A Sudden, Fearful Death

Monk had dealt with a case of assault upon a woman only once before. Rape was very seldom reported because of the shame and the scandal attached. He had given a great deal of thought how to begin, but still he was uncertain.

"Please tell me what you remember, Miss Gillespie," he said quietly. He was not sure whether to smile or not. She might take it as a lightness on his part, as if he had no sympathy with her. And yet if he did not, he knew his features were of a naturally grim cast.

She swallowed and cleared her throat, then cleared it again. Julia's hand tightened on her shoulder.

"I really don't remember very much, Mr. Monk," she apologized. "It was very-unpleasant. At first I tried to forget it. Maybe you cannot understand that, and I daresay I am to blame-but I did not realize…" She stopped.

"It is quite natural," he assured her with more sincerity than she could know. "We all try to forget what hurts us. It is sometimes the only way we can continue."

Her eyes widened in sudden surprise and a faint flush touched her cheeks.

"How sensitive of you." There was profound gratitude in her face, but no easing of the tension which gripped her.

"What can you tell me about it, Miss Gillespie?" he asked again.

Julia made as if to speak, then with an effort changed her mind. Monk realized she was some ten or twelve years older than her sister and felt a fierce sense of protection toward her.

Marianne looked down at her small square hands clenched in the lap of her enormous skirt.

"I don't know who it was," she said very quietly.

"We know that, dear," Julia said quickly, leaning forward a little. "That is what Mr. Monk is here to find out. Just tell him what you know-what you told me."

"He won't be able to find out," Marianne protested. "How could he, when I don't know myself? Anyway, you cannot undo it, even if you did know. What good will it do?" Her face was set in utter determination. "I'm not going to accuse anyone."

"Of course not!" Julia agreed. "That would be terrible for you. Quite unthinkable. But there are other ways. I shall see that he never comes near you again, or any other decent young woman. Please just answer Mr. Monk's questions, dear. It is an offense which cannot be allowed to happen. It would be quite wrong of us to continue as if it did not matter."

"Where were you when it happened, Miss Gillespie?" Monk interrupted. He did not want to be drawn into the argument as to what action could be taken if they discovered the man. That was for them. They knew the consequences far better than he.

"In the summerhouse," Marianne replied.

Instinctively Monk glanced toward the windows, but he could see only sunlight through the cascading leaves of a weeping elm and the lush pink of a rose beyond.

"Here?" he asked. "In your own garden?"

"Yes. I go there quite often-to paint."

"Often? So anyone familiar with your day might have expected to find you there?"

She colored painfully. "I-suppose so. But I am sure that can having nothing to do with it."

He did not reply to that. "What time of day was it?" he asked instead.

"I am not certain. About half past three, I think. Or perhaps a little later. Maybe four." She shrugged very slightly. "Or even half past. I was not thinking of time."

"Before or after tea?"

"Oh-yes-I see. After tea. I suppose it must have been half past four then."

"Do you have a gardener?"

"It wasn't he!" she said, jerking forward in some alarm.

"Of course not," he soothed. "Or you would have known him. I was wondering if he had seen anyone. If he had been in the garden it might help to determine where the man came from, which direction, and perhaps how he left, even the precise time."

"Oh yes-I see."

"We do have a gardener," Julia said with keenness quickening in her face and some admiration for Monk lighting her eyes. "His name is Rodwell. He is here three days a week, in the afternoons. That was one of his days. Tomorrow he will be back again. You could ask him then."

"I shall do," Monk promised, turning back to Marianne. "Miss Gillespie, is there anything at all about the man you can recall? For example," he continued quickly, seeing her about to deny it, "how was he dressed?"

"I-I don't know what you mean." Her hands knotted more tightly in her lap, and she stared at him with mounting nervousness.

"Was he dressed in a dark jacket such as a man of business might wear?" he explained. "Or a working smock, like a gardener? Or a white shirt, like a man of leisure?"

"Oh." She seemed relieved. "Yes. I see. I think I recall something-something pale." She nodded, becoming more assured. "Yes, a pale jacket, such as gentlemen sometimes wear in the summer."

"Was he bearded, or clean shaven?"

She hesitated only a moment. "Clean shaven."

"Can you remember anything else about his appearance? Was he dark or fair, large or small?"

"I-I don't know. I-" She took a sharp breath. "I suppose I must have had my eyes closed. It was…"