The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels

by Mildred Benson

  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.

  “Now the ball is clearing,” he muttered. “What is this? I see a resort city on the sea coast—the rush and roar of waves. Ah, a beach! On the sand are two bathers—one a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen with dark hair. She wears a green bathing suit. Upon her third finger is a black cameo ring.”

  A startled look came upon Mr. Ayling’s face, but he made no comment.

  “Her companion is an elderly woman,” continued the monk as if speaking in a trance. “Over her shoulders is flung a dark blue beach cape. The picture is fading now—I am losing the vision.”

  Penny’s attention, wandering again, was drawn as if by a powerful magnet to the curtains covering the exit.

  In fascination, she watched. An inch at a
time, the door moved outward. Then a hand appeared between the black velvet draperies, cautiously pulling them apart.

  Penny wondered if her eyes were playing tricks upon her. She felt an overpowering impulse to laugh or call out. Yet her throat was dry and tight.

  The scene seemed fantastic. It couldn’t be real, she told herself. Yet those curtains steadily were moving farther apart.

  An arm came into view, then the side of a human figure. Last of all, a face, ghostly pale against the dark background, slowly emerged.

  For one fleeting instant Penny saw a girl only a little older than herself, standing half wrapped in the folds of the velvet curtain. Their eyes met.

  In that moment, through Penny’s brain flashed the message that the one who crouched in the doorway was the same girl she and Louise had picked up on the road only the previous night.

  “But that’s crazy!” she thought. “It couldn’t be the same person! I must be dreaming!”

  The one behind the curtain had raised a finger to her lips as if commanding silence. Then the draperies were pulled together with a jerk and the figure was gone.

  Another cold breath of air swept through the room, causing candles on either side of the crystal ball to flicker. Again Penny heard the soft creak, creak of wood as footsteps retreated.

  She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat. Had her imagination played tricks upon her?

  Slowly she turned her eyes upon Father Benedict, whose back had been toward the curtained door.

  “Another picture is forming in the crystal ball,” he muttered. “I see a man walking through a lonely wood. But what is this? Evil persons lie in wait behind the tall pine trees. Now they are waylaying him!

  “They fall upon him and beat him with their cudgels. Woe is me! They leave him lying on the ground. The man is dying—dead. Oh, evil, evil! I can read no more in the glass today!”

  Arising quickly, and brushing a hand over his glazed eyes, Father Benedict leaned for a moment against the damp plaster wall.

  “Excuse me, please,” he apologized. “What I saw was most unnerving.”

  The monk poured himself a drink of water and lighted a lamp on the center table.

  “Now I can see again,” he said in a more natural tone. “A reading always is an exhausting experience.”

  “Your demonstration was most impressive,” said Mr. Ayling. “How would you interpret your vision of Mrs. Hawthorne?”

  “I should say the woman and her granddaughter at this very moment are enjoying a pleasant vacation in a sunny climate. California perhaps, or Florida.”

  “Mrs. Hawthorne was in Florida, but she bought a ticket to Riverview.”

  “Obviously, she never arrived here,” replied the monk. “You see, the crystal glass never lies.”

  “Then your advice would be to resume my search in Florida?” the investigator asked.

  “I do not presume to advise you.” From a cabinet, Father Benedict removed a black cloth which he used to polish away an imaginary speck on the crystal globe. Then he covered the standard with a cloth hood and added impressively: “However, I consider it my duty to warn you of danger.”

  “Warn me?” exclaimed Mr. Ayling. “Of what danger?”

  “My second vision was most disturbing,” Father Benedict said gravely. “As I interpret it, great harm—perhaps death, will pursue the man who walks alone in the woods, unless he alters his present course. You came to Riverview for a definite purpose, Mr. Ayling?”

  “Why, yes, to find Mrs. Hawthorne.”

  “Mr. Ayling, for your own well being, you must abandon the search.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said the monk very low, “the vision was sent to me that you may be saved from disaster. The man attacked in the woods was yourself, Mr. Ayling!”

  CHAPTER 7

  A WARNING

  If Father Benedict’s words disturbed the investigator, he gave no sign. Smiling, he said:

  “I fear I am not a firm believer in the art of crystal gazing—all respect to your remarkable talent.”

  The monk frowned as he carefully laid another log on the dying fire. “You will be unwise to disregard the warning,” he said. “Most unwise.”

  “Warning?”

  “I should interpret the picture as such, dear Mr. Ayling. Apparently, if you pursue your present course, you are certain to meet misfortune.”

  “To what ‘present course’ do you refer?”

  “That I would not know,” replied the monk coldly. “Now may I thank you for coming to our humble abode and bid you good afternoon? I have a formal meeting soon with members of my little family of believers and must nap for a few minutes. You will excuse me?”

  “We were just leaving,” said Penny. “I’m really deeply interested in your society here. May I come sometime soon to watch a ceremony?”

  The monk gazed at her sharply but answered in a polite voice:

  “Later, when we are better organized and have our house in order, we shall be most happy to have you.”

  On the way out of the building, through the chilly cloister and gloomy hall, Penny looked carefully about for the girl who so stealthily had opened the door of the monk’s study.

  She saw no one. Mr. Ayling and Father Benedict, she was certain, were unaware of the incident which had so startled her.

  “It wasn’t imagination,” she thought. “I did see the door open. But it may not have been that girl Louise and I met last night. Probably it was a member of Mr. Highland’s cult.”

  Deeply puzzled, Penny decided that if an opportunity presented itself, she would revisit the monastery another day.

  At the front door of the building, Father Benedict turned to bid his guests goodbye. Before he could retreat, a loud commotion was heard near the gatehouse.

  The monk listened intently and with evident annoyance. “My! My! What now?” he sighed. “Are we to have no peace and quiet within our walls?”

  Near the front gate, Winkey could be seen arguing with a stout, middle-aged man in a racoon coat who carried an easel and a palette under his arm.

  “My orders are to keep folks out o’ here!” Winkey shouted. “I don’t care who you are! Ye ain’t settin’foot inside here, unless the boss says so! Now get out!”

  “Try to put me out!” the visitor challenged.

  “Okay, I will!” retorted the hunchback.

  He would have seized the visitor by the arm, had not Father Benedict called to him from the doorway:“Winkey!”

  “Yes, Father,” the hunchback mumbled.

  “Now tell me what is wrong,” the cult leader bade as he went down to the gate, followed by Penny and Mr. Ayling. “Who is this gentleman?”

  “My name is Vernon Eckenrod,” the visitor introduced himself. “I’m an artist. I live down the road a quarter of a mile.”

  “He wants to come in and paint a picture,” interposed Winkey. “I told him nothin’ doing.”

  “Your man doesn’t understand,” said Mr. Eckenrod, glaring at the hunchback. “I am doing a series of pictures of the monastery for a national magazine. The sketches are finished and now I’m starting to paint.”

  “You mean you wish to do exterior scenes?”

  “Exterior and also interior. I want to do the arch to the chapter house today, and if I have time, either the stone-hooded chimneys or the window of the guest hall.”

  “You show remarkable familiarity with the monastery.”

  “I’ve been coming here for more than a year,” the artist said, shifting his easel to a more comfortable position. “This building is one of the oldest in the state. See, I have a key.” He held it before the startled gaze of the monk.

  “Indeed!” Father Benedict’s voice became less friendly. “And may I inquire how you came into possession of a key to my property?”

  “Your property?”

  “Certainly, I have rented these premises from the owner, with an option to buy.”

  “I’ve been trying to buy t
he place myself,” the artist said, “but couldn’t pay the amount asked. I’d like to restore the buildings and make it into a real show place.”

  “How did you obtain a key?” the monk reminded him.

  “Oh, the owner gave me one. He lets me paint here whenever I like.”

  “The monastery now is exclusively mine,” said Father Benedict. “Kindly turn the key over to me!”

  “Surely,” agreed Mr. Eckenrod, giving it up. “But you won’t mind if I come here to finish my paintings? I’m under contract to complete the work by the fifteenth of the month.”

  Father Benedict secreted the key in the folds of his robe. “I appreciate your position,” he said. “Nevertheless, we cannot have strangers intruding upon our privacy.”

  “Why, everyone around here knows me! Ask anyone about my character and work!”

  “I do not question your character, my good man. But I must request you not to come here again.”

  “Now see here!” the artist exclaimed, losing his temper again. “You don’t get the idea! My pictures are half done. If I don’t complete the order, I’ll stand to lose months of work.”

  “Complete them from the sketches.”

  “I can’t do that—the color and feeling would be lost.”

  Father Benedict turned as if to leave. “I am sorry,” he said firmly.

  “Listen—” Mr. Eckenrod began furiously.

  The monk coldly walked away, entering the house.

  “You heard him!” cried Winkey, triumphantly. “Now git going and don’t come back!”

  “All right, I’ll go,” the artist retorted. “But I’ll be here again. You can’t get away with this even if you have rented the property!”

  Scarcely aware of Penny and Mr. Ayling, who followed him to the gate, Mr. Eckenrod stomped off with easel and palette.

  “They can’t get away with it!” he stormed, addressing no one in particular. “I’ll come back here with the sheriff!”

  “I’m afraid Father Benedict is within his rights,” remarked Mr. Ayling. “He’s taken over the property.”

  “What’s that?” the artist became aware of his presence. “Oh yes,” he admitted grudgingly, “legally he is within his rights, I suppose. But what of justice?”