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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