William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

generous to her.
    “What do you want me to say to your sister?” he asked her.
    “Nothing! Say you cannot find out. Say he was a stranger who came in somehow and has long ago escaped.” She put out her hand and clasped his arm impulsively. “Please, Mr. Monk!” It was a cry of real anguish now. “Think what it would do to Julia! That would be the worst of all. I couldn’t bear it. I had rather Audley said I was an immoral woman and put me out to fend for myself.”
    She had no idea what fending for herself would mean: the sleeping in brothels or doss houses, the hunger, the abuse, the disease and fear. She had no craft with which to earn her living honestly in a sweatshop working eighteen hours a day, even if her health and her nerve would standit. But he easily believed she would accept it rather than allow Julia to know what had really happened.
    “I shall not tell her it was Audley,” he promised. “You need not fear.”
    The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She gulped and sniffed.
    “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Monk.” She fished for a handkerchief a few inches square and mostly lace. It was useless.
    He passed her his and she took it silently and wiped her eyes, hesitated, then blew her nose as well. Then she was confused, uncertain whether to offer it back to him or not.
    He smiled in spite of himself. “Keep it,” he offered.
    “Thank you.”
    “Now I had better go and give your sister my final report.”
    She nodded and sniffed again. “She will be disappointed, but don’t let her prevail upon you. However put out she is by not knowing, knowing would be infinitely worse.”
    “You had better stay here.”
    “I shall.” She gulped. “And—thank you, Mr. Monk.”
    He found Julia in the morning room writing letters. She looked up as soon as he came in, her face quick with anticipation. He loathed the need to lie, and it cut his pride to have to admit defeat at all, and when he had actually solved the case it was acutely bitter.
    “I am sorry, Mrs. Penrose, but I feel that I have pursued this case as far as I can, and to follow it any further would be a waste of your resources—”
    “That is my concern, Mr. Monk,” she interrupted quickly, laying her pen aside. “And I do not consider it a waste.”
    “What I am trying to say is that I shall learn nothing further.” He said it with difficulty. Never previously that he could recall had he flinched from telling someone a truth, regardless of its ugliness. Perhaps he should have. It was another side of his character it would probably be painful to look into.
    “You cannot know that,” she argued, her face already beginning to set in lines of stubbornness. “Or are you saying that you do not believe that Marianne was assaulted at all?”
    “No, I was not saying that,” he said sharply. “I believe without question that she was, but whoever did it was a stranger to her, and we have no way of finding him now, since none of your neighbors saw him or any evidence that might lead to his identity.”
    “Someone may have seen him,” she insisted. “He did not materialize from nowhere. Maybe he was not a tramp of any sort, but a guest of someone in the neighborhood. Have you thought of that?” Now there was challenge in her voice and in her eyes.
    “Who climbed over the wall in the chance of finding mischief?” he asked with as little sarcasm as was possible to the words.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said tartly. “He must have come in through the herb garden when Rodwell was not there. Maybe he mistook the house and thought it was that of someone he knew.”
    “And found Miss Gillespie in the summerhouse and assaulted her?”
    “It would seem so. Yes,” she agreed. “I daresay he indulged in some sort of conversation first, and she cannot remember it because the whole episode was so appalling she has cut it all from her mind. Such things happen.”
    He thought of his own snatches of memory and the cold sweat of horror, the fear, the rage, the smell of blood, confusion, and blindness again.
    “I know that,” he said bitterly.
    “Then please continue to pursue it, Mr. Monk.” She looked at him with challenge, too consumed in her own emotion to hear his. “Or if you are unable or unwilling to, then perhaps you can recommend me the name of another person of inquiry who will.”
    “I believe you have no chance of success, Mrs. Penrose,” he said a little stiffly. “Not to tell you so would be less than