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“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?”
