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!"
"The action of a Peeping Tom does not frighten you, ma'am?"
"Oh dear no." She looked at him narrowly. "I doubt if there really was one, you know. Miss Gillespie is very young. Young girls are given to fancies at times, and to nerves." She smoothed her skirts again and rearranged the billowing fabric. "It comes of just sitting