The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels (262 page)

Mr. Ayling rattled the gate chain several times.

“No one seems to be around,” he said in disappointment.

“Yes, there is!” Penny corrected.

Just then she caught a fleeting glimpse of a face at the tiny circular window of the gatehouse. She was convinced it was Winkey, who for some reason, intended to ignore their presence at the gate.

“Let us in!” she called.

“Open up!” shouted Mr. Ayling.

Still there was no rustle of life from the gatehouse.

“Disgusting!” Penny muttered. “I know Winkey is watching us! He’s only being contrary!”

Mr. Ayling’s angular jaw tightened. “In that case,” he said, “we’ll have to get in the best way we can. I’ll climb over the fence.”

The words purposely were spoken loudly enough to be overheard in the gatehouse. Before the investigator could carry out his threat, the door of the circular, stone building swung back. Winkey, the hunchback, sauntered leisurely out.

“Want somethin’?” he inquired.

“Didn’t you hear us trying to get in?” Mr. Ayling demanded.

“Sure,” the hunchback shrugged, “but I was busy fixin’ the bell that connects with the house. Anyhow, visitors ain’t wanted here.”

“So we observe,” said Mr. Ayling. “Where is your master?”

“Inside.”

“Then announce us,” the investigator ordered. “We’re here to ask a few questions.”

Winkey’s bird-like eyes blinked rapidly. He looked as if about to argue, then changed his mind.

“Go on to the house then,” he said crossly. “I’ll let ’em know by phone you’re comin’.”

The driveway curled through a large outer courtyard where a cluster of small and interesting buildings stood in various stages of ruin.

Near the gatehouse was the almonry, a shelter used in very early days to house visitors who sought free lodging.

Beyond were the ancient brewhouse, bakehouse, and granary. The latter two buildings now were little more than heaps of fallen brick. None of the structures was habitable.

In far better state of preservation was the central building with gabled roof and tall hooded chimneys. However, front steps long since had fallen away from the entrance doorway. Bridging the gap was a short ladder.

“What a place!” commented Mr. Ayling offering Penny his hand to help her across. “Looks as if it might cave in any day.”

The visitors found themselves facing a weather-beaten but beautifully carved wooden doorway. Before they could knock, it opened on squeaky hinges.

A woman with heavily lined face, who wore a gray gown and white lace cap, peered out at them.

“Go away!” she murmured in a stage whisper. “Go quickly!”

“Julia!” said a voice directly behind her.

The woman whirled around and cringed as a brown-robed monk took her firmly by the arm.

“Go and light a fire in the parlor, Julia,” her master directed. “I will greet our guests.”

“Yes, Father Benedict,” the woman muttered, scurrying away.

The master now turned apologetically to the visitors.

“I trust my servant was not rude,” he said. “Poor creature! Her twisted mind causes her to believe that all persons who do not dwell within our walls are evil and to be feared.”

As the monk spoke, he smiled in a kindly, friendly way, yet his keen eyes were appraising the two visitors. Though it was cold and windy on the door step, he did not hasten to invite Penny and Mr. Ayling inside. He stood holding the half-opened door in his hand.

“You must excuse our lack of hospitality,” he said, fingering a gold chain which hung from his thin shoulders. “We have much cleaning and remodeling to do before we are ready to receive visitors.”

Mr. Ayling explained that his call was one of business, adding that he represented the Barnes Mutual Insurance Co.

“Such matters must be discussed with me later,” the monk said, slowly but firmly closing the door.

“I’m not selling insurance,” Mr. Ayling assured him. Deliberately he leaned against the jamb, preventing the monk from shutting the door.

Father Benedict bit his lip in annoyance. “May I inquire your business with me?” he asked frostily.

“I’m seeking to trace a client—Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

“I know of no such person. Deeply I regret that I cannot help you, sir. If you will excuse me—”

“The woman may have used an assumed name,”Mr. Ayling cut in. “She has a weakness—er, I mean a liking for cult practices.”

“You are suggesting this woman may have joined my little flock?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Absurd!” The monk’s gaze rested briefly on Penny as he added: “I greatly fear you have been led astray by loose gossip as to the nature of the order I am founding here.”

“I told Mr. Ayling about your work because I think it’s so interesting,” Penny said quickly. She slapped her mittened hands together. “My, it’s cold today! May we warm ourselves at your fire before we start back to town?”

A frown puckered Father Benedict’s eyebrows. Plainly the request displeased him. But with a show of hospitality, he said:

“Our abode is very humble and poorly furnished. Such as it is, you are welcome.” Bowing slightly, he stepped aside to admit the visitors.

Penny and Mr. Ayling found themselves in a long, barren, and very cold hallway.

“Follow me, please,” bade the monk.

Moving on the bare boards with noiseless tread, he led them through an arched doorway cut in the thick wall, across a wind-swept pillared cloister and into a parlor where a fire burned brightly in a huge, time-blackened fireplace.

The sheer comfort of the room surprised Penny. Underfoot was a thick velvet carpet. Other furnishings included a large mahogany desk, a sofa, two easy chairs, and a cabinet filled with fine glassware, gold and silver objects, and a blue glass decanter of wine.

Black velvet curtains were draped in heavy folds over an exit door, and similar hangings covered the windows. To Penny’s astonishment, the ceiling, painted black, was studded with silver stars.

However, the object which held her roving gaze was a large crystal ball supported on the claws of a bronze dragon.

“You are a crystal gazer!” Mr. Ayling exclaimed as he too noted the curious globe.

“I have the power to read the future with reasonable accuracy,” replied the monk. He dismissed the subject with a shrug, motioning for his guests to seat themselves before the fire.

“You spoke of searching for a Mrs. Rosenthorne—” he remarked, addressing the investigator.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” corrected Mr. Ayling.

“To be sure, Mrs. Hawthorne. Apparently you were under the misapprehension that she is in some way connected with this establishment.”

“It was only a hope. My client has a deep interest in cults. I traced Mrs. Hawthorne and her granddaughter to Riverview, and thought possibly they might have been attracted to your place.”

“My little flock is limited to only twelve members at present. All are very humble people who have sworn to live a life of poverty, devoted to charity and faith. We have no Mrs. Hawthorne here.”

“Mightn’t she have given another name?” suggested Penny. She stretched her cold fingers to the leaping flames on the hearth.

“I hardly think so.” Father Benedict’s lips curled in a superior smile. “Describe the woman, please.”

Mr. Ayling repeated the description Penny had heard earlier that afternoon.

“We have no such person here,” the monk said. “I regret I am unable to help you.”

He arose, a plain hint that he considered the brief interview at an end. Somewhat reluctantly, Penny and her companion also turned their backs upon the crackling fire.

“You have made a comfortable place of this room,” the girl said. Her gaze fastened admiringly upon a porcelain decanter in a wall cabinet. “And such interesting antiques!”

For the first time since the visitors had arrived, Father Benedict’s eyes sparkled with warmth.

“Collecting art treasures is a hobby of mine,” he revealed. Crossing to the cabinet, he removed the decanter.

“This is a piece of Ching-Hoa porcelain and very rare,” he said. “And here is a Byzantine amulet—priceless. The golden goblets came from a European church destroyed a century ago.”

“You’re not afraid to keep such treasures in the monastery?” Mr. Ayling inquired.

“Afraid?” Father Benedict’s dark eyes glittered with a strange light. “I must confess I know not the meaning of the word.”

“You are so far out, I don’t suppose you can expect much police protection,” Mr. Ayling added.

“Winkey, my gateman, is quite dependable. While he is on duty, no thief or unwanted stranger will enter our grounds.”

“Winkey is good at keeping folks out,” agreed the investigator dryly. In walking toward the door, he paused to gaze again at the crystal ball.

“My glass interests you?” inquired the monk.

“I’ve seen those things before, but never took stock in them,” rejoined Mr. Ayling. “One can’t actually conjure up pictures by gazing into that globe?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?”

“Well, it’s a little out of my line,” Mr. Ayling laughed.

“I’d like to try it!” cried Penny. “May I?”

“Certainly. The principle is very simple. One merely gazes deeply into the glass until the optic nerve of the eye becomes fatigued. As it ceases to transmit impression from without, one sees events of the future.”

“I’ve heard it explained a little differently,” said Mr. Ayling. “As the optic nerve becomes paralyzed, it responds to the reflex action proceeding from the brain of the crystal gazer. One sees what one wishes to see.”

“I do not agree!” Father Benedict’s voice was sharp. “The ball accurately foretells the future. Shall we test and prove its powers?”

“Let me try it!” pleaded Penny again.

Smiling a bit grimly, the monk extinguished an overhead light and touched a match to the wick of two tall white candles.

Placing the crystal ball in front of a black screen, he set the burning tapers at either side. Penny suddenly began to lose zest for the adventure.

But before she could think of a graceful way to announce that she had changed her mind, the monk took her firmly by the arm.

“Place your hands on either side of the crystal ball,” he directed. “Gaze deep into the glass. Deep—deep. And now my little one, what do you see?”

CHAPTER 6

CREAKING WOOD

As Penny peered down into the highly polished surface of the crystal clear glass, a multitude of dancing points of light drew and held her attention.

“Gaze deep—deeper,” intoned the monk. “Do you not see a picture forming?”

“The glass has become cloudy.”

“Ah, yes. In a moment it will clear. Now what do you see?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Father Benedict tapped the toe of his slipper impatiently. “You are resisting the glass,” he muttered. “You do not believe.”

Penny continued to stare fixedly into the crystal ball. “It’s no use,” she said finally, pulling her eyes away. “Guess I haven’t enough of the witch in me!”

She stepped back from the dragon standard on which the globe stood, and for a minute was stone blind.

“I can’t see a thing!” she gasped in alarm.

“The optic nerve is paralyzed,” said the monk, steadying her as she swayed slightly. “Vision will be normal in a moment.”

“I’m beginning to distinguish objects now,” Penny admitted, reassured.

The monk released her arm. Seating himself before the crystal globe, he placed his hands on the polished surface.

“Now shall I try?” he suggested. “What would you like to know about the future?”

“You might find Mrs. Hawthorne for me,” the investigator said in jest.

In the darkened room, Father Benedict’s hooded face looked grotesque as light from the tall tapers flickered upon his angular jaw bones.

The moment was impressive. A tomb-like silence had fallen upon the three, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire.

Then, quite suddenly, Penny was certain she heard another noise. Though the occasion should not have been one for alarm, she felt her skin prickle. A tiny chill caused her to shiver.

Or was it a chill? Against her cheek she felt a breath of icy wind. Somewhere beyond the room a door had opened. Unmistakably, she heard the creak of old wood.

Penny’s startled gaze roved to Mr. Ayling. Oblivious to all else, the investigator was watching Father Benedict closely.

Every sense now alert, the girl listened intently. Had someone stepped on a loose board as he crept along the passageway? Or had she merely heard the old house groaning to itself?

The creaking sound was not repeated.

Trying to throw off the pall which had fallen upon her, Penny centered her full attention upon the monk. As one hypnotized by the glass into which he peered, he mumbled words difficult to understand.