A sudden, fearful death (5 page)

"There is no need to be
concerned, Mrs. Penrose," he said gravely. "I shall be very
discreet."

"But how?" she pressed
urgently, her voice sharpening. "What could you possibly say to explain
away such questions? Servants talk, you know." She shook her head sharply.
"Even the best of them. And what would my neighbors think? What imaginable
reason does a respectable person have for employing a private inquiry
agent?"

"Do you wish to cease the
inquiry, ma'am?" he asked quite quietly. He would understand it very well
if she did; indeed, he still did not know what use she would make of the
information he sought, even if he found it for her, since no prosecution was
planned.

"No," she said fiercely,
gritting her teeth. "No I do not. It's just that I must think very clearly
before I allow you to proceed. It would be reckless to go ahead and do more
damage simply because I feel strongly about the matter."

"I had planned to say there
had been a small unpleasantness of damage in the garden," Monk told her.
"A few broken plants, and if you have them, glass frames. I will ask if
the gardeners or servants have seen any boys playing who might have trespassed
and done the harm. That will hardly be a cause for scandal or unseemly
speculation."

Her face flickered with amazement,
then relief. "Oh, what an excellent idea," she said eagerly. "I
should never have thought of that. It sounds so simple and everyday a thing.
Thank you, Mr. Monk, my mind is quite at ease."

He smiled in spite of himself.
"I'm glad you are satisfied. But your own gardener will not be quite so
easy."

"Why not?"

"Because he is perfectly aware
that no one has broken your cold frames," he replied. "I had better
make it someone else's, and hope they do not compare notes all along the
road."

"Oh!" But she gave a
little laugh, and the thought of it seemed to amuse her rather than trouble
her. "Would you like to see Rodwell today? He is in the back garden
now."

"Yes, thank you. This would
seem a good opportunity." And without further discussion she led him to
the side door into the arbor and left him to find the gardener, who was bent to
his knees pulling weeds from the border.

"Good morning, Rodwell,"
Monk said pleasantly, stopping beside him.

"Mornin' sir," Rodwell
answered without looking up.

"Mrs. Penrose gave me
permission to speak to you about some breakages locally, in case you happened
to have seen any strangers in the area," Monk continued.

"Oh?" Rodwell sat back on
his haunches and regarded Monk curiously. "Breakages o' what, sir?"

"Cold frames, bedding plants,
that sort of thing."

Rodwell pursed his lips. "No,
I can't say as I've seen anyone strange 'round 'ere. Sounds like boys to me,
that does—playing, like as not." He grunted. 'Throwin' balls, cricket, and
that sort o' thing. Mischief, more'n like, not downright wickedness."

"Probably," Monk agreed,
nodding. "But it is not a pleasant thought that some stranger might be
hanging around, doing malicious damage, even if it's only slight."

"Mrs. Penrose never said
nothing about it." Rodwell screwed up his face and peered at Monk
doubtfully.

"She wouldn't." Monk
shook his head. "Nothing broken in your garden, I daresay."

"No—nothing at all—well... no
but a few flowers, like, against the west wall. But that could 'a bin
anything."

"You haven't seen anyone you
don't know hanging around in the last two weeks or so? You are sure?"

"No one at all," Rodwell
said with absolute certainty. "I'd 'a chased them orf smart if I 'ad.
Don't 'old wi' strangers in gardens. Things get broke, just like you
said."

"Oh well, thank you for your
time, Rodwell."

"You're welcome, sir."
And with that the gardener adjusted his cap to a slightly different angle and
resumed his weeding.

Next Monk called at number sixteen,
explained his purpose, and asked if he might speak to the lady of the house.
The maid took the message and returned within ten minutes to admit him to a
small but extremely pleasant writing room where a very elderly lady with many
ropes of pearls around her neck and across her bosom was sitting at a rosewood
bureau. She turned and looked at Monk with curiosity, and then as she regarded
his face more closely, with considerable interest. Monk guessed she must be at
least ninety years old.

"Well," she said with
satisfaction. "You are an odd-looking young man to be inquiring about
broken glass in the garden." She looked him up and down, from his discreet
polished boots up his immaculate trouser legs to his elegant jacket, and lastly
to his hard, lean face with its penetrating eyes and sardonic mouth. "You
don't look to me as if you would know a spade or a hoe if you tripped over
one," she went on. "And you certainly don't earn your living with
your hands."

His own interest was piqued. She
had an amiable face, deeply lined, full of humor and curiosity, and there was
nothing critical in her remarks. The anomaly appeared to please her.

"You had better explain
yourself." She turned away from the bureau completely as if he interested
her far more than the letters she had been writing.

He smiled. "Yes ma'am,"
he conceded. "I am not really concerned with the glass. It can very easily
be replaced. But Mrs. Penrose is a little alarmed at the thought of strangers
wandering around. Miss Gillespie, her sister, is given to spending time in the
summerhouse, and it is not pleasant to think that one might be being watched
when one is unaware of it. Perhaps the concern is unnecessary, but it is there
nonetheless."

"A Peeping Tom. How very distasteful,"
the old lady said, grasping the point instantly. "Yes, I can understand
her pursuing the matter. A girl of spirit, Mrs. Penrose, but a very delicate
constitution, I think. These fair-skinned girls sometimes are. It must be very
hard for them all."

Monk was puzzled; it seemed an
overstatement. "Hard for them all?" he repeated.

"No children," the old
lady said, looking at him with her head a trifle on one side. "But you
must be aware of that, young man?"

"Yes, yes of course I am. I
had not thought of it in connection with her health."

"Oh dear—isn't that a man all
over." She made a little tut-tut noise. "Of course it is to do with
her health. She has been married some eight or nine years. What else would it
be? Poor Mr. Penrose puts a very good face on it, but he cannot help but feel
it all the same. Another cross for her to bear, poor creature. Afflictions of
health are among the worst." She let out her breath in a little sigh. She
regarded him closely with a slight squint of concentration. "Not that you
would know, by the look of you. Well, I haven't seen any Peeping Toms, but then
I cannot see beyond the garden window anyway. My sight is going. Happens when
you get to my age. Not that you'd know that either. Don't suppose you are more
than forty-five."

Monk winced, but forbore from
saying anything. He preferred to think he did not look anything like
forty-five, but this was not the time for vanity, and this outspoken old lady
was certainly not the person with whom to try anything so transparent.

"Well, you had better ask the
outdoor servants," she went on. "Mind you, that is only the gardener
and sometimes the scullery maid, if she can escape the cook's eye. Made it
sound like a whole retinue, didn't I? Ask them, by all means. Let me know if
they tell you anything interesting. There's little enough of interest ever
happens here nowadays."

He smiled. "The neighborhood
is too quiet for you?"

She sighed. "I don't get about
as much as I used to, and nobody brings me the gossip. Perhaps there isn't any."
Her eyes widened. "We've all become so terribly respectable these days.
It's the Queen. When I was a girl it was different." She shook her head
sadly. "We had a king then, of course. Wonderful days. I remember when
they brought the news of Trafalgar. It was the greatest naval victory in Europe,
you know." She looked at Monk sharply to be sure he appreciated the import
of what she was saying. "It was a matter of England's survival against the
Emperor of the French, and yet the fleet came in with mourning flags flying,
and in silence—because Nelson had fallen." She gazed beyond Monk into the
garden, her eyes misty with remembrance. "My father came into the room
and my mother saw his face and we all stopped smiling. 'What is it?' she said
immediately. 'Are we defeated?' My father had tears on his cheeks. It was the
only time I ever saw him weep."

Her face was alight with the wonder
of it still, all the myriad lines subtly altered by the innocence and the emotions
of youth.

" 'Nelson is dead,' my father
said very gravely. 'Have we lost the war?' my mother asked. 'Shall we be
invaded by Napoleon?' 'No,' my father answered. 'We won. The French fleet is
all sunk. No one will land on England's shores again.' " She stopped and
stared up at Monk, watching to see if he caught the magnitude of it.

He met her eyes and she perceived
that he had caught her vision.

"I danced all night before
Waterloo," she went on enthusiastically, and Monk imagined the colors,
the music, and the swirling skirts she could still see in her mind. "I was
in Brussels with my husband. I danced with the Iron Duke himself." All the
laughter vanished from her expression. "And then, of course, the next day
there was the battle." Her voice was suddenly husky and she blinked
several times. "And all that night we heard news and more news of the
dead. The war was over, the Emperor beaten forever. It was the greatest victory
in Europe, but dear God, how many young men died! I don't think I knew anyone
who had not lost somebody, either dead or so injured as never to be the same
again."

Monk had seen the carnage left by
the Crimean War and he knew what she meant; even though that conflict had been
so much smaller, the spirit and the pain were the same. In a sense it was
worse, because there was no perceivable purpose to it. England was under no
threat, as it had been from Napoleon.

She saw the emotion and the anger
in his face. Suddenly her own sorrow vanished. "And of course I knew Lord
Byron," she went on with sudden animation. "What a man! There was a
poet for you. So handsome." She gave a little laugh. "So beautifully
romantic and dangerous. What wonderful scandal there was then. Such burning
ideals, and men did something about them then." She gave a little gasp of
fury, her ancient hands clenched into fists on her lap. "And what have we
today? Tennyson."

She groaned and then looked at Monk
with a sweet smile. "I suppose you want to see the gardener about your
Peeping Tom? Well, you had better go and do so, with my blessing."

He smiled back at her with genuine
regard. It would have been much pleasanter to remain and listen to her reminiscences,
but he had undertaken a duty.

He rose to his feet. "Thank
you, ma'am. Courtesy compels me, or I should not leave so readily."

"Ha! Very nicely said, young man."
She nodded. "I think from your face there is more to you than chasing
trivia, but that is your affair. Good day to you."

He bowed his head and took his
leave of her. However, neither the gardener nor the scullery maid could tell
him anything of use whatever. They had not seen any stranger in the area. There
was no access to the garden of number fourteen except if someone chose to climb
the wall, and the flower beds on either side had not been damaged or disturbed.
A Peeping Tom, if indeed there had been such a person, must have come some
other way.

The occupant of number twelve was
of no assistance either. He was a fussy man with gray hair, which was sparse
in front, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. No, he had seen no one in the area who
was not known to him and of excellent character. No, he had suffered no
breakages in his cold frames. He was sorry, but he could be of no help, and
since he was extremely busy, would Mr. Monk be so good as to excuse him.

The residents of the house whose
garden abutted number fourteen at the end were considerably more lively. There
were at least seven children whom Monk counted, three of them boys, so he
abandoned the broken cold frames and returned to the Peeping Tom.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hylton
said with a frown. "What a foolish thing. Men with too little to occupy
themselves, no doubt. Everyone ought to be busy." She poked a strand of
hair back into its place and smoothed her skirts. "Keep themselves out of
trouble. Miss Gillespie, you said? What a shame. Such a nice young lady. And
her sister as well. Devoted, they are, which is so pleasant to see, don't you
think?" She waved Monk toward the window where he could have a good view
of their garden, the wall dividing it from the Penroses', but gave him no time
to answer her rhetorical question. "And a very agreeable man, Mr. Penrose
is too, I am sure."

"Do you have a gardener, Mrs.
Hylton?"

"A gardener?" She was
obviously surprised. "Dear me, no. I am afraid the garden is rather left
to its own devices, apart from my husband cutting the grass every so often."
She smiled happily. "Children, you know? I was afraid at first you were
going to say someone had been too wild with the cricket ball and broken a
window. You have no idea what a relief it was!"