A sudden, fearful death (4 page)

"Sometimes I fear she gave me
the devotion she might have given to a child of her own, had she one." Now
there was guilt in her. "I hope I have not been too demanding, taken from
her too much time and emotion."

"You are quite able to care
for yourself, and must have been for some time," he replied reasonably.
"Surely she would not still devote so much to you unless she wished
to."

"I suppose not," she
agreed, still looking at him earnestly. The slight breeze stirred the muslin
of her skirt. "But I shall never be able to repay her for all she has done
for me. You must know that, Mr. Monk, so you will understand a little better,
and not judge her."

"I do not judge, Miss
Gillespie," he lied. He was very prone to judge, and frequently harshly.
However in this particular case he saw no fault in Julia Penrose's care for
her sister, and perhaps that redeemed the untruth.

As they reached the side door to
the house, they were met by a man in his mid-thirties. He was slender, of average
height, with a face whose features and coloring were ordinary enough, but their
expression gave him an air of crumpled vulnerability overlying a volatile
temper and a huge capacity to be hurt.

Marianne moved a little closer to
Monk and he could feel the warmth of her body as her skirts brushed around his
ankles.

"Good afternoon, Audley,"
she said with a slight huskiness in her voice, as though speaking had come
unexpectedly. "You are home early. Have you had an agreeable day?"

His eyes moved from her to Monk,
and back again.

"Quite commonplace, thank you.
Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Oh—this is Mr. Monk,"
she explained easily. "He is a friend of cousin Albert's, from Halifax,
you know."

"Good afternoon, sir."
Audley Penrose's manner was polite, but without pleasure. "How is cousin
Albert?"

"He was in good spirits the
last time I saw him," Monk replied without a flicker. "But that was
some little time ago. I was passing in this area, and since he spoke so kindly
of you, I took the liberty of calling."

"No doubt my wife has offered
you tea? I saw it set out in the withdrawing room."

"Thank you." Monk accepted
because it would have called for considerable explanation to leave without it
now, and half an hour or so in their company might give him a better feel for
the family and its relationships.

However, when he did leave some
forty-five minutes later he had neither altered nor added to his original
impression, nor his misgivings.

* * * * *

"What troubles you?"
Callandra Daviot asked over supper in her cool green dining room. She sat back
in her chair regarding Monk curiously. She was middle-aged, and not even her
dearest friend would have called her beautiful. Her face was full of character;
her nose was too long, her hair obviously beyond the ability of her maid to
dress satisfactorily, let alone fashionably, but her eyes were wide, clear,
and of remarkable intelligence. Her gown was a most pleasing shade of dark
green, though of a cut neither one thing nor another, as though an unskilled
dressmaker had tried to update it Monk regarded her with total affection. She
was candid, courageous, inquisitive, and opinionated in the best possible way.
Her sense of humor never failed her. She was everything he liked in a friend,
and she was also generous enough to have engaged him as a business partner,
sustaining him during those times when his cases were too few or too paltry to
provide an adequate income. In return she required to know all he was able to
tell her of each affair in which he involved himself. Which was what he was
doing this evening in the dining room, over an excellent supper of cold pickled
eel and fresh summer vegetables. He knew, because she had told him, that there
was plum pie and cream to follow, and a fine Stilton cheese.

"It is totally
unprovable," he answered her question. "There is nothing whatever
except Marianne's word for it that the whole event ever took place at all, let
alone that it took place as she described it."

"Do you doubt her?" she
said curiously, but there was no offense in her voice.

He hesitated several moments,
unsure, now that she asked, whether he did or not. She did not interrupt his
silence, nor draw the obvious conclusion, but went on eating her fish.

"Some of what she says is the
truth," he said finally. "But I think she is also concealing
something of importance."

"That she was willing?" She
looked up at him, watching his face.

"No—no I don't think so."

"Then what?"

"I don't know."

"And what do they intend to do
if you should discover who it is?" she asked with raised eyebrows.
"After all, who could it be? Total strangers do not vault over suburban
garden walls in the hope of finding some maiden alone in the summerhouse whom
they can ravish, sufficiently quietly not to rouse the gardener or servants,
and then leap back again and disappear."

"You make it sound
absurd," he said dryly, taking a little more of the eel. It really was
excellent.

"Life is often absurd,"
she replied, passing him the sauce. "But this is also unlikely, don't you
agree?"

"Yes I do." He spooned
sauce onto his plate liberally. "What is most unlikely is that it is
really someone who was a complete stranger to her. If it was someone she knew,
who came through the house, and therefore was aware that there was no one
within earshot, and that his mere presence would not alarm her, as a stranger
would, then it becomes much less unlikely."

"What concerns me far
more," Callandra went on thoughtfully, "is what they intend to do
when you tell them who it is—if you do."

It was something which had troubled
him also.

Callandra grunted. "Sounds
like a private revenge. I think perhaps you should consider very carefully what
you tell them. And William ..."

"Yes?"

"You had better be absolutely
sure you are right!"

Monk sighed. It was getting uglier
and more complicated with each new thought that came to him.

"What impression did you form
of the sister and her husband?" Callandra pursued.

"Of them?" He was
surprised. "Very sympathetic to her. I can't believe she has anything to
fear from them, even if she did not resist as thoroughly as she might."

Callandra said nothing. They
finished their course in companionable silence and the plum pie was brought in
and served. It was so delicious that they both ate without speaking for
several minutes, then finally Callandra set her spoon down.

"Have you seen Hester
lately?"

"No."

She smiled with some inner
amusement. He felt annoyed and then unaccountably foolish.

"I have not seen her," he
went on. "The last time we parted it was with less than amiability. She is
the most opinionated and abrasive woman I have ever met, and dogmatic to the
degree that she does not listen to anyone else. And she is absurdly complacent
about it, which makes it insufferable."

"Qualities you do not
like?" she asked innocently.

"Good God no!" he
exploded. "Does anyone?"

"You find firmly held opinions
and spirited defense of them displeasing?"

"Yes!" he said
vehemently, setting down his spoon momentarily. "It is unbecoming,
irritating in manner, and makes all intelligent and open conversation
impossible. Not that most men would be seeking an intelligent conversation with
a woman of her age," he added.

"Especially when her views are
mistaken," she said with her eyes bright.

"That adds to it, of
course," he conceded, quite sure now that she was laughing.

"You know she said something
very similar about you when she was here about three weeks ago. She is nursing
an elderly lady with a broken leg, but at that point the woman was almost
recovered, and I don't think she has a further position offered her yet."

"Perhaps if she were to guard
her tongue a little and make herself more obliging—and modest?" he
suggested.

"I am sure you are
right," Callandra agreed. "With your own experience of the value of
such qualities, perhaps you might give her some excellent advice." She
made the suggestion with a face almost wiped of humor.

He looked at her more closely.
There was the slightest curl of a smile on her mouth and her eyes avoided his.

"After all," she
continued, keeping a sober expression with an effort, "intelligent
conversation with the open-minded is so agreeable, don't you think?"

"You are twisting my
words," he said between his teeth.

"No I am not," she
denied, looking up at him with quite open affection and amusement. "You
mean that when Hester has an opinion and will not move from it, it is dogmatic
and unbecoming and it annoys you incredibly. When you have one it is courageous
and committed, and the only path for anyone with integrity. That is what you
said, one way or another, and I am quite sure it is what you mean." .

"You think I am wrong."
He leaned forward on the table.

"Oh frequently. But I should
never dare to say so. Would you care for more cream with your pie? I suppose
you have not heard from Oliver Rathbone lately either?"

He helped himself to the cream.

"I looked into a minor case
for him ten days ago." Rathbone was the highly successful barrister with
whom Monk had worked on all his outstanding cases since the accident. He
admired Rathbone's professional ability profoundly and found the man himself
both attractive and irritating. There was a suaveness and a self-confidence in
him which caught a nerve in Monk's nature. They were too alike in some aspects,
and too unalike in others. "He seemed in excellent health," he
finished with a tight smile, meeting Callandra's eyes. "And how are you?
We have spoken of everything else..."

She looked down at her plate for a
moment, then up again at him.

"I am very well, thank you. Do
I not look it?"

"Indeed, you look
exceptionally well," he replied truthfully, although he had actually just
noticed it for the first time. "You have found an interest?"

"How perceptive of you."

"I am a detective."

She looked at him very steadily and
for that moment there was honest and equal friendship between them, without
barrier of words.

"What is it?" he said
quietly.

"I am on the Board of
Governors in the Royal Free Hospital."

"I am delighted." He knew
her late husband had been an army surgeon. It was a position which would suit
her experience and her natural abilities and inclinations admirably. He was
genuinely pleased for her. "How long?"

"Only a month, but already I
feel I have been of some service." Her face was quickened with excitement
and her eyes brilliant. "There is so much to be done." She leaned
forward across the table. "I know a little about the new methods, Miss
Nightingale's beliefs about air and cleanliness. It will take time, but we can
accomplish what will seem like miracles if we work hard enough." Unconsciously
she was beating her forefinger on the tablecloth. "There are so many
progressive doctors, as well as the die-hards. And the difference it makes to
have anesthetic! You have no idea how things have changed in the last ten or
twelve years."

She pushed the sugar scuttle away,
her eyes intent upon his. "Do you know they can make a person completely
senseless, oblivious of pain, and then recover him without harm!" Again her
finger beat on the cloth. "That means all manner of surgery can be
performed. There is no longer any need to tie a person down and hope to
complete everything in a matter of two minutes or so. Now speed is not the
primary consideration: one may take time—and care. I never imagined I would see
such things—it is absolutely marvelous."

Her face darkened and she leaned
back again. "Of course, the trouble is we still lose at least half the
patients to infection afterwards. That is where we must improve things."
Again she leaned forward. "But I am sure it can be done—there are
brilliant and dedicated men here. I really feel I may make some
difference." Suddenly the earnestness vanished and she smiled with total
candor. "Finish your pie and have some more."

He laughed, happy for her
enthusiasm, even though he knew so much of it would end in defeat. Still, any
victory was precious. "Thank you," he accepted. "It is really exceedingly
good."

Chapter 2

The following day about ten o'clock
Monk walked along to Hastings Street again and called at number fourteen. This
time Julia received him in a state of some concern.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk,"
she said, coming in and closing the door behind her. She was dressed in pale
blue-gray and it became her delicate coloring, even though it was a very
ordinary day dress with a high neck and the barest of trimmings. "You
will be circumspect, won't you?" she said anxiously. "I don't know
how you can possibly make inquiries without either telling people what you are
seeking or arousing their suspicions. It would be disastrous if they were to
learn the truth, or even to imagine it!" She stared up at him with
puckered brows and a flush in her cheeks. "Even Audley, Mr. Penrose, was
curious yesterday as to why you called. He is not especially fond of cousin
Albert, and had not thought that I was either. Which is true, I am not; he was
just the most suitable excuse that came to my mind."