William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

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, beading 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 rosewoodbureau. 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