forget it. Maybe you cannot understand that, and I daresay I am to blame-
'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…'
'Hush, dear,' Julia said quickly, tightening her hand on Marianne's shoulder again. 'Really, Mr. Monk, she cannot tell you anything more of him. It is a most terrible experience. I am only glad it has not turned her mind. Such things have been known to.'
Monk retreated, uncertain just how far he ought to press. It was a terror and revulsion he could only imagine. Nothing could show to him her experience.
'Are you sure you wish to pursue it?' he asked as gently as he could, looking not at Julia but at Marianne.
However, as before, it was Julia who answered.
'We must.' There was resolute decision in her voice. 'Quite apart from justice, she must be protected from ever encountering this man again. You must persevere, Mr. Monk. What else is there that we can tell you that may be of use?'
'Perhaps you would show me the summerhouse?' he asked, rising to his feet.
'Of course,' Julia agreed immediately. 'You must see it, or how else can you judge for yourself?' She looked at Marianne. 'Do you wish to come, dear, or would you rather not?' She turned back to Monk. 'She has not been there since it happened.'
Monk was about to say that he would be present to protect her from any danger, then realized just in time that being alone with a man she had newly met might in itself be enough to alarm her. He felt he was foundering. It was going to be even harder than he had anticipated.
But Marianne surprised him.
'No-that is quite all right, Julia,' she said firmly. 'I will take Mr. Monk and show him. Perhaps tea will come while we are out, and we shall be able to return to it.' And without waiting for Julia's reply, she led the way out into the hall and to the side door into the garden.
After a glance at Julia, Monk followed her and found himself outside in a small but extremely pleasant paved yard under the shade of a laburnum tree and a birch of some sort. Ahead of them stretched a long, narrow lawn and he could see a wooden summerhouse about fifteen yards away.
He, walked behind Marianne over the grass under the trees and into the sun. The summerhouse was a small building with glassed windows and a seat inside. There was no easel there now, but plenty of room where one might have stood.
Marianne turned around on the step.
'It was here,' she said simply.
He regarded his surroundings with care, absorbing the details. There was at least a twenty-foot distance of grass in every direction, to the herbaceous border and the garden walls on three sides, to the arbor and the house on the fourth. She must have been concentrating very profoundly on her painting not to have noticed the man approach, and the gardener must have been at the front of the house or in the small kitchen herb garden at the side.
'Did you cry out?' he asked, turning to her.
Her face tightened. 'I-I don't think so. I don't remember.' She shuddered violently and stared at him in silence. 'I-I might have. It is all…' She stared at him in silence again.
'Never mind,' he dismissed it. There was no use in making her so distressed that she could recall nothing clearly. 'Where did you first see him?'
'I don't understand.'
'Did you see him coming toward you across the grass?' he asked.
She looked at him in total confusion.
