Gardiner’s house. This would be an excellent place to start. He increased his pace. Now he had a specific purpose.
He opened the door, and a bell clanked rustily somewhere inside. An elderly gentleman appeared from behind a curtain and looked at Monk hopefully.
'Yes sir. Lovely day, in’t it? What can I get for you, sir? Tea, candles, half a pound of mint humbugs perhaps?' He waved a hand at the general clutter around him which apparently held all these things and more. 'Or a penny postcard? Ball of string, maybe you need, or sealing wax?'
'Ball of string and sealing wax sounds very useful,' Monk agreed. 'And the humbugs would be excellent on such a warm day. Thank you.'
The man nodded several times, satisfied, and began to find the articles named.
'Mrs. Gardiner said you would have almost anything I might want,' Monk remarked, watching the man carefully.
'Oh, did she?' the man replied without looking up. 'Now, there’s a nice lady, if you like! Happy to see her marry again, and that’s not a lie. Widowed too young, she was. Oh! There’s the sealing wax.' He held it up triumphantly. 'It’s a nice color, that is. Not too orange. Don’t like it to be too orange. Red’s better.'
'I suppose you’ve known her a long time,' Monk remarked casually, nodding back in approval of the shade of the wax.
'Bless you, only since she first came here as a girl, and that’s not a lie,' the man agreed. 'Poor little thing!'
Monk stiffened. What should he say to encourage more confidences without showing his own ignorance or curiosity?
The man found the string and came up from his bending with a ball in each hand.
'There you are, sir,' he said triumphantly, his face shining. 'Which would you prefer? This is good string for parcels and the like, and the other’s softer, better for tying up plants. Don’t cut into the stems, you see?'
'I’ll take both,' Monk answered, his mind racing. 'And two sticks of the sealing wax. As you say, it’s a good color.'
'Good! Good! And the mint humbugs. Never forget the mint humbugs!' He laid the string on the counter and disappeared below it again, presumably searching for more sealing wax. Monk hoped it was not the humbugs down in the dusty recesses.
'I hadn’t realized she was so young when it happened,' Monk observed, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.
'Bless you, no more than twelve or thirteen, and that’s not a lie,' the man answered from his hands and knees where he was searching in the cupboards under the counter. He pulled out a huge box full of envelopes and linen paper. 'Poor little creature. Terrible small she was. Not a soul in the world, so it seemed. Not then. But of course our Cleo took her in.' He pulled out another box of assorted papers. Monk did not care in the slightest about the sealing wax, but he did not want to interrupt the flow. 'Good woman, Cleo Anderson. Heart of gold, whatever anybody says,' the man continued vehemently.
'Please don’t go to trouble.' Monk was abashed by the work he was causing, and he had what he wanted. 'I don’t need more wax, I merely liked the color.'
'Mustn’t be beaten,' the shopkeeper mumbled from the depth of the cupboard. 'That’s what they said at Trafalgar— and Waterloo, no doubt. Can’t have a customer leaving dissatisfied.'
'I suppose you know Mr. Treadwell also?' Monk tried the last question.
'Not as I recall. Ah! Here it is! I knew I had some more somewhere. Half a box of it.' He backed out and stood up, his shoulders covered in dust, a lidless cardboard box in one hand. He beamed at Monk. 'Here you are, sir. How much would you like?'
'Three sticks, thank you,' Monk replied, wondering what on earth he could use it for. 'Is there a good ostler’s yard near here?'
The man leaned over the counter and pointed leftwards, waving his arm. 'About half a mile up that way, and one street over. Can’t miss it. Up towards Mrs. Anderson’s, it is. But you’d know that, knowing Mrs. Gardiner an’ all. That’ll be tenpence ha’penny altogether, sir, if you please. Oh ... an’ here are the humbugs. That’ll be another tuppence, if you please.'
Monk took his purchases, thanked him and paid, then set out towards the ostler’s yard feeling pleased with himself.
He needed to find Miriam. The details of her youth were of value only inasmuch as they either explained her extraordinary behavior or indicated where she was now.
The ostler’s yard was precisely where the shopkeeper had pointed.
'Yes,' an old man said, sucking on a straw. He was bow-legged and smelled of the stable yard, horse sweat, hay and leather. ' ’E come ’ere often. Right ’andsome pair, they was. Perfick match, pace fer pace.'
'Good with horses, was he?' Monk enquired casually.
'Not as I’d say ’good,’ ' the ostler qualified. ' ’Fair,’ more like it.' He looked at Monk through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to explain himself.
Monk made a grimace of disgust. 'Not what he told me. That’s why I thought I’d check.'
'Don’t make no matter now.' The ostler spat out the straw, 'Dead, poor swine. Not that I’d much time fer ’im. Saucy bastard, ’e were. Always full o’ lip. But I wouldn’t wish that on ’im. Yer not from ’round ’ere, or yer’d o’ know’d ’e were dead. Murdered, ’e were. On Mrs. Anderson’s footpath, practically, an’ ’er a good woman, an’ all. Looked after my Annie, she did, summink wonderful.' He shook his head. 'Nuffink weren’t too much trouble for ’er.'
Monk seized the chance. 'A very fine woman,' he agreed. 'Took in Mrs. Gardiner, too, I believe, when she was just a child.'
