The Twisted Root

1
 
THE YOUNG MAN stood in the doorway, his face pale, his fingers clenched on his hat, twisting it around and around.
 
"Mr. William Monk, agent of enquiry?" he asked. He looked to be in his early twenties.
 
"Yes," Monk acknowledged, rising to his feet. "Come in, sir. How can I assist you?"
 
"Lucius Stourbridge." He held out his hand, coming farther into the room. He did not even glance at the two comfortable armchairs or the bowl of flowers pleasantly scenting the air. These had been Hester’s idea. Monk had been perfectly happy with the sparse and serviceable appearance the rooms had presented before.
 
"How can I help you, Mr. Stourbridge?" Monk asked, indicating one of the chairs.
 
“Lucius Stourbridge sat uncomfortably on the edge of it, looking as if he did so more because he had been instructed to than from any desire. He stared at Monk intently, his eyes filled with misery.
 
"I am betrothed to be married, Mr. Monk," he began. "My future wife is the most charming, generous and noble-minded person you could wish to meet." He glanced down, then up at Monk again quickly. The ghost of a smile crossed his face and vanished. "I am aware that my opinion is prejudiced, and I must sound naive, but you will find that others also regard her most highly, and my parents have a sincere affection for her."
 
“I don’t doubt you, Mr. Stourbridge," Monk assured him, but he was uncomfortable with what he believed this young man would ask of him. Even when he most urgently needed work he only reluctantly accepted matrimonial cases. And having just returned from an extravagant three-week honeymoon in the Highlands of Scotland, this was rapidly becoming one of those times. He had an agreement with his friend and patron, Lady Callandra Daviot, that in return for informing her of his most interesting cases, and—where she wished— including her in the day-to-day process, she would replenish his funds, at least sufficiently for his survival. But he had no desire or intention that he should avail himself of her generosity any longer.
 
"What is it that troubles you, Mr. Stourbridge?" he asked.
 
Lucius looked utterly wretched. "Miriam—Mrs. Gardiner— has disappeared."
 
Monk was puzzled. "Mrs. Gardiner?"
 
Lucius shook himself impatiently. "Mrs. Gardiner is a widow. She is ..." He hesitated, a mixture of irritation and embarrassment in his face. "She is a few years older than I. It is of no consequence.”
 
If a young woman fled her betrothal it was a purely private matter. If there was no crime involved, and no reason to suppose illness, then whether she returned or not was her decision. Monk would not ordinarily have involved himself. However, his own happiness was so sharp he felt an uncharacteristic sympathy for the anguished young man who sat on the chair opposite him so obviously at his wits’ end.
 
Monk could never before remember having felt that the world was so supremely right. Of course, this was midsummer 1860, and he had no memory, except in flashes, of anything at all before the coaching accident in 1856, from which he had woken in hospital with a mind completely blank. Even so, it was beyond his ability to imagine anything so complete as the well-being that filled him now.
 
After Hester had accepted his proposal of marriage he had been alternately elated and then beset by misgivings that such a step would destroy forever the unique trust they had built between them. Perhaps they could not satisfactorily be anything more than friends, colleagues in the fierce pursuit of justice. He had spent many bleak nights awake, cold with the fear of losing something which seemed more and more precious with every additional thought of no longer possessing it.
 
But as it happened, every fear had vanished like a shadow before the rising sun over the great sweeping hills they had walked together. Even though he had discovered in her all the warmth and passion he could have wished, she was still as perfectly willing and capable of quarreling with him as always, of being perverse, of laughing at him, and of making silly mistakes herself. Not a great deal had changed, except that now there was a physical intimacy of a sweetness he could not have dreamed, and it was the deeper for having been so long in the discovery.
 
So he did not dismiss Lucius Stourbridge as his better judgment might dictate.
 
“Perhaps you had better tell me precisely what happened," he said gently.
 
Lucius took a gulp of air. "Yes." Deliberately, he steadied himself. "Yes, of course. Naturally. I’m sorry, I seem to be a little incoherent. This has all struck me ... very hard. I don’t know what to think."
 
So much was quite apparent, and Monk with difficulty forbore from saying so. He was not naturally tolerant. "If you would begin by telling me when you last saw Miss—Mrs. Gardiner, that would be a place from which to proceed," he suggested.
 
"Of course," Lucius agreed. "We live in Cleveland Square, in Bayswater, not far from Kensington Gardens. We were having a small party in celebration of our forthcoming marriage. It was a beautiful day, and we were playing a game of croquet, when quite suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Miriam—Mrs. Gardiner—became extremely distraught and rushed from the garden. I did not see her go, or I would have gone after her—to find out if she was ill or if I could help..."
 
“Is she often ill?" Monk asked curiously. Genuine invalids were one thing, but young women subject to fits of the vapors were creatures with whom he had no patience at all. And if he were to help this unfortunate young man, he must know as much of the truth as possible.
 
"No," Lucius said sharply. "She is of excellent health and most equable and sensible temperament."
 
Monk found himself flushing very slightly. If anyone had suggested Hester were the fainting sort he would have pointed out with asperity that she indisputably had more stomach for a fight, or a disaster, than they had themselves. As a nurse on the battlefields of the Crimea she had more than proved that true. But there was no need to apologize to Lucius Stourbridge. It had been a necessary question.
 
“Who saw her leave?" he asked calmly.
 
"My uncle, Aiden Campbell, who was staying with us at the time—indeed, he still is. And I believe my mother also, and one or two of the servants and other guests."
 
"And was she ill?"
 
"I don’t know. That is the point, Mr. Monk! No one has seen her since. And that was three days ago."
 
"And those people who did see her," Monk said patiently, "what did they tell you? Surely she cannot simply have walked out of the garden into the street alone, without money or luggage, and disappeared?"
 
"Oh ... no," Lucius corrected himself. "The coachman, Treadwell, is missing also, and, of course, one of the coaches."
 
"So it would appear that Treadwell took her somewhere," Monk concluded. "Since she left the croquet match of her own will, presumably she asked him to take her. What do you know of Treadwell?"
 
Lucius shrugged slightly, but his face was, if anything, even paler. "He has been with the family for three or four years. I believe he is perfectly satisfactory. He is related to the cook—a nephew or something. You don’t think he could have... harmed her?”
 
Monk had no idea, but there was no purpose in causing unnecessary distress. The young man was in a desperate enough state as it was.
 
"I think it far more likely he merely took her wherever she wished to go," he replied, and then realized his answer made no sense. If that were the case, Treadwell would have returned within hours. "But it does seem as if he may have taken your carriage for his own purposes." Other far darker thoughts came to his mind, but it was too soon to speak of them yet. There were many other simpler answers of everyday private tragedy which were more likely, the most probable being that Miriam Gardiner had simply changed her mind about the marriage but had lacked the courage to face young Lucius Stourbridge and tell him so.
 
Lucius leaned forward. "But do you believe Miriam is safe, Mr. Monk? If she is, why has she not contacted me?" His throat was so tight his words were half strangled. "I have done everything I can think of. I have spoken with every one of my friends she might have gone to. I have searched my mind for anything I could have said or done to cause her to mistrust me, and I can think of nothing. We were so close, Mr. Monk. I am as certain of that as of anything on earth. We were not only in love, but we were the best of friends. I could speak to her of anything, and she seemed to understand, indeed, to share my views and tastes in a way which made her at once the most exciting and yet the most comfortable person to be with." He colored faintly. "Perhaps that sounds absurd to you—"
 
“No," Monk said quickly, too quickly. He had spoken it from the heart, and he was not accustomed to revealing so much of himself, certainly not to a prospective client in a case he did not really want and which he believed impossible to see to a happy solution.
 
Lucius Stourbridge was gazing at him intensely, his wide, brown eyes deeply troubled.