Читать книгу Death Makes a Prophet - Ernest Elmore - Страница 21

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If Penpeti was a well-known character in Welworth, Miss Minnybell was famous. For one thing she had lived in the place since its inauguration and for another, where Penpeti was silent and aloof, Miss Minnybell was talkative and utterly unselfconscious. She waylaid any and every citizen at the slightest provocation. She revealed to them with unblushing gusto all the intimate problems and actions of her circumscribed existence. But nobody minded and nobody was unkind to Miss Minnybell—for Miss Minnybell, poor soul, was “not quite all there”.

For twenty-five years she had tested the patience and tempers of the Welworthians, but she had never harmed a soul. She had her obsessions, of course, but she was not, and never had been, dangerous. Her story was a tragic one. At the age of twenty-one she had taken up missionary work in Turkey and for five happy years had devoted herself to this service. And then late one night poor Miss Minnybell had found herself struggling in the arms of her Turkish male servant, who was endeavouring, with considerable intimacy, to embrace her. Luckily she had been rescued by a member of the mission before she had suffered any real damage, but the incident so preyed on her mind that she eventually had a nervous breakdown and was forced to return to England. Although she recovered her bodily strength, her mind, alas, lagged behind. From that day to this Miss Minnybell had a horror of and a hatred for anything Turkish. Even Turkish Delight. She was known in the Garden City as “Mad Minny”, but it was kindly meant and everybody felt genuinely sorry for her. She was just a harmless old lady who was not quite right in the head.

And then one December dusk Miss Minnybell first set eyes on Penpeti. He was just coming out of a bookshop and the light from the window illuminated every detail of his odd attire. But it was not his cloak, his caftan or his purple umbrella that arrested Miss Minnybell’s attention. Her whole interest, with a sudden uprush of fear and loathing, was centred on his fez! It was the first time she had seen a man wearing a fez since she had left Turkey nearly forty years before. The shock to her nervous system was profound. Her old obsession flamed higher. With the cunning and patience of a plain-clothes man she “tailed” Penpeti home through the December twilight. Then, with equal cunning, she began to find out all about him. She was convinced that he had turned up in Welworth with designs, not this time, alas, on her virginity, but on her life. She was absolutely certain that Peta Penpeti and Ali Hamed, her one-time servant, were one and the same man. The beard was merely part of a disguise. Beneath his caftan she was sure he concealed a long jewelled dagger, whose destined target was her own heart. It was revenge he desired—for through the swirling mists of her memory Miss Minnybell seemed to recall that Ali Hamed had been sentenced to two years solitary confinement for assault.

Thereafter, at night, she barricaded the doors with tables and chairs. She contracted with a local builder to fashion her a set of stout wooden shutters for every window—shutters that she barred and bolted the moment it was dark. From among the effects of a recently deceased brother she unearthed a large and cumbersome revolver and a box of ammunition. Then she went to the Public Library and, with the aid of the Encyclopædia Britannica, learnt how to load and cock this instrument of defence. Every night she slept with it under her pillow. It was for Miss Minnybell a period of intense activity and suspense.

And although, with the passing of months, nothing happened, Miss Minnybell’s conviction remained unshaken. The would-be assassin was biding his time. She was being too clever for him. She wasn’t giving him the opportunity to lure her into a dark corner, where he could commit his crime unseen and in silence. Meeting Penpeti in the street, Miss Minnybell would take not the slightest notice of him until he had passed by—then she would skip into a doorway and watch him, or dodge after him from tree to tree like an enthusiastic Boy Scout out for a good day’s “tracking”. She soon learnt all about his connection with the Children of Osiris. Often she hid in the laurel bushes that surrounded the corrugated-iron temple and spied on his movements. As long as she knew where he was and what he was up to, Miss Minnybell felt comparatively safe. But when she went home after dark she always kept to the most frequented and best-lighted streets. Luckily she lived only a stone’s throw from the town centre.

And of this flapping, fluttering female in his wake Penpeti remained unaware. He was probably one of the few people in Welworth who were ignorant of “Mad Minny’s” existence. After all, the oddity of her dress and behaviour were probably less noticeable in Welworth than they would have been in any other town in England. It was her conversation that marked her down. And to Penpeti Miss Minnybell never spoke.