by Anne Perry
Tobias apologized again and again for obliging him to relive experiences which had to be deeply distressing for him.
"I understand," Campbell said, biting his lip. "Justice requires that we follow this to its bitter end. I trust you will do it as speedily as you may."
"Of course," Tobias agreed. "May we proceed to the days immediately leading to your sister’s death?"
Campbell told them in as few words as possible, without raising his voice, of Miriam’s last visit to Cleveland Square after her release from custody and from the charge of having murdered Treadwell. According to him, she was in a state of shock so deep she hardly came out of her room, and when she did she seemed almost to be in a trance. She was civil, but no more. She avoided Lucius as much as possible, not even allowing him to comfort her over her fearful distress on Cleo Anderson’s account.
"She was devoted to Mrs. Anderson?" Tobias stressed.
"Yes." There was no expression in Campbell’s face except sadness. "It is natural enough. Mrs. Anderson had apparently raised her as a daughter since she was twelve or thirteen. She would be an ungrateful creature not to have been. We respected it in her."
"Of course," Tobias agreed, nodding. "Please continue."
Reluctantly, Campbell did so, describing the dinner that evening, the conversation over the table about Egypt, their returning and each going about their separate pursuits.
"And Mrs. Gardiner did not dine with you?"
"No."
"Tell us, Mr. Campbell, did your sister say anything to you, that evening or earlier, about her feelings regarding the murder of Treadwell and the accusation against Mrs. Gardiner?"
Rathbone rose to object, but he had no legal grounds— indeed, no moral grounds either. He was obliged to sit down again in silence.
Campbell shook his head. "If you are asking if I know what happened, or why, no, I do not. Verona was distressed about something. She was certainly not herself. Any of the servants will testify to that."
Indeed, they already had, although, of course, Campbell had not been in court at the time, since he had not yet appeared himself.
"I believe she had discovered something ..." His voice grew thick, emotion all but choking him. "It is my personal belief, although I know nothing to support it, that before she died, she knew who had killed Treadwell, and exactly why. I think that is why she returned alone to her room, in order to consider what she should do about it." He closed his eyes. "It was a fatal decision. I wish to God she had not made it."
He had said very little really. He had brought out no new facts, and he had certainly not accused anyone, and yet his testimony was damning. Rathbone could see it in the jurors’ faces.
There was no purpose in Rathbone’s questioning Campbell. There was nothing for him to say, nothing to elaborate, nothing to challenge. It was Friday evening. He had two days in which to create some kind of defense, and nothing whatever with which to do it—unless Monk found something. And there was no word from him.
When the court rose he considered pleading with Miriam one more time, and abandoned the idea. It would serve no purpose. Whatever the truth was, she had already convinced him that she would go to the gallows rather than tell it.
Instead, he went out into the September afternoon and took a hansom straight to Primrose Hill. He did not expect his father to offer any answers; he went simply for the peace of the quiet garden in which to ease the wounds of a disastrous week, and to prepare his strength for the week to come, which promised to be even worse.
11
WHILE RATHBONE WAS SITTING helplessly in the courtroom, Monk began his further investigations into the details of Treadwell’s life. He had already asked exhaustively at the Stourbridges’ house and generally in the area around Cleveland Square. No one had told him anything remotely helpful. Treadwell had been tediously ordinary.
He began instead in Kentish Town, where Treadwell had grown up. It was a long task, and he held little hope of its proving successful. In time he began to fear that Miriam Gardiner was guilty as charged and that poor Cleo Anderson had been drawn into it because of her love for the girl she had rescued. She had refused to recognize that beneath the charm and apparent vulnerability, Miriam had grown into a greedy and conniving woman who would not stop even at murder in order to get what she wanted. Love could be very blind. No mother wanted to see evil in her child, and the fact that Cleo had not borne Miriam would make no difference to her.
His earlier pity for Miriam hardened to anger when he thought of the grief it would bring to Cleo when she was faced with facts she could no longer deny to herself. Miriam may not have asked to be loved, or to be believed in, but she had accepted it. It carried a moral responsibility, and she had failed it as badly as anyone could. The deception was worse than the violence.
He walked the streets of Kentish Town, going from one public house to another asking questions as discreetly as the desperately short time allowed. Twice he was too open, too hasty, and earned a sharp rebuff. He left and began again farther along, more carefully.
By sundown he was exhausted, his feet hurt merely to the touch. He took an omnibus home. Monk would earn no further money in this case, but he simply cared passionately to learn the truth. Lucius Stourbridge would have continued to pay him; indeed, he had still implored Monk to help only a week earlier. But Monk had refused to take anything further from him for something he was all but certain he could not accomplish. The young man had lost so much already; to have given him hope he could not justify would be a cruelty for which he would despise himself.
Hester looked at his face as he came in and did not ask what he had learned. Her tact was so uncharacteristic it told him more of his own disappointment, and how visible it was, than he would have admitted.
On the second day he gained considerably more knowledge. He came closer to Hampstead and discovered a public house where they knew Treadwell rather well. From there he was able to trace a man to whom Treadwell had lost at gambling. Since Treadwell was dead, the debt could not be collected.
"Someone ought to be responsible!" the man said angrily, his round eyes sharp and a little bloodshot. "In’t there no law? You shouldn’t be able to get out of money you owe just bydyin’."
Monk looked knowledgeable. "Well, usually you would go to a man’s heirs," he said gravely. "But I don’t know if Treadwell had any... ?" He left it hanging as a question.
"Nah!" the man said in disgust. "Answer to nob’dy, that one."
"Have a drink?" Monk offered. He might be wasting his time, but he had no better avenue to follow.
"Ta. Don’t mind if I do," the man accepted. "Reece." He held out a hand after rubbing it on his trouser leg.
Monk took a moment to realize it was an introduction, then he grasped the hand and shook it. "Monk," he responded.
" ’Ow do," Reece said cheerfully. "I’ll ’ave a pint o’ mild, ta."
When the pints had been ordered and bought, Monk pursued the conversation. "Did he owe you a lot?"
"I’ll say!" Reece took a long draft of his ale before he continued. "Near ten pound."
Monk was startled. It was as much as a housemaid earned in six months.
"That choked yer, eh?" Reece observed with satisfaction. " ’E played big, did Treadwell."
"And lost big," Monk agreed. "He can’t have lost like that often. Did he win as well?"
"Sometimes. Liked ter live ’igh on the ’og, ’e did. Wine, women and the ’orses. Must ’a won sometimes, I suppose. But w’ere am I gonna get ten quid, you tell me that?"
"What I’d like to know is where Treadwell got it," Monk said with feeling. "He certainly didn’t earn it as a coachman."
"Wouldn’t know," Reece said with fading interest. He emptied his glass and looked at Monk hopefully.
Monk obliged.
"Coachman, were ’e?" Reece said thoughtfully. "Well, I guess as ’e ’ad suffink on the side, then. Dunno wot."
A very ugly thought came into Monk’s mind concernin
g Cleo Anderson’s theft of medicines, especially morphine. Hester had said a considerable amount might have gone over a period of time. Maybe not all of it had ended in the homes of the old and ill. Anyone addicted to such a drug would pay a high price to obtain it. It would be only too easy to understand how Cleo could have sold it to pay Treadwell, or even have given it to him directly for him to sell. The idea gave him no pleasure, but he could not get rid of it.
He spent the rest of the day investigating Treadwell’s off-duty hours, which seemed to have been quite liberal, and found he had a considerable taste for self-indulgence. But there appeared to be several hours once every two weeks or so which were unaccounted for, and Monk was driven to the conclusion that this time may have been used either for selling morphine or for further blackmail of other victims.
The last thing Monk did, late in the evening, was to go and visit Cleo herself, telling the jailer that he was Rathbone’s clerk. He had no proof of such a position, but the jailer had seen them together earlier, and accepted it. Or possibly his compassion for Cleo made him turn a blind eye. Monk did not care in the slightest what the reason was; he took advantage of it.
Cleo was surprised to see him, but there was no light of hope in her eyes. She looked haggard and exhausted. She was almost unrecognizable from the woman he had met only a month or so before. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin completely without color, and she sat with her shoulders sagging under the plain dark stuff of her dress.
Monk was caught off guard by his emotions on seeing her. She stirred in him an anger and a sense of outrage at futility and injustice, more passionate than he had expected. If he failed in this he was going to carry the wound for a very long time, perhaps always.
There was no time to waste in words of pity or encouragement, and he knew they would be wasted because they could have no meaning.
"Do you know if Treadwell was blackmailing anyone else apart from you?" he asked her, sitting down opposite her so he could speak softly and she could hear him.
"No. Why? Do you think they could’ve killed him?" There was almost hope in her voice, not quite. She did not dare.
Honesty forbade him to allow it. "Enough possibility to raise a need to know how much you paid him, exactly," he answered. "I have a pretty good record of how much he spent over the last two or three months of his life. If you paid him all of it, then you must have been taking morphine to sell, as well as to give to patients."
Her body stiffened, her eyes wide and angry. "I didn’t! And I never gave him any either!"
"We have to prove it," he argued. "Have you got any records of your pay from the hospital, of all the medicine you took and the people to whom you gave it?"
"No—of course I haven’t."
"But you know all the patients you visited with medicine," he insisted.
"Yes..."
"Then dictate their names to me. Their addresses, too, and what medicine you gave them and for how long."
She stared at him for a moment, then obeyed.
Was this going to be worth anything, or was he simply finding a way of occupying time so he could delude himself he was working to save her? What could he achieve with lists? Who would listen, or care, regardless of what likelihood he could show? Proof was all the court would entertain. In their own minds they believed Cleo and Miriam guilty. They would have to be forced from that conviction, not merely shown that there was another remote possibility.
Cleo finished dictating the list. There were eighteen names on it.
"Thank you." He read it over. "How much do you earn at the hospital?"
"Seven shillings a week." She said it with some pride, as if for a nurse it was a good wage.
He winced. He knew a constable earned three times that.
"How long do you work?" The question was out before he thought.
"Twelve or fifteen hours a day," she replied.
"And how much did you pay Treadwell?"
Her voice was tired, her shoulders slumped again. "Five shillings a week."
The rage inside him was ice-cold, filling his body, sharpening his mind with a will to lash out, to hurt someone so this could be undone, so it would never happen again, not to Cleo and not to anyone. But he had no one to direct the anger towards. The only offender was dead already. Only the victim was still left to pay the price.
"He was spending a lot more than that," he said quietly, his words coming between clenched teeth. "I need to know where it came from."
She shook her head. "I don’t know. He just came to me regularly and I paid him. He never mentioned anyone else. But he wouldn’t..."
It was on the edge of Monk’s tongue to ask her again if she had given him any morphine to sell, but he knew the answer would be the same. He rose to his feet and bade her good-bye, hating being able to make no promises, nor even speak any words of hope.
At the door he hesitated, wondering if he should ask her about Miriam, but what was there to say?
She looked up at him, waiting.
In the end he had to ask. "Could it have been Miriam?"
"No," she said immediately. "She never did anything he could have made her pay for!"
"Not even to protect you?" he said quietly.
She sat perfectly still. It was transparent in her face that she did not know the answer to that—believe, possibly, even certainly—but not know.
Monk nodded. "I understand." He knocked for the jailer to let him out.
He arrived home still turning the matter over and over in his mind.
"There was another source," he said to Hester over the dinner table. "But it could have been Miriam, which won’t help at all."
"And if it wasn’t?" she asked. "If we could show it was someone else? They’d have to consider it!"
"No, they wouldn’t," he answered quietly, watching her face show her disappointment. "Not unless we could bring that person to court and prove that he or she was somewhere near the Heath that night, alone. We’ve got two days before Rathbone has to begin some defense."
"What else have we?" Her voice rose a little in desperation.
"Nothing," he admitted.
"Then let’s try! I can’t bear to sit here not doing anything at all. What do we know?"
They worked until long after midnight, noting every piece of information Monk had gathered about Treadwell’s comings and goings over the three months previous to his death. When it was written on paper it was easier to see what appeared to be gaps.
"We need to know exactly what his time off was," Hester said, making further notes. "I’m sure there would be someone in the Stourbridge household who could tell you."
Monk thought it was probably a waste of time, but he did not argue. He had nothing else more useful to do. He might as well follow through with the entire exercise.
"Do you know how much medicine was taken?" he asked, then, before she could deny it, added, "Or could you work it out if you wanted to?"
"No, but I expect Phillips could, if it would help. Do you think it really would?"
"Probably not, but what better idea have we?"
Neither of them answered with the obvious thing: acceptance that the charge was true. Perhaps it had not been with deliberate greed, or for the reasons Tobias was saying, but the end result was all that counted.
"I’ll go tomorrow to the hospital and ask Phillips," Hester said briskly, as if it mattered. "And I’ll go as well and find all the people on your list and see what medicines they have. You see if you can account for that time of Treadwell’s." She stared at him very directly, defying him to tell her it was useless or to give up heart. He knew from the very brittleness of her stare, the anger in her, that she was doing it blindly, against hope, not with it.
In the morning Monk left early to go out to Bayswater and get the precise times that Treadwell was off duty and see if he could find any indication of where else he might have been, who could have paid him the huge difference between what they could account for and what he had spent. He pursu
ed it slowly and carefully, to the minutest detail, because he did not want to come to the end of it and have it proved to him what he already knew: that it would be of no use whatever in trying to save Cleo Anderson—or Miriam Gardiner either.
Hester went straight to the hospital. Fortunately, even though it was a Saturday she knew Phillips would be there. Usually he took only Sundays off, and then quite often just the morning. Still, she had to search for over half an hour before she found him, and then it was only after having asked three different medical students, interrupting them in a long, enthusiastic and detailed discussion of anatomy, which was their present preoccupation.
"Brilliant!" one of them said, his eyes wide. "We’re very fortunate to be here. My cousin is studying in Lincoln, and he says they have to wait weeks for a body to dissect, and all the diagrams in the world mean almost nothing compared with the real thing."
"I know," another agreed. "And Thorpe is marvelous. His explanations are always so clear."
"Probably the number of times he’s done it," the first retorted.
"Excuse me!" Hester said again sharply. "Do you know where Mr. Phillips is?"
"Phillips? Is he the one with red hair, bit of a stammer?"
"Phillips the apothecary." She kept her temper with difficulty. "I need to speak with him."
The first young man frowned at her, looking at her more closely now. "You shouldn’t be looking for medicines; if one of the patients is—"
"I don’t want medicines!" she said. "I need to speak with Mr. Phillips. Do you know where he is or not?"
The young man’s face hardened. "No, actually, I don’t."
One of the other young men relented, for whatever personal reason.
"He’s down in the morgue," he answered. "The new assistant got taken a little faint. Gave him a bit of something to help. He’s probably still there."
"Thank you," she said quickly. "Thank you very much." And she all but ran along the corridor, out of the side entrance and down the steps to the cold room belowground which served to keep the bodies of the dead until the undertaker should come to perform the formalities.
