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bsp; "A lot of Treadwell’s time is unaccounted for," he replied, trying his own tea and finding it a trifle too hot. "He had a few unusual friends. One of his gambling partners was even an undertaker, and Treadwell did a few odd tasks for him."
"Enough to earn him the kind of money we’re looking for?" She did not know whether she wanted the answer to be yes or no.
"Not remotely," he replied. "Just driving a wagon, presumably because he was good with horses, and perhaps knew the roads. He probably did it as a favor because of their friendship. This young man seems to have given him entry to cock-fights and dog races when he wouldn’t have been allowed in otherwise. They even had a brothel or two in common."
Hester shrugged. "It doesn’t get us any further, does it?" She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
Monk frowned thoughtfully. "I was wondering how Treadwell ever discovered about Cleo and the medicines in the first place."
She was about to dismiss it as something that hardly mattered now when she realized what he meant.
"Well, not from Miriam," she said with conviction.
"From any of Cleo’s patients?" he asked. "How could Treadwell, coachman to Major Stourbridge in Bayswater, and gambler and womanizer in Kentish Town, come to know of thefts of morphine and other medicines from a hospital on Hampstead Heath?"
She stared at him steadily, a first, tiny stirring of excitement inside her. "Because somewhere along the chain of events he crossed it. It has to be—but where?" She held up her fingers, ticking off each step. "Patients fall ill and go to the hospital, where Cleo gets to know of them because she works there as a nurse."
"Which has nothing to do with Treadwell," he answered. "Unless one of them was related to him or to someone he knew well."
"They are all old and live within walking distance of the hospital," she pointed out. "Most of them are alone, the lucky few with a son or daughter, or grandchild, like old John Robb."
"Treadwell’s family was all in Kentish Town," Monk said. "That much I ascertained. His father is dead and his mother remarried a man from Hoxton."
"And none of them have anything to do with Miriam Gardiner," she went on. "So he didn’t meet them driving her." She held up the next finger. "Cleo visits them in their homes and knows what they need. She steals it from the hospital. By the way, I’m sure the apothecary knew but turned a blind eye. He’s a good man, and very fond of her." She smiled slightly. "Very fond indeed. He regards her as something of a saint. I think she is the only person who really impresses Phillips. Fermin Thorpe certainly doesn’t." She recalled the scene in the morgue. "He even teased the new young morgue attendant that Thorpe was buying his cadavers for the medical students from resurrectionists! Poor boy was horrified until he realized Phillips was teasing him."
"Resurrectionists?" Monk said slowly.
"Yes—grave robbers who dig up corpses and sell them to medical establishments for..."
"I know what resurrectionists are," he said quickly, leaning forward, his eyes bright. "Are you sure it was a joke?"
"Well, it’s not very funny," she agreed with a frown. "But Phillips is like that—a bit... wry. I like him—actually, I like him very much. He’s one of the few people in the hospital I would trust—" Then suddenly she realized what Monk was thinking. "You mean... Oh, William! You think he really was buying them from resurrectionists? He was the other person Treadwell was blackmailing. But how could Treadwell know that?"
"Not necessarily that he was blackmailing him," he said, grasping her hand in his urgency. "Treadwell was friendly with this undertaker. What could be simpler than to sell a few bodies? That could have been the extra driving he was doing: delivering corpses for Fermin Thorpe—at a very nice profit to himself!"
"Wonderful!" She breathed out with exquisite relief. It was only a chink of light in the darkness, but it was the very first one. "At least it might be enough for Oliver to raise doubt." She smiled with a twist. "And even if he isn’t guilty, I wouldn’t mind seeing Thorpe thoroughly frightened and embarrassed—I wouldn’t mind in the slightest."
"I’m sure you wouldn’t," he agreed with a nod. "Although we mustn’t leap too quickly..."
"Why not? There’s hardly time to waste."
"I know. But Treadwell may not have blackmailed Thorpe. The money may all have come from selling the bodies."
"Then let Thorpe prove it. That should be interesting to watch."
His eyes widened very slightly. "You really do loathe him, don’t you?"
"I despise him," she said fiercely. "He puts his own vanity before relieving the pain of those who trust him to help them." She made it almost a challenge, as if Monk had been defending him.
He smiled at her. "I’m not trying to spare him anything, I just want to use it to the best effect. I don’t know what that is yet, but we will only get one chance. I want to save my fire for the target that will do the most good for Cleo—or Miriam— not just the one that does the most harm to Thorpe... or the one that gives us the most satisfaction."
"I see." She did. She had been indulging in the luxury of anger and she recognized it. "Yes, of course. Just don’t leave it too long."
"I won’t," he promised. "Believe me—we will use it."
On Sunday, Monk returned to the undertaker to pursue the details of Treadwell’s work for him and to find proof if indeed he had taken bodies to the Hampstead hospital and been handsomely paid for it. If he were to use it, either in court or to pressure Thorpe for any other reason, then he must have evidence that could not be denied or explained away.
