"I know you would, but there’s no need to worry. The apothecary gave me these." That was stretching the truth a little, but it hardly mattered. "I’ll make you a cup of tea and we’ll sit together for a while. I brought a little sherry—not from the hospital, I got it myself." She stood up as she said it. "Don’t need milk this time—we’ll give it a bit of heart."
"That’d be good," he agreed. "Then we’ll talk a bit. You tell me some o’ those stories about Florence Nightingale and how she bested those generals and got her own way. You tell a good story, girl."
"I’ll do that," she promised, going over to the corner which served as kitchen, pouring water into the kettle, then setting it on the hob. When it was boiled she made the tea, putting the sherry fairly liberally into one mug and leaving the morphine on the shelf so Michael would find it that evening. She returned with the tea and set one mug, the one with the sherry, for him, the one without for herself.
He picked up his mug and began to sip slowly. "So, tell me about how you outwitted those generals then, girl. Tell me the things you’re doing better now because o’ the war an’ what you learned."
She recounted to him all sorts of bits and pieces she could remember, tiny victories over bureaucracy, making it as funny as possible, definitely adding more color than there had been at the time.
He drank the tea, then set down the empty mug. "Go on," he prompted. "I like the sound o’ your voice, girl. Takes me back..."
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.