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But then she had not killed Mary Farraline.
Even if Cleo had killed Treadwell because he had been blackmailing her over the medicines, it was a highly understandable action. Not excusable, perhaps, but surely any God worth worshiping would find more pity than blame for her?
Maybe she did not believe that? At least not now ... at this moment, facing human justice.
"Can I help you?" Hester said aloud. "Is there anything I can bring for you? Clothes, soap, a clean towel, rather better food? What about your own spoon? Or cup?"
Cleo smiled faintly. The very practicality of the suggestions contrasted with what she had expected. She had anticipated anger, blame, pity, curiosity. She looked puzzled.
"I’ve been in prison," Hester explained. "I hated the soap and the scratchy towels. It’s a little thing. And I wanted my own spoon. I remember that."
"But they let you go...." Cleo looked at her with anxiety so sharp it was close to breaking her composure. "And they let Miriam go? Is she all right?"
Hester sat in the chair, leaning forward a little. She liked Cleo more with each encounter. She could not watch her distress with any impartiality at all, or think of her fate with acceptance. "Yes, they let her go."
"Home?" She was watching Hester intently.
"No ... with Lucius and Major Stourbridge." She searched Cleo’s face for anything that would help her understand why Miriam had dreaded it. She saw nothing, no flicker of comprehension, however swiftly concealed.
"Was she all right?" Cleo said fearfully.
It seemed cruel to tell her the truth, but Hester did not know enough to judge which lies would do least harm.
"No," she answered. "I don’t think so. Not from what my husband said. She would far rather have gone anywhere else at all—even remained in prison—but she was not given the choice. The police could not hold her because there was no charge anymore, but it was obvious to everyone that she was deeply distressed, and since she is a witness to much of what happened, they have a certain authority over where she should go."
Cleo said nothing. She stared down at her hands, folded in her lap.
Hester watched her closely. "Do you know why she ran away from Cleveland Square and why she had to be all but dragged back there?"
Cleo looked up quickly. "No—no, I don’t. She wouldn’t tell me."
Hester believed her. The confusion and distress in her eyes were too real. "Don’t answer me whether you took the medicines or not," she said quietly. "I know you did, and I know what for."
Cleo regarded her thoughtfully for several moments before she spoke. "What’s going to happen to them, miss? There’s nobody to look after them. The ones with family are better off than those who haven’t, but even they can’t afford what they need, or they don’t know what it is. They get old, and their children move on, leaving them behind. The young don’t care about Trafalgar an’ Waterloo now. A few years an’ they’ll forget the Crimea, too. Those soldiers are all the thing now, because they’re young and handsome still. We get upset about a young man with no arms or no legs, or insides all to pieces. But when they get old we can’t be bothered. We say they’re going to die soon anyway. Wot’s the point in spending time and money on them?"
There was no argument to make. Of course, it was not true everywhere, but in too many instances it was.
"What about John Robb, sailor from the victory at Trafalgar?" Hester asked. "Consumption, by the sound of him."
Cleo’s face tightened, and she nodded. "I don’t think he has long. His grandson does everything he can for him, but that isn’t much. He can’t give him any ease without the morphine." She did not ask, but it was in her eyes, willing Hester to agree.
Hester knew what that would involve. She would have to give him the morphine herself. It would involve her in the theft. But to refuse would compound the old man’s suffering and his sense of being abandoned. When he understood, he would also know that his suffering was of less importance to her than keeping herself from risk. Alleviating pain was all right, as long as the cost was small—a little time, even weariness, but not personal danger.
"Yes, of course:’ The words were out of her mouth before she had time to weigh what she was committing herself to do.
"Thank you," Cleo said softly, a momentary gleam in her eyes, as if she had seen a light in enclosing darkness. "And I would like the soap, and the spoon, if it is not too much trouble."
"Of course." Hester brushed them aside as already done. What she really wanted was to help with some defense, but what was there? She realized with bitterness that she was half convinced that Cleo had killed Treadwell. "Have you got a lawyer to speak for you?"
"A lawyer? What can he say? It won’t make no difference." The tone of her voice was flat, as if she had suddenly been jerked back to the harshness of the present and her own reality, not John Robb’s. There was a closed air about her, excluding Hester from her emotions till she felt rebuffed, an intruder. Was Cleo still somehow defending Miriam Gardiner? Or was she guilty, and believed she deserved to die?
"Did you kill Treadwell?" Hester said abruptly.
Cleo hesitated, was about to speak, then changed her mind and said nothing. Hester had the powerful impression that she had been going to deny it, but she would never know, and asking again would be useless. The mask was complete.
"Was he blackmailing you?" she asked instead.
Cleo sighed. "Yeah, ’course he was. Do most things for money, that one."
