by Anne Perry
“I have some knowledge of Yorkshire,” Monk replied, hiding his smile. “Halifax will do. I shall see you this afternoon, Mrs. Penrose.”
“Thank you. Good day, Mr. Monk.” And with a slight inflection of her head she waited while he opened the door for her, then took her leave, walking straight-backed, head high, out into Fitzroy Street and north toward the square, and in a hundred yards or so, the Euston Road.
Monk closed the door and went back to his office room. He had lately moved here from his old lodgings around the comer in Grafton Street. He had resented Hester’s interference in suggesting the move in her usual high-handed manner, but when she had explained her reasons, he was obliged to agree. In Grafton Street his rooms were up a flight of stairs and to the back. His landlady had been a motherly soul, but not used to the idea of his being in private practice and unwilling to show prospective clients up. Also they were obliged to pass the doors of other residents, and occasionally to meet them on the stairs or the hall or landing. This arrangement was much better. Here a maid answered the door without making her own inquiries as to people’s business and simply showed them in to Monk’s very agreeable ground-floor sitting room. Grudgingly at first, he conceded it was a marked improvement.
Now to prepare to investigate the rape of Miss Marianne Gillespie, a delicate and challenging matter, far more worthy of his mettle than petty theft or the reputation of an employee or suitor.
It was a beautiful day when he set out: a hot, high summer sun beating on the pavements, making the leafier squares pleasant refuges from the shimmering light hazy with the rising smoke of distant factory chimneys. Carriages clattered along the street past him, harnesses jingling, as people rode out to take the air or to pay early afternoon calls, drivers and footmen in livery, brasses gleaming. The smell of fresh horse droppings was pungent in the warmth and a twelve-year-old crossing sweeper mopped his brow under a floppy cap.
Monk walked to Hastings Street. It was little over a mile and the additional time would give him further opportunity to think. He welcomed the challenge of a more difficult case, one which would test his skills. Since the trial of Alexandra Carlyon he had had nothing but trivial matters, things that as a policeman he would have delegated to the most junior constable.
Of course the Carlyon case had been different. That had tested him to the utmost. He remembered it with a complexity of feelings, at once triumphant and painful. And with thought of it came memory of Hermione, and unconsciously he lengthened his pace on the hot pavement, his body tightened and his mouth clenched shut in a hard line. He had been afraid when her face first came fleetingly into his mind; a shred of the past returned, uncertain, haunting him with echoes of love, tenderness, and terrible anxiety. He knew he had cared for her, but not when or how, if she had loved him, what had happened between them that he had nothing left, no letters, no pictures, no reference to her in his possessions.
But regardless of memory, his skill was always there, dedicated and ruthless. He had found her again. Fragment by fragment he had pieced it together until he stood on the doorstep and at last he knew her, the whole gentle almost childlike face, the brown eyes, the halo of hair. The entire memory flooded back.
He swallowed hard. Why was he deliberately hurting himself? The disillusion burned over him in anger as if it had been only moments ago, the searing knowledge that she preferred the comfortable existence of half love; emotions that did not challenge; commitment of the mind and body, but not of the heart; always a reservation to avoid the possibility of real pain.
Her gentleness was accommodation, not compassion. She had not the courage to do more than sip at life; she would never drain the cup.
He was walking so blindly he bumped into an elderly man in a frock coat and apologized perfunctorily. The man stared after him with irritation, his whiskers bristling. An open landau passed with a group of young women huddled together and giggling as one of them waved to some acquaintance. The ribbons on their bonnets danced in the breeze and their huge skirts made them seem to be sitting on mounds of flowered cushions.
Monk had already resolved to look no further into the emotions of his past. He knew more than he wanted to about Hermione; and he had detected or deduced enough about the man who had been his benefactor and mentor, and who would have introduced him into successful commerce had he not been cheated into ruin himself—a fate from which Monk had tried so hard to rescue him, and failed. It was then, in outrage at the injustice, that he had abandoned commerce and joined the police, to fight against such crime; although as far as he could remember, he had never caught that particular fraud. Please God at least he had tried. He could remember nothing, and he felt sick at the thought of trying, in case his discovery shed even further ugly light on the man he had been.
But he had been brilliant. Nothing cast shadow or doubt on that. Even since the accident he had solved the Grey case, the Moidore case, and then the Carlyon case. Not even his worst enemy—and so far that seemed to be Runcorn, although one never knew who else he might discover—but not even Runcorn had said he lacked courage, honesty, or the will to dedicate himself totally to the pursuit of truth, and labor till he dropped, without counting the cost. Although it seemed he did not count the cost to others either.
At least John Evan liked him, although of course he had known him only since the accident, but he had liked him whatever the circumstances. And he had chosen to continue something of a relationship even after Monk had left the force. It was one of the best things to have happened, and Monk hugged it to himself, a warm and acutely valuable thing, a friendship to be nurtured and guarded from his own hasty temper and biting tongue.
Hester Latterly was a different matter. She had been a nurse in the Crimea and was now home in an England that had no use for highly intelligent, and even more highly opinionated, young women—although she was not so young. She was probably at least thirty, too old to be considered favorably for marriage, and thus destined to either continue working to support herself or be permanently dependent upon the charity of some male relative. Hester would loathe that.
To begin with she had found a position in a hospital here in London, but in a very short time her outspoken counsel to doctors, and finally her total insubordination in treating a patient herself, had earned her dismissal. The fact that she had almost certainly saved the patient’s life only added to the offense. Nurses were for cleaning the ward, emptying slops, winding bandages, and generally doing as they were told. The practice of medicine was for doctors alone.
After that she had taken up private nursing. Goodness only knew where she was at this moment. Monk did not.
He was in Hastings Street. Number fourteen was only a few yards away, on the far side. He crossed over, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. It was a gracious house, neo-Georgian, and spoke of quiet respectability.
After a moment or two the door was opened by a maid in a blue stuff dress and white cap and apron.
“Yes sir?” she said inquiringly.
“Good afternoon.” He held his hat in his hand courteously, but as if fully expecting to be admitted. “My name is William Monk.” He produced a card which gave his name and address but not his occupation. “I am an acquaintance of Mr. Albert Finnister of Halifax, whom I believe to be a cousin of Mrs. Penrose and Miss Gillespie. Since I was in the area, I wondered if I might pay my respects?”
“Mr. Finnister, you said, sir?”
“That is correct, of Halifax in Yorkshire.”
“If you’d like to wait in the morning room, Mr. Monk, I will see if Mrs. Penrose is at home.”
The morning room where he waited was comfortably furnished but with a care which spoke of a well-managed economy. There was no unnecessary expense. Decoration was a home-stitched sampler modestly framed, a print of a romantic landscape, and a rather splendid mirror. The chair backs were protected by well-laundered antimacassars, and the armrests were worn where countless hands had rubbed them. Certainly there was something of a trac
k across the carpet from door to fireplace. A nicely arranged vase of white daisies sat on the low central table, a pleasingly feminine touch. The bookcase had one brass doorknob which was not quite the same as the others. Altogether it was an agreeable, unexceptional room, designed for comfort rather than to impress.
The door opened and the maid informed him that Mrs. Penrose and Miss Gillespie would be delighted to receive him, if he would come to the withdrawing room.
He followed her obediently back across the hall again to another, larger room, but this time there was no opportunity to look about him. Julia Penrose was standing by the window in a rose-colored afternoon dress, and a young woman about eighteen or nineteen, whom he assumed to be Marianne, was sitting on the small sofa. She looked very pale in spite of her darker natural coloring, hair almost black and springing from her brow in a remarkable widow’s peal. She also had a small mole high on her left cheekbone in what Monk thought the Regency dandies would have called the “gallant” position. Her eyes were very blue.
Julia came forward, smiling. “How do you do, Mr. Monk. How charming of you to call upon us,” she said for the maid’s benefit. “May we offer you some refreshment? Janet, please bring us some tea and cakes. You will have cakes, Mr. Monk?”
He accepted politely, but as soon as the maid was gone the charade fell away. Julia introduced him to Marianne and invited him to begin his task. She stood behind her sister’s chair with her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder as if she would give her of her own strength and resolve.
Monk had dealt with a case of assault upon a woman only once before. Rape was very seldom reported because of the shame and the scandal attached. He had given a great deal of thought how to begin, but still he was uncertain.
“Please tell me what you remember, Miss Gillespie,” he said quietly. He was not sure whether to smile or not. She might take it as a lightness on his part, as if he had no sympathy with her. And yet if he did not, he knew his features were of a naturally grim cast.
She swallowed and cleared her throat, then cleared it again. Julia’s hand tightened on her shoulder.
“I really don’t remember very much, Mr. Monk,” she apologized. “It was very—unpleasant. At first I tried to forget it. Maybe you cannot understand that, and I daresay I am to blame—but I did not realize …” She stopped.
“It is quite natural,” he assured her with more sincerity than she could know. “We all try to forget what hurts us. It is sometimes the only way we can continue.”
Her eyes widened in sudden surprise and a faint flush touched her cheeks.
“How sensitive of you.” There was profound gratitude in her face, but no easing of the tension which gripped her.
“What can you tell me about it, Miss Gillespie?” he asked again.
Julia made as if to speak, then with an effort changed her mind. Monk realized she was some ten or twelve years older than her sister and felt a fierce sense of protection toward her.
Marianne looked down at her small square hands clenched in the lap of her enormous skirt.
“I don’t know who it was,” she said very quietly.
“We know that, dear,” Julia said quickly, leaning forward a little. “That is what Mr. Monk is here to find out. Just tell him what you know—what you told me.”
“He won’t be able to find out,” Marianne protested. “How could he, when I don’t know myself? Anyway, you cannot undo it, even if you did know. What good will it do?” Her face was set in utter determination. “I’m not going to accuse anyone.”
“Of course not!” Julia agreed. “That would be terrible for you. Quite unthinkable. But there are other ways. I shall see that he never comes near you again, or any other decent young woman. Please just answer Mr. Monk’s questions, dear. It is an offense which cannot be allowed to happen. It would be quite wrong of us to continue as if it did not matter.”
“Where were you when it happened, Miss Gillespie?” Monk interrupted. He did not want to be drawn into the argument as to what action could be taken if they discovered the man. That was for them. They knew the consequences far better than he.
“In the summerhouse,” Marianne replied.
Instinctively Monk glanced toward the windows, but he could see only sunlight through the cascading leaves of a weeping elm and the lush pink of a rose beyond.
“Here?” he asked. “In your own garden?”
“Yes. I go there quite often—to paint.”
“Often? So anyone familiar with your day might have expected to find you there?”
She colored painfully. “I—suppose so. But I am sure that can having nothing to do with it.”
He did not reply to that. “What time of day was it?” he asked instead.
“I am not certain. About half past three, I think. Or perhaps a little later. Maybe four.” She shrugged very slightly. “Or even half past. I was not thinking of time.”
“Before or after tea?”
“Oh—yes—I see. After tea. I suppose it must have been half past four then.”
“Do you have a gardener?”
“It wasn’t he!” she said, jerking forward in some alarm.
“Of course not,” he soothed. “Or you would have known him. I was wondering if he had seen anyone. If he had been in the garden it might help to determine where the man came from, which direction, and perhaps how he left, even the precise time.”
“Oh yes—I see.”
“We do have a gardener,” Julia said with keenness quickening in her face and some admiration for Monk lighting her eyes. “His name is Rodwell. He is here three days a week, in the afternoons. That was one of his days. Tomorrow he will be back again. You could ask him then.”
“I shall do,” Monk promised, turning back to Marianne. “Miss Gillespie, is there anything at all about the man you can recall? For example,” he continued quickly, seeing her about to deny it, “how was he dressed?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.” Her hands knotted more tightly in her lap, and she stared at him with mounting nervousness.
“Was he dressed in a dark jacket such as a man of business might wear?” he explained. “Or a working smock, like a gardener? Or a white shirt, like a man of leisure?”
“Oh.” She seemed relieved. “Yes. I see. I think I recall something—something pale.” She nodded, becoming more assured. “Yes, a pale jacket, such as gentlemen sometimes wear in the summer.”
“Was he bearded, or clean shaven?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Clean shaven.”
“Can you remember anything else about his appearance? Was he dark or fair, large or small?”
“I—I don’t know. I—” She took a sharp breath. “I suppose I must have had my eyes closed. It was …”
“Hush, dear,” Julia said quickly, tightening her hand on Marianne’s shoulder again. “Really, Mr. Monk, she cannot tell you anything more of him. It is a most terrible experience. I am only glad it has not turned her mind. Such things have been known to.”
Monk retreated, uncertain just how far he ought to press. It was a terror and revulsion he could only imagine. Nothing could show to him her experience.
“Are you sure you wish to pursue it?” he asked as gently as he could, looking not at Julia but at Marianne.
However, as before, it was Julia who answered.
“We must.” There was resolute decision in her voice. “Quite apart from justice, she must be protected from ever encountering this man again. You must persevere, Mr. Monk. What else is there that we can tell you that may be of use?”
“Perhaps you would show me the summerhouse?” he asked, rising to his feet.
“Of course,” Julia agreed immediately. “You must see it, or how else can you judge for yourself?” She looked at Marianne. “Do you wish to come, dear, or would you rather not?” She turned back to Monk. “She has not been there since it happened.”
Monk was about to say that he would be present to protect her from any danger, then reali
zed just in time that being alone with a man she had newly met might in itself be enough to alarm her. He felt he was foundering. It was going to be even harder than he had anticipated.
But Marianne surprised him.
“No—that is quite all right, Julia,” she said firmly. “I will take Mr. Monk and show him. Perhaps tea will come while we are out, and we shall be able to return to it.” And without waiting for Julia’s reply, she led the way out into the hall and to the side door into the garden.
After a glance at Julia, Monk followed her and found himself outside in a small but extremely pleasant paved yard under the shade of a laburnum tree and a birch of some sort. Ahead of them stretched a long, narrow lawn and he could see a wooden summerhouse about fifteen yards away.
He walked behind Marianne over the grass under the trees and into the sun. The summerhouse was a small building with glassed windows and a seat inside. There was no easel there now, but plenty of room where one might have stood.
Marianne turned around on the step.
“It was here,” she said simply.
He regarded his surroundings with care, absorbing the details. There was at least a twenty-foot distance of grass in every direction, to the herbaceous border and the garden walls on three sides, to the arbor and the house on the fourth. She must have been concentrating very profoundly on her painting not to have noticed the man approach, and the gardener must have been at the front of the house or in the small kitchen herb garden at the side.
“Did you cry out?” he asked, turning to her.
Her face tightened. “I—I don’t think so. I don’t remember.” She shuddered violently and stared at him in silence. “I—I might have. It is all …” She stared at him in silence again.
“Never mind,” he dismissed it. There was no use in making her so distressed that she could recall nothing clearly. “Where did you first see him?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did you see him coming toward you across the grass?” he asked.
She looked at him in total confusion.