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“Perhaps you should give me a letter to your cousin Mr. Finnister,” he suggested. “In case anything is said, I shall post it, so there will be no unfortunate repercussions in the future.”
“Thank you. That is most thoughtful of you. I will do so.”
And still angry, and feeling disturbed and confused, he took his leave, walking briskly back toward Fitzroy Street and his rooms.
He could come to no satisfactory conclusion himself. He did not understand the events and the emotions profoundly enough to be confident in a decision. His anger toward Audley Penrose was monumental. He could have seen him punished with intense satisfaction; indeed, he longed to see it. And yet he could understand Marianne’s need to protect not only herself but also Julia.
For once his own reputation as a detective was of secondary importance. Whatever the outcome of his entering the case, he could not even consider improving his professional standing at the expense of ruining either of the women.
Miserable, and in a very short temper, he went to see Callandra Daviot, and his ill humor was exacerbated immediately on finding Hester Latterly present. It was several weeks since he had last seen her, and their parting had been far from friendly. As so often happened, they had quarreled about something more of manner than of substance. In fact, he could not remember what it was now, only that she had been abrasive as usual and unwilling to listen or consider his view. Now she was sitting in Callandra’s best chair, the one he most preferred, looking tired and far from the gently feminine creature Julia Penrose was. Hester’s hair was thick and nearly straight and she had taken little trouble to dress it with curls or braids. Pulled as it was it showed the fine, strong bones of her face and the passionate features, the intelligence far too dominant to be attractive. Her gown was pale blue and the skirt, without hoops, a trifle crushed.
He ignored her and smiled at Callandra. “Good evening, Lady Callandra.” He intended it to be warm, but his general unhappiness flavored it more than he wished.
“Good evening, William,” Callandra replied, the tiniest smile touching the corners of her wide mouth.
Monk turned to Hester. “Good evening, Miss Latterly,” he continued coolly, his disappointment undisguised.
“Good evening, Mr. Monk,” Hester answered, turning around but not rising. “You look out of temper. Have you a disagreeable case?”
“Most criminal cases are disagreeable,” he responded. “Like most illnesses.”
“They both happen,” Hester observed. “Very often to people we like and can help. That is immeasurably pleasing—at least it is to me. If it is not to you, then you should look for another form of employment.”
Monk sat down. He was unexpectedly tired, which was ridiculous because he had done very little. “I have been dealing with tragedy all day, Hester. I am in no mind for trivial sophistry.”
“It is not sophistry,” she snapped. “You were being self-pitying about your work. I pointed out what is good about it.”
“I am not self-pitying.” His voice rose in spite of his resolution that it would not. “Good God! I pity everyone in the affair, except myself. I wish you would not make these slipshod judgments when you know nothing about the situation or the people.”
She stared at him in fury for a moment, then her face lit up with appreciation and amusement. “You don’t know what to do. You are confounded for the moment.”
The only answer that came to his lips was in words he would not use in front of Callandra.
It was Callandra who replied, putting her hand on Hester’s arm to restrain her.
“You should not feel badly about it, my dear,” she said to Monk gently. “There was never much of a chance of learning who it was—if it was anyone. I mean, if it was really an assault.”
Hester looked to Callandra, then to Monk, but she did not interrupt.
“It was an assault,” Monk said more calmly. “And I know who it was, I just don’t know what to do about it.” He ignored Hester, but he was very aware of the change in her; the laughter was gone and suddenly her attention was total and serious.
“Because of what Mrs. Penrose will do with the knowledge?” Callandra asked.
“No—not really.” He looked at her gravely, searching her curious, clever face. “Because of the ruin and the pain it will bring.”
“To the offender?” Callandra asked. “To his family?”
Monk smiled. “No—and yes.”
“Can you speak of it?” Hester asked him, all friction between them brushed aside as if it did not exist. “I assume you have to make a decision, and that is what troubles you?”
“Yes—by tomorrow.”
“Can you tell us?”
He shrugged very slightly and sat back farther in his chair. She had the one he really wanted, but it hardly mattered now. His irritation was gone.
“Marianne lives with her married sister, Julia, and her sister’s husband, Audley Penrose. Marianne says she was raped when she was in the summerhouse in the garden, but she did not know the man.”
