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 the 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?”

“It would seem only decent of him to allow you to complete your paintings.”

“I’ve been coming to the monastery for months, off and on,” the artist revealed in an aggrieved tone. “Always figured I’d buy the place. The owner, Peter Holden, picked it up at a foreclosure sale for a mere nothing. He’d have sold to me too, if this fellow hadn’t come along. Who is he, anyhow?”

“I wonder myself,” said Mr. Ayling.

“His gateman looks like a thug!”

“I’m afraid your unfortunate encounter with Winkey prejudiced you,” smiled the investigator. “After all, the man apparently was acting under orders.”

“I didn’t like that monk either!” the artist scowled. “He acted as religious as my Aunt Sara!”

“His real name is Jay Highland,” Penny contributed. “He’s a crystal gazer.”

“Humph! A fine calling! If the authorities are smart, they’ll look into his business here!”

The trio now had reached the roadside where Penny’s car was parked. Politely, she offered to give the artist a lift to his home.

“Thanks, but I’ll walk,” he declined the offer. “I live only a short distance. I’ll just cut through the fields.”

His dark eyes still snapping like firebrands, the artist strode off through the snow.

“Quite a character!” remarked Mr. Ayling, once he and Penny were in the car. “An eccentric!”

“I’ve heard Mr. Eckenrod really is a fine artist,” Penny replied. “Too bad Father Benedict wouldn’t let him complete his paintings. By the way, what did you think of him?”

“Well, if I’m any judge of character, he’ll soon be back to make more trouble.”

“No, I mean Father Benedict.”

“He seemed pleasant enough,” Mr. Ayling said slowly. “However, I can’t say I went for the crystal ball demonstration.”

“Oh, anyone could tell that was the bunk!”

“Frankly, it gave me quite a jolt.”

“Oh, you mean the monk’s warning!”

“Not that,” replied Mr. Ayling. “His description of Mrs. Hawthorne and her daughter. Of course, I’ve never seen either of them, but the picture he conjured up seemed to fit them.”

“Oh, he probably made it up.” Penny started the car which rolled with creaking tires over the hilly, snow-packed road toward the city. “You described Mrs. Hawthorne to him earlier, you know.”

“So I did. Except for one small detail, the reading would not have impressed me.”

“And that detail?”

“In describing the girl on the beach, Father Benedict said she was wearing a black cameo ring.”

“So he did! You certainly never mentioned that to him!”

“It rather jarred me,” admitted Mr. Ayling. “Because, when Rhoda Hawthorne last was seen, she was wearing just such a cameo ring!”