The Seven Wonders of Crime by Paul Halter

Author:Paul Halter [Halter, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-12-21T05:00:00+00:00

13

Seated at the Brooks’ garden table, Owen and I were waiting for Paul Brooke. It was a pleasant afternoon, with no menacing clouds on the horizon. I looked around the garden, noting that the recent rains had reinvigorated the vegetation. Only the lawn, thirsty after a sustained hot period, seemed still to be suffering, particularly in the area at the centre of the garden and most exposed to the sun: the area around the strange flower-bedecked edifice created by John Brooke, “The Gates to the Hereafter.” I noticed with surprise that the climbing plants seemed to have grown to double their previous size since our last talk with the young man. At that very moment a voice behind me spoke:

‘“The Gates to the Hereafter.”’

It was said innocently enough, but the words sent shivers down my spine. I turned round to see a slender olive-skinned woman dressed in a black velvet housecoat over a blue satin blouse embroidered in black. Under braided hair swept up in a chignon was a face which was attractive enough but lacking any warmth in the eyes.

Mrs. Brooke was almost certainly in her sixties, but was one of those women whose age was impossible to guess.

‘It’s a strange name for a garden ornament, don’t you think?’ she asked, after introducing herself and informing us her son would be joining us shortly.

Owen, appearing very affable, agreed with her comment while noting the edifice’s originality.

Milada Brooke sat down next to us on a wrought-iron seat, looking thoughtful.

‘John sometimes has strange ideas,’ she announced after a long silence. ‘And sometimes they can be rather gloomy. He’s changed a lot since the first time I met him.’

‘I assume that would have been in your native country?’ enquired Owen. ‘I recall reading, some time ago, a book that your husband had written about the Balkans.’

‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Brooke, a faraway look in her eye. ‘He was a dashing young man then, full of life, with high ideals and an infectious optimism, who hadn’t yet become interested in Egyptian mummies. But over time, even that passion passed. Just like so many others. These days he dedicates himself to painting. Or, rather, I should say, to painters.’

‘You’re thinking, perhaps, of the young and talented Mr. Denham?’ observed Owen, with a deceptive casualness.

Mrs. Brooke paused for a moment, then replied:

‘Yes, if you will. But maybe tomorrow Mr. Denham won’t be there, or he’ll be called Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown. And he’ll be a sculptor or a musician. It doesn’t really matter.’

Milada Brooke spoke in an expressionless voice, making it difficult to detect any nuances, which might, I suspect, have been full of reproach.

‘But I don’t see anything gloomy in any of that,’ interceded Owen, attempting to lighten the conversation.

‘“The Gates to the Hereafter,”’ she continued, turning her dark gaze toward the edifice in question. ‘Don’t you find it very sombre to have given your principal garden ornament a name like that? Where I come from they believe it brings bad luck. When it

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