by Anne Perry
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 releived 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.
“Your address?” he said quickly.
“Number fourteen, Hastings Street,” she replied.
“One more question. Since you are making these arrangements yourself, am I to assume that your husband is unaware of them?”
She bit her lip and the color in her cheeks heightened. “You are. I should be obliged if you would be as discreet as possible.”
“How shall I account for my presence, if he should ask?”
“Oh.” For a moment she was disconcerted. “Will it not be possible to call when he is out? He attends his business every weekday from nine in the morning until, at the earliest, half past four. He is an architect. Sometimes he is out considerably later.”
“It will be, I expect, but I would prefer to have a story ready in case we are caught out. We must at least agree on our explanations.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “You make it sound so … deceitful, Mr. Monk. I have no wish to lie to Mr. Penrose. It is simply that the matter is so distressing, it would be so much pleasanter for Marianne if he did not know. She has to continue living in his house, you see?” She stared up at him suddenly with fierce intensity. “She has already suffered the attack. Her only chance of recovering her emotions, her peace of mind, and any happiness at all, will lie in putting it all behind her. How can she do that if every time she sits down at the table she knows that the man opposite her is fully aware of her shame? It would be intolerable for her!”
“But you know, Mrs. Penrose,” he pointed out, although even as he said it he knew that was entirely different.
A smile flickered across her mouth. “I am a woman, Mr. Monk. Need I explain to you that that brings us closer in a way you cannot know. Marianne will not mind me. With Audley it would be quite different, for all his gentleness. He is a man, and nothing can alter that.”
There was no possible comment to make on such a statement.
“What would you like to tell him to explain my presence?” he asked.
“I—I am not sure.” She was momentarily confused, but she gathered her wits rapidly. She looked him up and down: his lean, smooth-boned face with its penetrating eyes and wide mouth, his elegant and expensively dressed figure. He still had the fine clothes he had bought when he was a senior inspector in the Metropolitan Police with no one to support but himself, before his last and most dreadful quarrel with Runcorn.
He waited with a dry amusement.
Evidently she approved what she saw. “You may say we have a mutual friend and you are calling to pay your respects to us,” she replied decisively.
“And the friend?” He raised his eyebrows. “We should be agreed upon that.”
“My cousin Albert Finnister. He is short and fat and lives in Halifax where he owns a woolen mill. My husband has never met him, nor is ever likely to. That you may not know Yorkshire is beside the point. You may have met him anywhere you choose, except London. Audley would wonder why he had not visited us.”
“I have some knowledge of Yorkshire,” Monk replied, hiding his smile. “Halifax will do. I shall see you this afternoon, Mrs. Penrose.”
“Thank you. Good day, Mr. Monk.” And with a slight inflection of her head she waited while he opened the door for her, then took her leave, walking straight-backed, head high, out into Fitzroy Street and north towards the square, and in a hundred yards or so, the Euston Road.
Monk closed the door and went back to his office room. He had lately moved here from his old lodgings around the corner in Grafton Street. He had resented Hester’s interference in suggesting the move in her usual high-handed manner, but when she had explained her reasons, he was obliged to agree. In Grafton Street his rooms were up a flight of stairs and to the back. His landlady had been a motherly soul, but not used to the idea of his being in private practice and unwilling to show prospective clients up. Also they were obliged to pass the doors of other residents, and occasionally to meet them on the stairs or the hall or landing. This arrangement was much better. Here a maid answered the door without making her own inquiries as to people’s business and simply showed them in to Monk’s very agreeable ground-floor sitting room. Grudgingly at first, he conceded it was a marked improvement.
Now to prepare to investigate the rape of Miss Marianne Gillespie, a delicate and challenging matter, far more worthy of his mettle then petty theft or the reputation of an employee or suitor.
ANNE PERRY is the author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England. Her William Monk novels include The Face of a Stranger and The Shifting Tide. Among her novels featuring Charlotte and Thomas Pitt
are The Cater Street Hangman and Seven Dials. With the New York Times bestselling No Graves As Yet, Ms. Perry began a new series set during World War I. Her short story “Heroes” won an Edgar Award. Anne Perry lives in the Scottish Highlands. Visit her website at www.anneperry.net.
