by Anne Perry
She tried to think of other stories to tell, ones that had happy endings, and perhaps she rambled a bit, inventing here and there. Now and then he interrupted to ask a question. It was warm and comfortable in the afternoon sun, and she was not surprised when she looked up and saw his eyes closed. It was just the sort of time to doze off. Certainly, she was in no way offended. He was still smiling at the last little victory she had recounted, much added to in retrospect.
She stood up and went to make sure he was warm enough since the sunlight had moved around and his feet were in shadow. It was only then that she noticed how very still he was. There was no labored breathing, no rasp of air in his damaged lungs.
There were tears already on her cheeks when she put her fingers to his neck and found no pulse. It was ridiculous. She should have been only glad for him, but she was unable to stop herself from sitting down and weeping in wholehearted weariness, in fear, and from the loss of a friend she had come to love.
She had washed her face and was sitting in a chair, still opposite the old man, when Michael Robb came home in the late afternoon.
He walked straight in, not at first sensing anything different.
She stood up quickly, stepping between him and the old man.
Then he saw her face and realized she had been weeping. He went very pale.
"He’s gone," she said gently. "I was here—talking to him. We were telling old stories, laughing a little. He just went to sleep." She moved aside so he could see the old man’s face, the shadow of a smile still on it, a great peace settled over him.
Michael knelt down beside him, taking his hand. "I should have been here," he said hoarsely. "I’m sorry! I’m so sorry..."
"If you had stayed here all the time, who could have earned the money for you both to live on?" she asked. "He knew that—he was so proud of you. He would have felt terribly guilty if he’d thought you were taking time away from your work because of him."
Michael bent forward, the tears spilling over his cheeks, his shoulders shaking.
She did not know whether to go to him, touch him; if it would comfort or only intrude. Instinct told her to take him in her arms, he seemed so young and alone. Her mind told her to let him deal with his grief in private. Instinct won, and she sat on the floor and held him while he wept.
When he had passed through the first shock he stood up and went and washed his face in water from the jug, then boiled the kettle again. Without speaking to her he made more tea.
"Is that your sherry?" he asked.
"Yes. Take what you’d like."
He poured it generously for both of them, and offered her one of the mugs. They did not sit down. There was only one vacant chair, and neither wanted to take it.
"Thank you," he said a little awkwardly. "I know you did it for him, not for me, but I’m still grateful." He stopped, wanting to say something and not knowing how to broach it.
She sipped the tea and waited.
"I’m sorry about Mrs. Anderson," he said abruptly.
"I know," she assured him.
"She took all the medicines for the old and ill, didn’t she." It was not a question.
"Yes. I could prove that if I had to."
"Including my grandfather." That, too, was a statement.
"Yes." She met his eyes without flinching. He looked vulnerable and desperately unhappy. "She did it because she wanted to. She believed it was the right thing to do," she went on.
"There’s still morphine there now," he said softly.
"Is there? I will take it away."
"In the Lord’s name—be careful, Mrs. Monk!" There was real fear for her in his face, no censure.
She smiled. "No need anymore. Will you be all right?"
"Yes—I will. Thank you."
She hesitated only a moment longer, then turned and went. Outside, the last of the sun was on the footpath and the street was busy.
12
ON SUNDAY EVENING Rathbone went to Fitzroy Street to see Monk. He could stand the uncertainty no longer, and he wanted to share his anxiety and feel less alone in his sense of helplessness.
"Resurrectionists!" he said incredulously when Hester told him of their beliefs regarding Treadwell’s supplementary income.
"Not exactly," Monk corrected him. "Actually, the bodies were never buried, just taken straight from the undertaker’s to the hospital." He was sitting in the large chair beside the fire. The September evenings were drawing in. It was not yet cold, but the flames were comforting. Hester sat hunched forward, hugging herself, her face washed out of all color. She had told Monk of John Robb’s death quite simply and without regret, knowing it to be a release from the bonds of a failing body, but he could see very clearly in her manner that she felt the loss profoundly.
"Saves effort," Monk said, looking across at Rathbone. "Why bury them and then have to go to the trouble and considerable risk of digging them up again if you can simply bury bricks in the first place?"
"And Treadwell carried them?" Rathbone wanted to assure himself he had understood. "Are you certain?"
"Yes. If I had to I could call enough witnesses to leave no doubt."
"And was he blackmailing Fermin Thorpe?"
Monk looked rueful. "That I don’t know. Certainly I’ve no proof, and I hate to admit it, but it seems unlikely. Why would he? He was making a very nice profit in the business. The last thing he would want would be to get Thorpe prosecuted."
The truth of that was unarguable, and Rathbone conceded it. "Have we learned anything that could furnish a defense? I have nowhere even to begin..."
Hester stared at him miserably and shook her head.
"No," Monk said wretchedly. "We could probably get Thorpe to get rid of the charges of theft—at least to drop them—and I would dearly enjoy doing it, but it wouldn’t help with the murder. We don’t have anything but your skill." He looked at Rathbone honestly, and there was a respect in his eyes which at any other time Rathbone would have found very sweet to savor. As it was, all he could think of was that he would have given most of what he possessed if he could have been sure he was worthy of it.
At seven o’clock on Monday morning Rathbone was at the door of Miriam’s cell. A sullen wardress let him in. She had none of the regard or the pity for Miriam that the police jailer had had for Cleo.
The door clanged shut behind him, and Miriam looked up. She was a shadow of her former self. She looked physically bruised, as if her whole body hurt.
There was no time to mince words.
"I am going into battle without weapons," he said simply. "I accept that you would rather sacrifice your own life at the end of a rope than tell me who killed Treadwell and Verona Stourbridge—but are you quite sure you are willing to repay all Cleo Anderson has done for you by sacrificing hers also?"
Miriam looked as if she was going to faint. She had difficulty finding her voice.
"I’ve told you, Sir Oliver, even if you knew, no one would believe you. I could tell you everything, and it would only do more harm. Don’t you think I would do anything on earth to save Cleo if I could? She is the dearest person in the world to me—except perhaps Lucius. And I know how much I owe her. You do not need to remind me as though I were unaware. If I could hang in her place I would! If you can bring that about I will be forever in your debt. I will confess to killing Treadwell—if it will help."
Looking into her wide eyes and ashen face, he believed her. He had no doubt in his mind that she would die with dignity and a quiet heart if she could believe she had saved Cleo. That did not mean Cleo was innocent in fact, only that Miriam loved her, and perhaps that she believed the death sufficiently understandable in the light of Treadwell’s own crimes.
"I will do what I can," he said quietly. "I am not sure if that is worth anything."
She said nothing, but gave him a thin wraith of a smile.
The trial resumed in a half-empty court.
Rathbone was already in his seat when he saw Hester come in, push he
r way past the court usher with a swift word to which he was still replying as she left him, and come to Rathbone’s table.
"What is it?" he asked, looking at her pale, tense face. "What’s happened?"
"I went to Cleo this morning," she whispered, leaning close to him. "She knows Miriam will hang and there is nothing you can do unless the truth is told. She knows only a part of it, but she cannot bear to lose Miriam, whomever else it hurts—even if it is Lucius and Miriam never forgives her."
"What part?" Rathbone demanded. "What truth does she know? For God’s sake, Hester, tell me! I’ve got nothing!"
"Put Cleo on the witness stand. Ask her how she first met Miriam. She thinks it is something to do with that— something so terrible Miriam can’t or won’t remember it. But there’s nothing to lose now."
"Thank you." Impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, not giving a damn that the judge and the entire court were watching him.
Tobias gave a cough and a smile.
The judge banged his gavel.
Hester blushed fiercely, but with a smile returned to her seat.
"Are you ready to proceed, Sir Oliver?" the judge asked courteously.
"Yes, my lord, I am. I call Mrs. Cleo Anderson."
There was a murmur of interest around the gallery, and several of the jurors shifted position, more from emotional discomfort than physical.
Cleo was escorted from the dock to the witness stand. She stood upright, but it was obviously with difficulty, and she did not look across at Miriam even once. In a soft, unsteady voice she swore to her name and where she lived, then waited with palpable anxiety for Rathbone to begin.
Rathbone hated what he was about to do, but it did not deter him.
"Mrs. Anderson, how long have you lived in your present house on Green Man Hill?"
Quite plainly, she understood the relevance of the question, even though Tobias evidently did not, and his impatience was clear as he allowed his face to express exasperation.
"About thirty years," Cleo replied.
"So you were living there when you first met Mrs. Gardiner?" Rathbone asked.
"Yes." It was little more than a whisper.
The judge leaned forward. "Please speak up, Mrs. Anderson. The jury needs to hear you."
"I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I was living there."
"How long ago was that?"
Tobias rose to his feet. "This is old history, my lord. If it will be of any assistance to Sir Oliver, and to saving the court’s time and not prolonging what can only be painful, rather than merciful, the Crown concedes that Mrs. Anderson took in Mrs. Gardiner when she was little more than a child and looked after her with devotion from that day forward. We do not contest it, nor require any evidence to that effect."
"Thank you," Rathbone said with elaborate graciousness. "That was not my point. If you are as eager as you suggest not to waste the court’s time, then perhaps you would consider not interrupting me until there is some good reason for it?"
There was a titter of nervous laughter around the gallery, and distinct smiles adorned the faces of at least two of the jurors.
A flush of temper lit Tobias’s face, but he masked it again almost immediately.
Rathbone turned back to Cleo.
"Mrs. Anderson, would you please tell us the circumstances of that meeting?"
Cleo spoke with a great effort. It was painfully apparent that the memory was distressing to her and she recalled it only as an act of despair.
Rathbone had very little idea why he was asking her, only that Hester had pressed him to, and he had no other weapon to use.
"It was a night in September, the twenty-second, I think. It was windy, but not cold." She swallowed. Her throat was dry and she began to cough.
At the judge’s request the usher brought her a glass of water, then she continued.
"Old Josh Wetherall, from two doors down, came beating on my door to say there was a young girl, a child, crying on the road, near in hysterics, he said, an’ covered all over in blood. He was beside himself with distress, poor man, and hadn’t an idea what to do to help." She took a deep breath.
No one moved or interrupted her. Even Tobias was silent, although his face still reflected impatience.
"Of course, I went to see what I could do," Cleo continued. "Anyone would, but I suppose he thought I might know a bit more, being a nurse and all."
"And the child?" Rathbone prompted.
Cleo’s hands gripped the rail in front of her as if she needed its strength to hold her up.
"Josh was right, she was in a terrible state..."
"Would you describe her for us?" Rathbone directed her, ignoring Tobias, leaning forward to object. "We need to see it as you saw it, Mrs. Anderson."
She stared at him imploringly, denial in her eyes, in her face, even in the angle of her body.
"We need to see her as you did, Mrs. Anderson. Please believe me, it is important." He was lying. He had no idea whether it meant anything or not, but at least the jury were listening, emotions caught at last.
Cleo was rigid, shaking. "She was hysterical," she said very quietly.
The judge leaned forward to hear, but he did not again request her to raise her voice.
No one in the body of the court moved or made the slightest sound.
Rathbone nodded, indicating she should continue.
"I’ve never seen anyone so frightened in my life," Cleo said, not to Rathbone or to the court, but as if she were speaking aloud what was indelibly within her. "She was covered in blood; her eyes were staring, but I’m not sure she saw anything at all. She staggered and bumped into things and for hours she was unable to speak. She just gasped and shuddered. I’d have felt better if she could have wept."
Again she stopped and the silence lengthened, but no one moved. Even Tobias knew better than to intrude.
"How was she injured?" Rathbone asked finally.
Cleo seemed to recall her attention and looked at him as if she had just remembered he was there.
"How was she injured?" Rathbone repeated. "You said she was covered in blood, and obviously she had sustained some terrible experience."
Cleo looked embarrassed. "We don’t know how it happened, not really. For days she couldn’t say anything that made sense, and the poor child was so terrified no one pressed her. She just lay curled over in my big bed, hugging herself and now and then weeping like her heart was broken, and she was so frightened of any man coming near her we didn’t even like to send for a doctor."
"But the injuries?" Rathbone asked again. "What about the blood?"
Cleo stared beyond him. "She was only wearing a big cotton nightgown. There was blood everywhere, right from her shoulders down. She was bruised and cut..."
"Yes?"
Cleo looked for the first time across at Miriam, and there were tears on her face.
Desperately, Miriam mouthed the word no.
"Mrs. Anderson!" Rathbone said sharply. "Where did the blood come from? If you are really innocent, and if you believe Miriam Gardiner to be innocent, only the truth can save you. This is your last chance to tell it. After the verdict is in you will face nothing but the short days and nights in a cell, too short—and then the rope, and at last the judgment of God."
Tobias rose to his feet.
Rathbone turned on him. "Do you quarrel with the truth of that, Mr. Tobias?" he demanded.
Tobias stared at him, his face set and angry.
"Mr. Tobias?" the judge prompted.
"No, of course I don’t," Tobias conceded, sitting down again.
Rathbone turned back to Cleo. "I repeat, Mrs. Anderson, where did the blood come from? You are a nurse. You must have some rudimentary knowledge of anatomy. Do not tell us that you did nothing to help this blood-soaked, terrified child except give her a clean nightshirt!"
"Of course I helped her!" Cleo sobbed. "The poor little mite had just given birth—and she was only a child herself. Stillborn, I reckoned it was.
"
"Is that what she told you?"
"She was rambling. She hardly made any sense. In and out of her wits, she was. She got a terrible fever, and we weren’t sure we could even save her. Often enough women die of fever after giving birth, especially if they’ve had a bad time of it. And she was too young—far too young, poor little thing."
Rathbone was taking a wild guess now. So far this was all tragic, but it had nothing to do with the deaths of either Treadwell or Verona Stourbridge. Unless, of course, Treadwell had blackmailed Miriam over the child. But would Lucius care? Would such a tragedy be enough to stop him from wanting to marry her? Or his family from allowing it?
Rathbone had done her no service yet. He had nothing to lose by pressing the story as far as it could go.
"You must have asked her what happened," he said grimly. "What did she say? If nothing else, the law would require some explanation. What about her own family? What did they do, Mrs. Anderson, with this injured and hysterical child whose story made no sense to you?"
Cleo’s face tightened, and she looked at Rathbone more defiantly.
"I didn’t tell the police. What was there to tell them? I asked her her name, of course, and if she had family who’d be looking for her. She said there was no one, and who was I to argue with that? She was one of eight, and her family’d placed her in service in a good house."
"And the child?" Rathbone had to ask. "What manner of man gets a twelve-year-old girl with child? She would have been twelve when it was conceived. Did he abandon her?"
Cleo’s face was ashen. Rathbone did not dare look at Miriam. He could not even imagine what she must be enduring, having to sit in the dock and listen to this, and see the faces of the court and the jury. He wondered if she would look at Harry or Lucius Stourbridge, or Aiden Camp- bell, who were sitting together in the front of the body of the court. Perhaps this was worse than anything she had yet endured. But if she were to survive, if Cleo were to survive, it was necessary.
"Mrs. Anderson?"
"He never cared for her," Cleo said quietly. "She said he raped her, several times. That was how she got with child."
