The Twisted Root Page 0,110

man who had traded upon their friendship in order to cheat. Hester's mother had died shortly afterwards, largely of grief. Hester had spoken of it only once, unless she had done so more often to Henry when Oliver was not there, perhaps needing to share the burden.

This was a topic of conversation he was dreading. He had deliberately avoided it as long as possible, even to the extent of not coming to Primrose Hill but meeting his father in the City, where private conversations were too liable to interruption. Now it could no longer be deferred.

"Hester seems very well," he answered expressionlessly. At least he thought he had, but judging by Henry's face, perhaps he deluded himself. "Of course, she is deeply concerned for this nurse, both personally and in principle," he added, feeling the warmth rush up his cheeks.

Henry nodded. "I can imagine that she is consumed with her usual fire." He did not say anything about Oliver's motives for accepting what seemed a hopeless case. He was the only person who induced Oliver to make explanations of himself where none had been asked for.

"It matters!" Oliver said urgently, leaning forward a little. He looked at Henry, at his lean and slightly stooped form, his hair very gray, and imagined what he would feel if he had been a soldier or a sailor instead of a mathematician, if he were broken in body, bewildered and alone, unable to afford the care he needed, stripped of the dignity of old age and left only with its helplessness. It was so painful it caught Ms breath. Now the battle was for John Robb, for Henry, for all those affected by injury and age, or who would be in time to come. "It matters far more than any one person," he said passionately. "More than Cleo Anderson or even than Hester - or winning for its own sake. If we allow this injustice without doing all we can against it, what are we worth?"

Henry regarded him gravely, all the humor gone from his eyes. "Very little," he said quietly. "But emotion will not win for you, Oliver. It is an excellent driving force, the best, and it will keep your courage high. Anger at injustice has righted more wrongs than most other things, and it is one of the great creative forces in a civilized society." He shook his head. "But in order not to replace one enemy with another, albeit innocently intended, you must use your intelligence. You told me that you are certain that both Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Gardiner are lying to you. You cannot go into court without knowing at least what the lie is - and why they are telling it at the risk of their own deaths. The reason must be a very powerful one indeed."

"I know that," Oliver agreed. "And I have racked my brain to think what it could be."

"Is it the same reason for each?"

"I don't even know that."

Chapter Eleven

Henry sat thoughtfully, elbows on the arms of his chair, ringers steepled together. "I assume that you warned each of them that not only her own life, but the life of the other, rests upon the verdict. Therefore they each have a compelling reason for not telling you the truth. From what you say it seems possible that Mrs. Anderson does not know it, but certainly Mrs. Gardiner does. Why would a woman hang for a crime she did not commit?" He looked very steadily at Oliver. "Only because the alternative to her is worse."

"What could be worse than hanging?" Oliver asked.

"I don't know. That is what you must find out."

"The hanging of someone you love ..." Oliver said, as much to himself as to Henry.

"Is Lucius Stourbridge guilty?" Henry asked him.

"I don't know," Oliver replied. "I don't know why he could kill either Treadwell or his own mother."

"Treadwell is easier," Henry said thoughtfully. "The man may have threatened Mrs. Gardiner, or threatened the marriage, either through Mrs. Anderson or in some other way. He was a blackmailer. Much is possible. It is far more difficult to think of any motive for Lucius to have killed his mother."

"I've searched for one," Oliver admitted. "I've found nothing."

"It would be extraordinary if the two murders were not connected," Henry pursued, drawing his brows together. "What elements do they have in common?"

"Treadwell himself, and Miriam Gardiner," Oliver replied, "and the nature of the attacks."

"And the unknown," Henry added. "One must always include the possibility of