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It took her only a moment to see that he was a stranger, and unlikely to belong to the immediate neighborhood. Nevertheless, she did not dismiss him summarily. Her eyes narrowed a trifle.
"Yes, love, what can I do for you?" she asked, keeping her weight where she could slam the door if he tried to force his way.
He stood well back deliberately.
"Good evening, Mrs. Anderson," he replied. He decided in that moment not to lie to her. "My name is William Monk. Mr. Lucius Stourbridge has employed me to find Miriam Gardiner. As you may be aware, she has disappeared from his house, where she was a guest, and he is frantic with concern for her." He stopped, seeing the anxiety in her face, her rapid breathing and a stiffening of her body. But then, considering Treadwell’s corpse had been found on her path, she could hardly fail to fear for Miriam, unless she already knew that she was safe, not only from physical harm but from suspicion also. Patently, she did not have any such comfort.
"Can you help me?" he said quietly.
For a moment she stood still, making up her mind, then she stepped back, pulling the door wider. "You’d better come in," she invited him reluctantly.
He followed her into a hallway hardly large enough to accommodate the three doors that led from it. She opened the farthest one into a clean and surprisingly light room with comfortable chairs by the fireplace. A row of cupboards lined one wall, all the doors closed and with brass-bound keyholes. None of the keys were present.
"Mr. Stourbridge sent you?" The thought seemed to offer her no comfort. She was still as tense, her hands held tightly, half hidden by her skirts.
He had walked miles and his feet were burning, but to sit unasked would be rushing her, and ill-mannered. "He is terrified some harm may have come to her," he answered. "Especially in light of what happened to the coachman, Treadwell."
In spite of all her effort of control, she drew in her breath sharply. "I don’t know where she is!" Then she steadied herself, deliberately waiting a moment or two. "I haven’t seen her since she left to go and stay in Bayswater. She told me all about that, o’ course." She looked at him levelly.
He had the strong feeling that she was lying, but he did not know to what extent or why. There was fear in her face, but nothing he recognized as guilt. He tried the gentlest approach he could think of.
"Mr. Stourbridge cares for her profoundly. He would act only in her best interest and for her welfare."
Her voice was suddenly thick with emotion, and she choked back tears. "I know that." She took a shaky breath. "He’s a very fine young gentleman." She blinked several times. "But that doesn’t alter nothin’. God knows." She seemed about to add something else, then changed her mind and remained silent.
"You were the one who found Miriam the first time, weren’t you," he said gently, with respect rather than as a question.
She hesitated. "Yes, but that was years back. She was just a child. Twelve or thirteen, she was." A look of pain and defiance crossed her face. "Bin in an accident. Dunno what ’appened to ’er. ’Ysterical ... in a state like you never seen. Nobody around to claim ’er or care for ’er. I took ’er in. ’Course I did, poor little thing." Her eyes did not move from Monk’s. "Nobody ever asked for ’er nor come lookin’. I expected someone every day, then it were weeks, an’ months, an’ nobody came. So I just took care of ’er like she were mine."
Perhaps she caught something in his eyes, an understanding. Some of the defiance eased from her. "She were scared ’alf out of ’er wits, poor little thing," she went on. "Didn’t remember what happened at all."
Cleo Anderson had taken Miriam in and raised her until she had made a respectable and apparently happy marriage to a local man of honorable reputation. Then Miriam had been widowed, with sufficient means to live quite contentedly ... until she had met Lucius Stourbridge out walking in the sun on Hampstead Heath.
But it was what had happened one week ago that mattered, and where she was now.
"Did you know James Treadwell?" he asked her.
Her answer was immediate, without a moment’s thought. "No."
It was too quick. But he did not want to challenge her. He must leave her room to change her mind without having to defend herself.
"So you were all the family Miriam had after the accident." He allowed his very real admiration to fill his voice.
The tenderness in her eyes, in her mouth, was undeniable. If she had permitted herself, at that moment she would have wept. But she was a strong woman, and well used to all manner of tragedy.
"That’s true," she agreed quietly. "And she was the nearest thing to a child I ever had, too. And nobody could want better."
"So you must have been happy when she married a good man like Mr. Gardiner," he concluded.
"O’ course. An’ ’e were a good man! Bit older than Miriam, but loved ’er, ’e did. An’ she were proper fond o’ ’im."
"It must have been very pleasant for you to have had her living so close."
She smiled. "O’ course. But I don’ mind where she lives if she’s ’appy. An’ she loved Mr. Lucius like nothin’ I ever seen. ’Er ’ole face lit up when she jus’ spoke ’is name." This time the tears spilled down her cheeks, and it was beyond her power to control them.
"What happened, Mrs. Anderson?" he said, almost in a whisper.
"I dunno."
