A sudden, fearful death

To Elizabeth Sweeney, for her
friendship, and patience in reading my handwriting

Chapter
1

Chapter
2

Chapter
3

Chapter
4

Chapter
5

Chapter
6

Chapter
7

Chapter
8

Chapter
9

Chapter
10

Chapter
11

Chapter
12

Chapter 1

When she first came into the room,
Monk thought it would simply be another case of domestic petty theft, or
investigating the character and prospects of some suitor. Not that he would
have refused such a task; he could not afford to. Lady Callandra Daviot, his
benefactress, would provide sufficient means to see that he kept his lodgings
and ate at least two meals a day, but both honor and pride necessitated that he
take every opportunity that offered itself to earn his own way.

This new client was well dressed,
her bonnet neat and pretty. Her wide crinoline skirts accentuated her waist and
slender shoulders, and made her look fragile and very young, although she was
close to thirty. Of course the current fashion tended to do that for all
women, but the illusion was powerful, and it still woke in most men a desire
to protect and a certain rather satisfying feeling of gallantry.

"Mr. Monk?" she inquired
tentatively. "Mr. William Monk?"

He was used to people's nervousness
when first approaching him. It was not easy to engage an inquiry agent. Most
matters about which one would wish such steps taken were of their very nature
essentially private.

Monk rose to his feet and tried to
compose his face into an expression of friendliness without overfamiliarity. It
was not easy for him; neither his features nor his personality lent itself to
it.

"Yes ma'am. Please be
seated." He indicated one of the two armchairs, a suggestion to the decor
of his rooms made by Hester Latterly, his sometimes friend, sometimes antagonist,
and frequent assistant, whether he wished it or not. However, this particular
idea, he was obliged to admit, had been a good one.

Still gripping her shawl about her
shoulders, the woman sat down on the very edge of the chair, her back ramrod
straight, her fair face tense with anxiety. Her narrow, beautiful hazel eyes
never left his.

"How may I help you?" He
sat on the chair opposite her, leaning back and crossing his legs comfortably.
He had been in the police force until a violent difference of opinion had
precipitated his departure. Brilliant, acerbic, and at times ruthless, Monk was
not used to setting people at their ease or courting their custom. It was an
art he was learning with great difficulty, and only necessity had made him seek
it at all.

She bit her lip and took a deep
breath before plunging in.

"My name is Julia Penrose, or
I should say more correctly, Mrs. Audley Penrose. I live with my husband and
my younger sister just south of the Euston Road. ..." She stopped, as if
his knowledge of the area might matter and she had to assure herself of it.

"A very pleasant
neighborhood." He nodded. It meant she probably had a house of moderate
size, a garden of some sort, and kept at least two or three servants. No doubt
it was a domestic theft, or a suitor for the sister about whom she entertained
doubts.

She looked down at her hands, small
and strong in their neat gloves. For several seconds she struggled for words.

His patience broke.

"What is it that concerns you,
Mrs. Penrose? Unless you tell me, I cannot help."

"Yes, yes I know that,"
she said very quietly. "It is not
easy for me, Mr.
Monk. I realize I am wasting your time, and I apologize...."

"Not at all," he said
grudgingly.

She looked up, her face pale but a
flash of humor in her eyes. She made a tremendous effort. "My sister has
been ... molested, Mr. Monk. I wish to know who was responsible."

So it was not a petty matter after
all.

"I'm sorry," he said
gently, and he meant it. He did not need to ask why she had not called the
police. The thought of making such a thing public would crush most people beyond
bearing. Society's judgment of a woman who had been sexually assaulted, to
whatever degree, was anything from prurient curiosity to the conviction that in
some way she must have warranted such a fate. Even the woman herself,
regardless of the circumstances, frequently felt that in some unknown way she
was to blame, and that such things did not happen to the innocent. Perhaps it
was people's way of coping with the horror it engendered, the fear that they might
become similar victims. If it were in some way the woman's own fault, then it
could be avoided by the just and the careful. The answer was simple.

"I wish you to find out who it
was, Mr. Monk," she said again, looking at him earnestly.

"And if I do, Mrs.
Penrose?" he asked. "Have you thought what you will do then? I assume
from the fact that you have not called the police that you do not wish to prosecute?"

The fair skin of her face became
even paler. "No, of course not," she said huskily. "You must be
aware of what such a court case would be like. I think it might be even worse
than the—the event, terrible as that must have been." She shook her head.
"No—absolutely not! Have you any idea how people can be about ..."

"Yes," he said quickly.
"And also the chances of a conviction are not very good, unless there is
considerable injury. Was your sister injured, Mrs. Penrose?"

Her eyes dropped and a faint flush
crept up her cheeks.

"No, no, she was not—not in
any way that can now be proved." Her voice sank even lower. "If you
understand me? I prefer not to ... discuss—it would be indelicate ..."

"I see." And indeed he
did. He was not sure whether he believed the young woman in question had been
assaulted, or if she had told her sister that she had in order to explain a
lapse in her own standards of morality. But already he felt a definite sympathy
with the woman here in front of him. Whatever had happened, she now faced a
budding tragedy.

She looked at him with hope and
uncertainty. "Can you help us, Mr. Monk? 'Least—at least as long as my
money lasts? I have saved a little from my dress allowance, and I can pay you
up to twenty pounds in total." She did not wish to insult him, and
embarrass herself, and she did not know how to avoid either.

He felt an uncharacteristic lurch
of pity. It was not a feeling which came to him easily. He had seen so much
suffering, almost all of it more violent and physical than Julia Penrose's,
and he had long ago exhausted his emotions and built around himself a shell of
anger which preserved his sanity. Anger drove him to action; it could be
exorcised and leave him drained at the end of the day, and able to sleep.

"Yes, that will be quite
sufficient," he said to her. "I should be able either to discover who
it is or tell you that it is not possible. I assume you have asked your sister,
and she has been unable to tell you?"

"Yes indeed," she
responded. "And naturally she finds it difficult to recall the
event—nature assists us in putting from our minds that which is too dreadful to
bear."

"I know," he said with a
harsh, biting humor she would never comprehend. It was barely a year ago, in
the summer of 1856, just at the close of the war in the Crimea, that he had
been involved in a coaching accident and woken in the narrow gray cot of a
hospital, cold with terror that it might be the workhouse and knowing nothing
of himself at all, not even his name. Certainly it was the crack to his head
which had brought it on, but as fragments of memory had returned, snatches here
and there, there was still a black horror which held most of it from him, a
dread of learning the unbearable. Piece by piece he had rediscovered something
of himself. Still, most of it was unknown, guessed at, not remembered. Much of
it had hurt him. The man who emerged was not easy to like and he still felt a
dark fear about things he might yet discover: acts of ruthlessness, ambition,
brilliance without mercy. Yes, he knew all about the need to forget what the
mind or the heart could not cope with.

She was staring at him, her face
creased with puzzlement and growing concern.

He recalled himself hastily.
"Yes of course, Mrs. Penrose. It is quite natural that your sister should
have blanked from her memory an event so distressing. Did you tell her you intended
coming to see me?"

"Oh yes," she said
quickly. "It would be quite pointless to attempt to do it behind her back,
so to speak. She was not pleased, but she appreciates that it is by far the
best way." She leaned a little farther forward. "To be frank, Mr.
Monk, I believe she was so relieved I did not call the police that she accepted
it without the slightest demur."

It was not entirely flattering, but
catering to his self-esteem was something he had not been able to afford for
some time.

"Then she will not refuse to
see me?" he said aloud.

"Oh no, although I would ask
you to be as considerate as possible." She colored faintly, raising her
eyes to look at him very directly. There was a curiously firm set to her
slender jaw. It was a very feminine face, very slight-boned, but by no means
weak. "You see, Mr. Monk, that is the great difference between you and the
police. Forgive my discourtesy in saying so, but the police are public servants
and the law lays down what they must do about the investigation. You, on the
other hand, are paid by me, and I can request you to stop at any time I feel it
the best moral decision, or the least likely to cause profound hurt. I hope
you are not angry that I should mark that distinction?"

Far from it. Inwardly he was smiling.
It was the first time he felt a spark of quite genuine respect for Julia
Penrose.

"I take your point very
nicely, ma'am," he answered, rising to his feet. "I have a duty both
moral and legal to report a crime if I have proof of one, but in the case of
rape—I apologize for such an ugly word, but I assume it is rape we are speaking
of?"

"Yes," she said almost
inaudibly, her discomfort only too apparent.

"For that crime it is
necessary for the victim to make a complaint and to testify, so the matter will
rest entirely with your sister. Whatever facts I learn will be at her
disposal."

"Excellent." She stood up
also and the hoops of her huge skirt settled into place, making her once more
look fragile. "I assume you will begin immediately?"

"This afternoon if it will be
convenient to see your sister then? You did not tell me her name."

"Marianne—Marianne Gillespie.
Yes, this afternoon will be convenient."

"You said that you had saved
from your dress allowance what seems to be a considerable sum. Did this happen
some time ago?"

"Ten days," she replied
quickly. "My allowance is paid quarterly. I had been circumspect, as it
happens, and most of it was left from the last due date."

"Thank you, but you do not owe
me an accounting, Mrs. Penrose. I merely needed to know how recent was the offense."

"Of course I do not. But I
wish you to know that I am telling you the absolute truth, Mr. Monk. Otherwise
I cannot expect you to help me. I trust you, and I require that you should
trust me."

He smiled suddenly, a gesture which
lit his face with charm because it was so rare, and so totally genuine. He
found himself liking Julia Penrose more than he had anticipated from her
rather prim and exceedingly predictable appearance—the huge hooped skirts so
awkward to move in and so unfunctional, the neat bonnet which he loathed,
the white gloves and demure manner. It had been a
hasty judgment, a practice which he despised in others and even more in
himself.