Page 7 of A Sudden, Fearful Death (William Monk 4)

He swallowed. “I mean did he injure you, your arms or your upper body? Did he restrain you violently?”

“Oh—yes. I have bruises on my wrists and arms, but they are growing paler now.” Carefully she pushed up her long sleeves to show him ugly yellow-gray bruising on the fair skin of her wrists and forearms. This time she looked up at him.

“I’m sorry.” It was an expression of sympathy for her hurt, not an apology.

She flashed him a sudden smile; he saw a glimpse of the person she had been before this event had robbed her of her confidence, pleasure, and peace of mind. Suddenly he felt a furious anger toward whoever had done this to her, whether it had been seduction to begin with, or always a violation.

“Thank you,” she said, then straightened her shoulders. “Is there anything else you would care to see out here?”

“No, thank you.”

“What will you do next?” she asked curiously.

“About this? Speak to your gardener, and then your neighbors’ servants, to see if they saw anything unusual, anyone in the area not known to them.”

“Oh. I see.” She turned away again. The scent of flowers was heavy around them, and somewhere close ne could hear bees.

“But first I shall take my leave of your sister,” he said.

She took a step toward him.

“About Julia—Mr. Monk …”

“Yes?”

“You must forgive her being a little … overprotective of me.” She smiled fleetingly. “You see, our mother died a few days after I was born, when Julia was eleven.” She shook her head a little. “She might have hated me for it: it was my birth which caused Mama’s death. Instead she looked after me right from that moment. She has always been there to give me all the tenderness and the patience when I was small, and later to play with me when I was a child. Then as I grew older she taught me and shared in all my experiences. No one could have been sweeter or more generous.” She looked at him very candidly, an urgency in her face that he should do more than believe, that he should understand.

“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 thin