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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