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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.”
