or ill? Let us see him through your eyes, Sergeant Robb. Let us feel as you did when you stood on the pavement and stared down at this man, so lately alive and full of hopes and dreams, and so violently torn from them." He spread his arms wide in invitation. "Take us with you."

  Robb stared at him glumly. Never once did he lift his glance towards the two women sitting white-faced and motionless in the dock. Nor did he look beyond Tobias and Rathbone to search the audience for other faces familiar to him: Monk or Hester.

  "He was fairly ordinary. It was difficult to tell his height lying down. He had straight hair, strong hands, callused as if he’d held reins often enough."

  "Any signs of a fight?" Tobias cut in. "Any bruises or cuts as if he had tried to defend himself?"

  "I saw none. Just the grazes on his hands—from crawling."

  "I shall naturally ask the surgeon also, but thank you for your observation. Exactly where was this poor man, Sergeant?"

  "On the pathway between number five and number six on Green Man Hill, near Hampstead Heath."

  "And which way was he facing?"

  "Towards number five."

  "And is that where he was killed?"

  "I don’t think so. He looked to have crawled some distance. His trouser knees were all torn and muddy, and his elbows in places."

  "How far? Can you tell?"

  "No. At least two or three hundred yards, maybe more."

  "I see. What did you do then, Sergeant?"

  Step by step, Tobias drew from Robb the account of finding the carriage and the horses, and presuming they were connected with the dead man. Then he led him through Monk’s arrival, seeking someone answering the dead man’s description.

  "How very interesting!" Tobias said with triumph. "Presumably, you took this Mr. Monk to look at y
our corpse?"

  "Yes sir."

  "And did he identify him?"

  "No sir. He couldn’t say. But he fetched two gentlemen from Bayswater who said he was James Treadwell, who had been their coachman."

  "And the names of these gentlemen?"

  "Major Harry Stourbridge and his son, Mr. Lucius Stourbridge."

  There was a rustle of movement in the court as people’s attention was caught. Several straightened in their seats. "The same Lucius Stourbridge who is the son of Mrs. Verona Stourbridge and who was engaged to marry Mrs. Miriam Gardiner?"

  More movement in the gallery. Two women craned forward to stare at the dock.

  "Yes sir," Robb answered.

  "And when was Treadwell last seen alive, and by whom?"

  Reluctantly, Robb told of Miriam’s flight from the garden party, Monk’s duplicity on the matter, and how first Monk had tracked down Miriam, and then how Robb had himself. There was nothing Rathbone could do to stop him.

  "Most interesting," Tobias said sagely. "And did Mrs. Gardiner give you a satisfactory account of her flight from Bayswater and any reason for this most strange behavior?"

  "No sir."

  "Did she tell you who had killed Treadwell? I assume you did ask her?"

  "I did, and no, she did not give me any answer, except to say she did not do it."

  "And did you believe her?"

  Rathbone half rose to his feet.

  The judge glanced at him.

  Tobias smiled. "Perhaps that could be better phrased. Sergeant Robb, did you subsequently arrest Mrs. Gardiner for the murder of James Treadwell?"

  "Yes, I did."

  Tobias raised his eyebrows. "But you have not charged her with it!"

  Robb’s face was tight and miserable. "She’s charged with conspiracy..."

  "That you should be sad about such a fearful tragedy is very proper, Sergeant," Tobias observed, staring at him. "But you seem more than that, you seem reluctant, as if you do this against your will. Why is that, Sergeant Robb?"

  Rathbone’s mind raced. Should he object that this was irrelevant, personal? He had intended to use Robb’s high opinion of Cleo, his knowledge of her motives, as his only weapon in mitigation. Now Tobias had stolen it. He could hardly object now and then raise it himself later. Even if he did so obliquely, Tobias himself would then object.