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"Only Fermin Thorpe, willingly—or at least not willingly but for the prosecution," she amended. "He’s going to hate having to say that anything went missing from his hospital. He won’t know whether to make light of it, and risk being thought trying to cover it up, or to condemn it and be seen on the side of the law, all quivering with outrage at the iniquity of nurses. Either way, he’ll be furious at being caught up in it at all."
"Is he not likely to defend one of his staff?"
The look in her face was eloquent dismissal of any such prospect.
"I see," he concluded. "And the apothecary?"
"Phillips? He’ll cover all he can—even to risking his own safety, but there’s only so much he can do."
"I see. I will speak with a few of the other nurses, if I may, and perhaps Mr. Phillips. Then I shall go and see Sergeant Robb."
It was early evening by the time Rathbone had made as thorough an examination of the hospital routine as he wished to, and had come to the regrettable conclusion that it required considerable forethought and some skill and nerve to steal medicines on a regular basis. The apothecary was very careful, in spite of his unkempt appearance and erratic sense of the absurd. Better opportunities occurred when a junior doctor was hurried, confused by a case he did not understand, or simply a little careless. Rathbone formed the opinion that in all probability Phillips was perfectly aware of what Cleo had been doing, and why, and had either deliberately connived at it, or at the very least had turned a blind eye. Against all his training, he found himself admiring the man for it, and quite intentionally ceased looking for evidence to support his theory.
Consequently, it was after seven o’clock by the time he went looking for Sergeant Robb, and was obliged to ask for his address at home in order to see him.
He found the house quite easily, but in spite of Michael Robb’s courtesy, he felt an intruder. A glance told him he had interrupted the care of the old man who sat in the chair in the center of the room, his white hair brushed back off his brow, his broad shoulders hunched forward over a hollow chest. His face was pale except for two spots of color on his cheeks. The sight of him gave a passionate and human reality to the work Cleo Anderson was prepared to risk so much for. Rathbone was startled to find himself filled with anger at the situation, at his own helplessness to affect it, and at the world for not knowing and not caring. It was with difficulty that he answered Michael Robb in a level voice.
"Good evening, Sergeant. I am sorry to intrude into your home, and at such an uncivil hour. If I could have found you at the police station I would have."
"What can I do for you, Sir Oliver?" Michael asked. He was courteous but wary. Rathbone was of both a class and a profession he was unused to dealing with except in court, where the duty of their offices prescribed the behavior for both of them. He was acutely conscious of his grandfather sitting, tired and hungry, waiting to be assisted. But he was by nature, as well as occupation, a gentle-mannered man.
"I have undertaken to defend Mrs. Anderson against the charge of murder," Rathbone replied with a faint, self-deprecating smile. He could not pretend to anyone he hoped for much success, and he did not wish Robb to think him a fool. "The question of theft is another matter."
"I’m sorry," Michael said, and there was sincerity in his face as well as his voice. "1 took no pleasure in charging her. But I can’t withdraw it."
"I understand that. It provides the motive for the murder of Treadwell."
"Are you talking about Cleo Anderson?" the old man interrupted, looking from one to the other of them.
Michael’s face tightened, and he shot Rathbone a look of reproach. "Yes, Grandpapa."
Rathbone had the strong impression that if Michael could have escaped with a lie about it he would have done so to protect the old man from knowledge which could only hurt. Had he any knowledge how much he also was compromised? Did he guess the debt he owed Cleo Anderson?
The old man looked at Rathbone. "And you’re going to defend her, young man?" He regarded Rathbone up and down, from his beautifully made boots and tailored trousers to his coat and silk cravat. "And what’s an officer-type gentleman, with a title an’ all, doing defending a woman like Mrs. Anderson, who in’t got two pence to rub together?" He cared about Cleo too much to be in awe of anyone. His faded eyes met Rathbone’s without a flicker.
"I don’t want payment, Mr. Robb," Rathbone answered. "I undertook it as a favor to a friend, Mrs. Monk. I believe you know her...." He saw the flash of recognition and of pleasure in the old man’s face, and felt a warmth within himself. "And I am continuing out of regard for Mrs. Anderson herself, now that I have met her."
Michael was looking at him with anxiety. Rathbone knew what he feared, perhaps better than he did himself. He feared the same thing, and even more keenly. He did not have to look at the cabinet shelf in the far corner to be aware of the medicines that first Cleo had brought, and now he was terrified Hester would continue to bring. There was no point in asking her not to, and he was in no position to forbid her—he doubted even Monk would succeed in that. Altogether, it would be wiser not to try. It would provoke a quarrel and waste time and energy they all needed to address the problem rather than fight each other. The chances of success in dissuading Hester, in his opinion, did not exist.
He preferred, for legal reasons, as well as his own fast-vanishing peace of mind, not to know what was in that cabinet or how it got there.
Michael half glanced at the cabinet, then averted his gaze. If the thought came to his mind, he forced it away. Just now he was too torn by his needs to allow himself to think it.
"So you’re going to stand up an’ speak for her?" the old man asked Rathbone.
"Yes, I am," Rathbone replied.
The elder Robb screwed up his face. His voice was hoarse, whispering. "What can you do for her, young man? Be honest with me."
Rathbone was candid. "I don’t know. I believe she took the medicines. I don’t believe she murdered Treadwell, even though he was blackmailing her. I think there is something of great importance that we have not imagined, and I am going to try to find out what it is."
"That why you came to speak to Michael?"
"Yes."
"Then you’d best get on with it. I can wait for me supper." He turned to his grandson. "You help this fellow. We can eat later."
"Thank you," Rathbone acknowledged the gesture. "But I should feel more comfortable if you were to continue as you would have. I think I passed a pie seller on the corner about a hundred yards away. Would you allow me to fetch us one each, and then we can eat and discuss at the same time?"
