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He had not really expected anything else. This was a woman protecting the only child she had nurtured and loved.
"But you must have seen Treadwell, even in the distance, when Miriam came back to visit you while she was staying in Bayswater," he insisted.
She hesitated only a moment. "I seen a coachman, but that’s all."
That might be true. Perhaps Treadwell had crawled here because he had heard Miriam say Cleo was a nurse. It was conceivable it was no more than that. But was it likely?
Who had killed Treadwell ... and why? Why here?
"What did you tell Sergeant Robb?" he asked.
She relaxed a fraction. Her shoulders eased under the dark fabric of her dress, a plain, almost uniform dress such as he had seen Hester wear on duty. He was surprised at the stab of familiarity it caused inside him.
"Same as I’m tellin’ you," she answered. "I ’aven’t seen Miriam since she went off to stay with Mr. Lucius an’ ’is family. I don’t know where she is now, an’ I’ve no idea what happened to the coachman, or ’ow ’e got killed, nor why— except I’ve known Miriam since she were a girl, an’ I’ve never known ’er to lose ’er temper nor lash out at anyone, an’ I’d stake my life on that."
Monk believed her, at least for the last part. He accepted that she thought Miriam innocent. He very much doubted that she had no idea where Miriam was. If all were well with Miriam she would unquestionably not have fled from the Stourbridge house as she had, nor have remained out of touch with Lucius. If she were in trouble, whatever its nature, surely she would have turned to Cleo Anderson, the person who had rescued her, cared for her and loved her since that first time?
"I hope you won’t have to do anything so extreme," he said gravely, then he bade her good-night without asking anything further. He knew she would not answer, at least not with the truth.
He bought a sandwich from a peddler about a block away, making conversation with him as he ate it. Then he took an omnibus back towards Fitzroy Street, and was glad to sit down, cramped and lurching as the conveyance was.
He let his thoughts wander. Where could Miriam go? She was frightened. She trusted no one, except perhaps Cleo. Certainly, she did not trust Lucius Stourbridge. She would not want to be in unfamiliar territory, yet she would have to avoid those who were known to be her friends.
A fat woman next to him was perspiring freely. She mopped her face with a large handkerchief. A small boy blew a pennywhistle piercingly, and his mother showed sharp disapproval, to no effect. An elderly man in a bowler hat sucked air through a gap in his teeth. Monk glared at the boy with the whistle, and he stopped in midblow. The man with the gap in his teeth smiled in relief.
Miriam would go to someone she could trust, someone Cleo could trust, perhaps, who owed her a favor for past kindness. Cleo was a nurse. If she was even remotely like Hester, she could count on the trust, and the unquestioning discretion also, of a good many people. That was where to begin, with those Cleo Anderson had nursed. He sat back and relaxed, keeping his eye on the child in case he thought to blow his whistle again.
It was already warm and still by five minutes before nine, when Monk began the next day. The rag and bone man’s voice echoed as he drove slowly away from the Heath towards the south. The dew was still deep in the shade of the larger trees, but the open grass was dusty and the dawn chorus of the birds had been over for hours.
Monk did not bother to pursue those patients with large families and, naturally, those whose illness had ended in death. He learned of all manner of misfortune and of kindness. Cleo Anderson’s reputation was high. Few had a harsh word to say of her. Miriam also had earned a share of approval. It seemed often enough she had been willing to help in the duties of care, especially after she had been widowed and no longer had her time filled with seeing to the well-being of Mr. Gardiner.
Monk followed every trail that seemed likely to lead to where Miriam might be now. By late morning he had crossed Sergeant Robb’s path twice and was wondering if Robb was equally aware of him. Surely he must be, by deduction even if he had not actually seen Monk.
A little after midday he came around the corner of Prince Arthur Road and stopped abruptly. Ten yards ahead of him, Robb was glancing at his watch anxiously, and in reading the time he looked reluctantly, once, at a house on the farther side, then, biting his lip, set off at a very rapid pace the opposite way.
For a moment Monk was confused, then he realized Robb was going in the direction of his home.
His grandfather would have been alone since early in the morning, almost helpless, certainly needing food and, in this warm weather above all, fresh water to drink and assistance with his personal needs. Robb would never forget that, whatever the urgencies or the requirements of his job.
Monk was moved with an acute pity for him, and also for the sick old man sitting alone day after day, dependent on a young man desperate to do his job and torn between two duties.
But Monk’s first duty was towards Miriam Gardiner, because that was what Lucius Stourbridge had hired him for and what he had given his word to do. Robb had far more resources than he had, in information given to the police, his own local knowledge, and in his power to command cooperation. They wished the same thing, to find Miriam Gardiner, Monk because it was his final goal, Robb to learn from her what she knew of Treadwell’s murder, perhaps even to charge her with complicity in it. It was imperative Monk find her first.
He sauntered slowly over towards the house Robb had eyed and had then left with such reluctance. He had no idea who lived there or what Robb had hoped to find, but there was no time to investigate more carefully. This was his only chance to gain the advantage. He knocked on the door and stepped back, waiting for it to be answered.
The maid who peered out at him could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old, but she was determined to make a good impression.
"Yes sir?"
He smiled at her. "Good afternoon." Time was short. "Mrs. Gardiner asked me if I could carry a message to your mistress, if she is in." He wished he had some way of knowing the family name. It would have sounded more convincing.
For a moment the girl looked blank, but she obviously wished to be helpful. "Are yer sure yer got the right ’ouse, sir? There’s no one but old Mr. ’Ornchurch ’ere."
"Oh." He was confounded. What had Robb wanted with old Mr. Hornchurch?
Her face brightened. "Mebbe she meant the ’ousekeeper? Mrs. Whitbread, as comes in every day an’ cooks an’ does fer Mr. ’Ornchurch. She was took bad the winter before last, an’ it were Mrs. Gardiner wot looked after ’er."
He could feel the sweat of relief prickle on his skin. He swallowed before he could catch his breath. "Yes. Of course. That’s what I should have said. Perhaps it would be more convenient if I were to speak to Mrs. Whitbread at her home? Can you tell me how to get there from here?" The people Miriam would turn to would be the ones she had helped in their time of need.
