The Twisted Root Page 0,132

hunched forward, hugging herself, her face washed out of all color. She had told Monk of John Robb's death quite simply and without regret, knowing it to be a release from the bonds of a failing body, but he could see very clearly in her manner that she felt the loss profoundly.

"Saves effort," Monk said, looking across at Rathbone. "Why bury them and then have to go to the trouble and considerable risk of digging them up again if you can simply bury bricks in the first place?"

"And Treadwell carried them?" Rathbone wanted to assure himself he had understood. "Are you certain?"

"Yes. If I had to I could call enough witnesses to leave no doubt."

"And was he blackmailing Fermin Thorpe?"

Monk looked rueful. "That I don't know. Certainly I've no proof, and I hate to admit it, but it seems unlikely. Why would he? He was making a very nice profit in the business. The last thing he would want would be to get Thorpe prosecuted."

The truth of that was unarguable, and Rathbone conceded it. "Have we learned anything that could furnish a defense? I have nowhere even to begin..."

Hester stared at him miserably and shook her head.

"No," Monk said wretchedly. "We could probably get Thorpe to get rid of the charges of theft - at least to drop them - and I would dearly enjoy doing it, but it wouldn't help with the murder. We don't have anything but your skill." He looked at Rathbone honestly, and there was a respect in his eyes which at any other time Rathbone would have fourid very sweet to savor. As it was, all he could think of was that he would have given most of what he possessed if he could have been sure he was worthy of it.

At seven o'clock on Monday morning Rathbone was at the door of Miriam's cell. A sullen wardress let him in. She had none of the regard or the pity for Miriam that the police jailer had had for Cleo.

The door clanged shut behind him, and Miriam looked up. She was a shadow of her former self. She looked physically bruised, as if her whole body hurt.

There was no time to mince words.

"I am going into battle without weapons," he said simply. "I accept that you would rather sacrifice your own life at the end of a rope than tell me who killed Treadwell and Verona Stourbridge - but are you quite sure you are willing to repay all Cleo Anderson has done for you by sacrificing hers also?"

Miriam looked as if she was going to faint. She had difficulty finding her voice.

"I've told you, Sir Oliver, even if you knew, no one would believe you. I could tell you everything, and it would only do more harm. Don't you think I would do anything on earth to save Cleo if I could? She is the dearest person in the world to me - except perhaps Lucius. And I know how much I owe her. You do not need to remind me as though I were unaware. If I could hang in her place I would! If you can bring that about I will be forever in your debt. I will confess to killing Treadwell - if it will help."

Looking into her wide eyes and ashen face, he believed her. He had no doubt in his mind that she would die with dignity and a quiet heart if she could believe she had saved Cleo. That did not mean Cleo was innocent in fact, only that Miriam loved her, and perhaps that she believed the death sufficiently understandable in the light of Treadwell's own crimes.

"I will do what I can," he said quietly. "I am not sure if that is worth anything."

She said nothing, but gave him a thin wraith of a smile.

The trial resumed in a half-empty court.

Rathbone was already in his seat when he saw Hester come in, push her way past the court usher with a swift word to which he was still replying as she left him, and come to Rathbone's table.

"What is it?" he asked, looking at her pale, tense face. "What's happened?"

"I went to Cleo this morning," she whispered, leaning close to him. "She knows Miriam will hang and there is nothing you can do unless the truth is told. She knows only a part of it, but she cannot bear to lose Miriam, whomever else it hurts - even if it is Lucius and Miriam never forgives her."

"What