The Twisted Root Page 0,56

Turn your energies towards that, Mrs. Monk, and you will do the greatest service. Honesty! That will save the sick from their diseases and the morally destitute from the wages of sin, both spiritual and temporal." He smiled. He was well satisfied with that.

Hester made a tactical retreat before he could further pursue the question of missing medicines.

She had already made up her mind to call upon old Mr. Robb to see if there was anything she could do to help him. She could not forget Monk's description of his distress, and that was at least one thing she could accomplish regardless of Fermin Thorpe's power.

It was a fine summer afternoon, and not a long walk to the street where Monk had said Robb lived. She did not know the number, but only one enquiry was necessary to discover the answer.

The houses were all clean and shabby, some with whited steps, others merely well swept. She debated whether to knock or not. From what Monk had said, the old man could not rise to answer, and yet to walk in unannounced was a terrible intrusion into the privacy of a man too ill to defend even his own small space.

She settled for standing in the doorway and calling out his name. She waited a few moments in silence, then called again.

"Who is it?" The voice was a deep, soft rumble.

"My name is Hester ... Monk." She had so very nearly said "Latterly." She was not used to her new name yet. "My husband called on you the other day." She must not make him feel pitied, a suitable case for charity. It would be so easy to do with a careless phrase. "He spoke of you so well, I wished to call upon you myself."

"Your husband? I don't remember..." He started to cough, and it became worse so quickly that she abandoned politeness, pushed the door open and went in.

The room was small and cluttered with furniture, but it was clean and as tidy as possible when it was occupied all the time and the necessities of life had to be kept available.

She went straight over to the sink and found a cup, filled it with water from the ewer standing on the bench, and took it over to him, holding it to his lips. There was little else she could do for him. His body shuddered as he gasped for breath, and she could hear the rattling of phlegm in his chest, but it was too deep for him to bring up.

After a minute or two the coughing subsided, more rapidly than she had expected, and he took the water from her gratefully, sipping it and letting it slide down his throat. He handed her back the cup.

"Sorry, miss," he said huskily. "Touch o' the bronchitis. Silly this time o' the year."

Chapter Six

"It can happen any time, if you are subject to it," she answered, smiling at him. "Sometimes in the summer it's worse. Harder to get rid of."

"You're surely right," he agreed, nodding slightly. He was still pale and his cheeks were a little flushed. She guessed he probably had a low fever.

"What can I do for you, miss? If you're looking for my grandson, he isn't here. He's a policeman, and he's at work. Very good he is, too. A sergeant." His pride was obvious, but far more than that, a kind of shining certainty that had nothing to do with the nature of his grandson's work but everything to do with the nature of the man.

"It was you I came to see," she reminded him. She must find a reason he would accept. "My husband said you were a sailor and had seen some great days - some of the most important battles in England's history."

He looked at her sideways. "An' what would a young lady like you want with stories of old battles what was over and won before you were even born?"

"If they were over and lost, I'd be speaking French," she replied, meeting his eyes with a laugh.

"Well... I s'pose that's true. Still, you know that without coming all the way here to see me." He was faintly suspicious of her. Young women of educated speech and good manners did not casually call on an old and ill sailor who, from the contents of the room, was having desperate trouble finding sufficient money merely to eat, let alone buy fuel for the winter.

A portion of the truth was the best answer, perhaps