Free A sudden, fearful death by Anne Perry

admitted.
"Yes—I shall have to go back and tell Marianne."
    "I'm sorry." Hester
touched his arm briefly, then withdrew.
    They did not discuss it further.
There was nothing more to say, and they could not help him. Instead they spoke
of things that had nothing to do with the work of any of them, of the latest
novels to be published and what they had heard said of them, of politics, of
affairs in India and the fearful news of the mutiny, and the war in China. When
they parted late into the summer night and Monk and Hester shared a hansom back
to their respective lodgings, even that was done in companionable conversation.
    Naturally they stopped at Hester's
rooms first, the very sparsest of places because so frequently she was living
in the house of her current patient. She was the only resident in her rooms at
the moment because her patient was so nearly recovered she required attention
only every other day, and did not see why she should house and feed a nurse
from whom she now had so little service.
    Monk alighted and opened the door
for her, handing her down to the pavement. It came to his lips to say how pleasant
it had been to see her, then he swallowed the words. There was no need of them.
Small compliments, however true, belonged to a more trivial relationship, one
that sailed on the surface of things.
    "Good night," he said
simply, walking across the stones with her to the front door.
    "Good night, Monk," she
answered with a smile. "I shall think of you tomorrow."
    He smiled back, ruefully, knowing
she meant it and feeling a kind of comfort in the thought that he would not be
alone.
    Behind him in the street the horse
stamped and shifted position. There was nothing else to say. Hester let herself
in with her key, and Monk returned to the hansom and climbed up as it moved off
along the lamplit street.
    * * * * *
    He was at Hastings Street at
quarter to ten in the morning. It was mild and raining very slightly. The
flowers in the gardens were beaded with moisture and somewhere a bird was
singing with startling clarity.
    Monk would have given a great deal
to have been able to turn and go back again to the Euston Road and not call at
number fourteen. However, he did not hesitate on the step or wait before
pulling the bell. He had already done all the thinking he could. There was no
more debate left, no more arguments to put for either action.
    The maid welcomed him in with some
familiarity now, but she was slightly taken aback when he asked to see not Mrs.
Penrose but Miss Gillespie. Presumably Julia had said she was expecting him.
    He was alone in the morning room,
pacing in restless anxiety, when Marianne came in. As soon as she saw him her
face paled.
    "What is it?" she asked
quickly. "Has something happened?"
    "Before I left here
yesterday," he replied, "I spoke to your sister and told her that I
would not be able to learn who assaulted you, and it would be pointless to
continue seeking. She would not accept that. If I do not tell her then she will
employ someone else who will."
    "But how could anyone else
know?" she said desperately. "I wouldn't tell them. No one saw, no
one heard."
    "They will deduce it from the
evidence, as I did." This was every bit as hard as his worst fears. She
looked so crushed. "Miss Gillespie—I am sorry, but I am going to have to
take back the pledge I gave you and tell Mrs. Penrose the truth."
    "You can't!" She was
aghast. "You promised you would not do that!" But even as she spoke
the innocent indignation was dying in her face and being replaced by
understanding—and defeat.
    He felt wretched. He had no
alternative, and yet he was betraying her and he could not argue himself out of
it.
    "There are other things that
have to be considered also...."
    "Of course there are."
Her voice was harsh with anger and misery. "The worst of this is how Julia
will feel about it. She will be destroyed. How can she ever feel the same about
me, even if