The Twisted Root Page 0,103

his skin. What could he do to help her if she was caught? He could not even think clearly about Cleo Anderson, whom he had never seen before today.

Start with Miriam Gardiner, that was the only thing. Usually, he would have told himself that the truth was his only ally, always to know the truth before he began. But in this case he was afraid there were truths he might prefer not to know - though he was uncertain which they were. He would have looked the other way, if only he was certain which way that was.

Rathbone was allowed in to see Miriam, but not as easily as when he had been to see Cleo Anderson. The atmosphere was different. Cleo was in police cells, a local woman known to the men - by repute, if not personally - to be undoubtedly a good woman, one whose life they valued far more than that of any blackmailing outsider.

Miriam was in prison, accused of murdering her prospective mother-in-law in order to inherit money the sooner - or possibly because the unfortunate mother-in-law was aware of some scandal in her past which would have prevented the marriage. Greed was an altogether different matter.

Miriam was not at all as he had expected. It was not until he saw her that he realized he had pictured in his mind some rather brashly handsome, bold-eyed woman with accomplished charm, who would quickly try to win him to her cause. Instead he found a small woman, a little too broad of hip, with a fair, tired face full of inner quietness and a strength which startled him. She maintained a deep reserve, even after he had explained to her who he was and the exact circumstances and reasons for his having come.

"It is good of you to take the time, Sir Oliver," she said so softly he had to lean forward to catch her words. "But I don't believe you can help me." She did not meet his eyes, and he was aware that in a sense she had already dismissed him.

If he could not appeal to her mind, he would have to try her emotions. He sat down in the chair opposite her and crossed his legs as if he intended to make himself comfortable.

"Have they told you that you and Mrs. Anderson are to be charged together with conspiracy in the murders of Treadwell and Mrs. Stourbridge?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide and troubled. "That's absurd! How can they possibly think Mrs. Anderson had anything to do with Mrs. Stourbridge's death? She was in their own prison at the time. You must be mistaken."

"I am not mistaken. They know all that. They are saying that they believe you and Mrs. Anderson planned from the beginning that you should marry Lucius Stourbridge, thus gaining access to a very great deal of money, some now, far more later, on Major Stourbridge's death, whenever that might be."

"Why should he die?" she protested. "He is quite young, not more than fifty, and in excellent health. He could have another thirty years, or more."

He sighed. "The mortality rate among those who seem to stand in the way of your plans is very high, Mrs. Gardiner. They would not consider his age-orMs health to be matters which would deter you."

She closed her eyes. "That is hideous."

Studying the lines of her face, of her mouth, and the way it tightened, the sadness and the momentary surprise and anger in her, he could not believe she had even thought of Harry Stourbridge's death until this moment, and now that she did, the idea hurt her. But he could not afford to be gentle.

"That is what they are accusing you of - you and Mrs. Anderson together. Unless you accuse each other, which neither of you has done, you will both either stand or fall."

She looked up at him slowly, searching his eyes, his face, trying to read him.

"You mean I am to defend myself if I do not wish Cleo to suffer with me?"

"Yes, exactly that."

"It is completely untrue. I ... loved Lucius." She swallowed, and he could almost feel the pain in her as if it had been in himself. "I had no thought of anything but marrying him and being happy simply to be with him. Had he been a pauper it would have made not the slightest difference."

He felt she was telling the truth, and yet why had she hesitated? Why had she spoken of her love