CHAPTER 11
After dinner that evening, Hartley saw his father settled in his favorite armchair by the library hearth with a large glass of brandy within easy reach, then Hartley excused himself and went into the front hall, opened the front door, and stepped outside.
Quietly closing the door, he looked across the darkened park at the house opposite and one door up. In the poor light, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he glimpsed a curtain shift in one of the upstairs windows.
He paused for an instant. What he and Cynthia were about to embark on was blazoned on the forefront of his brain, snaring every last iota of his attention. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel nervous so much as impatient; they’d been wanting to take this step, had been discussing it for more than a year. Jaw firming, he stepped off the porch and went to meet his fate.
It was past time.
The evening had closed in, unusually dark and almost menacing with heavy black clouds louring, impenetrable and weighty. The scent of rain was pervasive, carried on the chill breeze that snaked through the park, twining through the still-bare branches and setting them creaking.
Hartley strode through the park. At this hour, there was no one else about; this wasn’t a neighborhood in which vagrants curling up under a bush to see out the night were common. As far as he could tell, in that moment he was the only person abroad in that little pocket of London. Reaching the huge old oak that stood at the center of the park, he halted beneath the cage of its outer branches.
A minute later, Cynthia appeared; letting herself out of the side gate of her family’s house, she came to join him. Wrapped in her cloak, with an additional shawl to combat the chill in the air, she walked to meet him with her head high.
She had never, to his eyes, appeared more serenely assured. More confident of herself, and of him. Of them and their way forward.
He was sure, too, but he had never had quite the same clarity of purpose, the same never-wavering resolution that she possessed. Hers was a strength he was man enough, wise enough, to appreciate. And to value.
As she neared, he smiled, in appreciation, in welcome.
In lingering wonder.
She returned the gesture with much the same emotions shining in her eyes.
Barely slowing, she walked into his arms.
Of their own volition, his arms closed around her. When she raised her face to his and offered her lips, he accepted the invitation, bent his head and kissed her.
There, in the middle of the square, for all their world to see.
Even if no one was looking.
It was the statement that counted, a declaration of their intent, and as they surrendered to the kiss and let it deepen, both accepted and rejoiced.
And gave themselves over, once again, committed once again to their direction, their avowed purpose.
And to what the journey to their goal required them to do.
There was no backing away, no retreat. Not in either of them.
Cynthia sensed that, knew that, as his lips moved on hers, as his tongue claimed her mouth and she returned the caress with her own brand of ardor. Her fingers locked in the silk of his hair, her breasts crushed to the hard planes of his chest, she met him and matched him and held fast within the tumult of their swirling passions. Her hips tight against his thighs, his erection cradled against her taut belly, she held to the kiss, to him, to the promise of what would be.
But there were deeds they had to accomplish that night before they could claim the haven of each other’s embrace.
When Hartley drew back from the kiss, she did, too.
When he raised his head and looked into her face, she was waiting to meet his eyes.
He searched her face, her eyes, then asked, “Are you ready?”
Easing back, she nodded. “I am.” He took her hand and she twined her fingers with his. “We can’t wait any longer.”
He nodded. His gaze rose to her home, silhouetted against the night sky. His face hardened. “We were so much happier before.”
Cynthia’s lips twisted as she followed his gaze. “Before Mama found those wretched shoes.”
Hartley hesitated, then sighed. “No—that wasn’t the real source of the problem. My mama was. If she hadn’t grown so obsessed with those shoes… They were just shoes, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. In pursuit of what she wanted, she wantonly wrecked not just her relationship with Aunt Hester, but all our relationships, too.”
He met Cynthia’s gaze. “All over a particular style of shoe—but, even more, because she couldn’t have something she’d set her heart on.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s important we see it for what it was. If we don’t, it’ll be harder to put things right.”
He looked into Cynthia’s upturned face, into the shadowed pools of her eyes. She had always anchored him. From somewhere between them, within them, he found the strength to face what he felt he had to. Lowering his voice, he said, “I would never have wished her dead, but now that she is, I—we—have to accept that her death has removed the largest obstacle in our path. I didn’t kill her, and neither did you. But with her gone, it opens the way for us to bind our families together again.”
Cynthia held his gaze steadily. “Just as we had always hoped to do, but your mother’s death has also made our goal imperative. It’s time we made a start. With the funeral tomorrow afternoon, we haven’t got much time to do for the others what they need to have done.”
Hartley dragged in a breath, glanced back at his home, then looked at hers. He gripped her hand more tightly. “Are you ready to attempt to turn back the clock?”
Tipping her head, her gaze on her home, Cynthia considered, then shook her head. “No—we’re not turning it back. We’re not going to even attempt to pretend all the direness never happened. We are going to work to—do our damnedest to—push it aside, and to get our lives, which have been derailed, back on track.” She met Hartley’s eyes. “That’s what we’re doing. That’s what we’re going to do.”
Lips firming, an answering determination infusing his expression, he nodded.
Hand in hand, they left the oak and walked to the Latimers’ house.
* * *
Barnaby, Penelope, and the others had long ago realized that taking a respite from their investigative deliberations and enjoying each other’s company over a relaxed dinner allowed their minds to settle, which invariably resulted in greater clarity when they returned to the drawing room and the matter at hand.
That evening, while the others reclaimed their accustomed seats about the drawing room fireplace, Penelope fell to pacing before it.
Barnaby, Stokes, and Griselda knew that was not a good sign. What was even more troubling was that they shared her disquiet.
Less experienced in Penelope’s ways but nevertheless sensitive to the welling uneasiness, Montague settled on the sofa beside Violet, his arm stretched along the sofa’s back. Rather carefully, he offered, “It occurs to me that it’s possible, despite all we now know, that Monica Galbraith might, indeed, have seen someone fling the ball down on her mother. If she had followed her mother from the ballroom, as we now surmise she had, but had hung back in the shadows of the corridor, she might have overheard an argument, seen the murderer fling down the ball…and heard enough to realize what had happened. She would have been paralyzed with shock, at least for an instant. She would have wanted to rush forward to the balustrade, might have impulsively stepped over the threshold and onto the terrace, but was too frightened to go any further. She balked, then turned and bolted. That, I think, would account for everything we currently know.”
Stokes blinked, then slowly nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” He glanced at Penelope, who had halted to look at Montague. “What we know to this point does not prove that Monica herself was the killer.”
Penelope drew in a breath, then somewhat stiffly nodded. “I agree—but that’s not what’s weighing, increasingly heavily, on my mind.”
Violet tipped her head. “What is?” She had worked with Penelope for some months and had realized that sometimes her friend needed a simple question to focus her thoughts.
The ploy worked. Remaining stationary, her expression turning blank as she looked inward, Penelope eventually said, “Regardless of whether she saw someone else murder her mother or whether she herself was the murderer, can you imagine what Monica—a young lady not yet out, who would have led a very sheltered life—must be feeling and thinking now? Tonight?”
Warming to her theme, Penelope glanced at the others. “Try, if you can, to put yourselves in her place. She spends months scheming for her big moment. She craves her mother’s attention and everything’s in place—she’s wearing the shoes, and she’s at the major ball of the moment along with all the ton—but she’s getting frustrated because, for one reason or another, she hasn’t been able to show her mother her new shoes. Not yet. Then she sees her mother slip out of the ballroom. Monica follows, hoping for the few moments of privacy, which are all she needs—a few moments of her mother’s time, of her undivided attention.”
Penelope paused, then went on, “We don’t know what happened next.” She looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Did you see Monica when you called there today?”
“According to Lord Galbraith,” Barnaby reported, “his younger daughters are keeping to their rooms and have not come downstairs since the tragedy.”
Penelope grimaced. “I only really saw her that once, in the Fairchilds’ drawing room. Thinking back…” Penelope closed her eyes and did.
Softly, Griselda murmured, “Focus on the element in your memory that you want to see. Then look closer.”
Her head up, her eyes still closed, Penelope drew in a long, slow breath, then exhaled. “My God—I saw it then, but I didn’t realize what it meant.” Opening her eyes, she looked at Griselda. “Monica was already upset—deeply upset—before Stokes revealed that her mother had been murdered. She was sitting with her head down and her hands clasped in her lap. She was clutching her hands so tightly her knuckles were white. And then when Stokes broke the news, she burst into wrenching sobs. Immediately.”
“Because she’d been bottling them up,” Violet said.
“Exactly!” Penelope’s face filled with certainty. “At the time, I thought maybe Monica had been thinking dark thoughts about her mother for deserting her in the ballroom…but it was something far worse.” Penelope paused, then frowned. “But I have to say, even given what I saw, it could all have happened as Montague suggested, and Monica was bowed down by guilt over running away and leaving her mother dying.”
“She would have been in a state,” Violet said. “She couldn’t have returned to the ballroom—someone would have noticed.”
Penelope cast an exasperated look at Barnaby. “We collected the alibis of the Latimer ladies, but we never thought to check those of the Galbraiths.”
Resigned, Barnaby shrugged.
Montague stirred. When the others looked at him, he grimaced. “I know I made the suggestion, but on thinking further…while I can accept that if Monica had seen someone kill her mother, she might have been so shocked that she precipitously fled—she is young and was in a social situation that would have been new and overwhelming—what I can’t accept is that she then did nothing. For more than an hour. She didn’t seek help. She didn’t confide in her sisters, or her father, or her brother, all of whom were present.” Increasingly certain, Montague met Penelope’s gaze and shook his head. “No. However terrible it is to think it, Monica Galbraith must have been responsible for her mother’s death. That’s the only way to explain her subsequent behavior.”
Penelope stared at Montague for several seconds, then made a frustrated sound. “You’re right. Which—”
“Brings us back to the fact,” Stokes said, “that the only person who knows what happened on the terrace is Monica Galbraith.”
Penelope swung about and resumed her pacing. “I’m still having a very hard time believing she killed her mother. Young ladies of her ilk normally balk at squashing a spider.”
“Be that as it may,” Stokes said, meeting Barnaby’s eyes, “we’ll speak with her tomorrow and learn the truth.”
Violet frowned. “Actually, I don’t think you’ll be able to speak with Monica tomorrow.” When the others looked at her, Violet explained, “Lady Galbraith’s funeral is tomorrow. The notice was in this morning’s Gazette.”
“Oh.” Penelope halted. Head rising, she stared across the room. Then she whirled to face Barnaby. “I—we”—she waved to include them all—“need to speak with Monica tonight.” Urgency filled her tone. “Now! We can’t wait.”
Barnaby met her gaze and didn’t argue.
It was Stokes who somewhat warily asked, “Why now—tonight?”
Penelope swung to face him. “Because tomorrow might be—I greatly fear will be—too late. I was never”—she gestured—“as young as Monica Galbraith, but if I’m even half right about the pressures that must be building on her…what if she was responsible, in whatever way, for her mother’s death? What if somehow something went wrong with her grand scheme to give her mother what she wanted in the form of a version of Lady Latimer’s shoes, and instead her mother died? Don’t ask me how it happened—I don’t know. But I do know that Monica was deeply distressed that night, and after three long days and nights to dwell on whatever happened…” Pausing to draw breath, Penelope met Stokes’s eyes. “If we wait, I really don’t think Monica will be there to see her mother’s body lowered into the ground.”
“You think she’ll take her own life?” Griselda asked.
Penelope looked at her, then simply said, “I’m perfectly certain she’ll make the attempt, and what more appropriate time than tonight?”
Silence held them all, then Penelope looked again at Stokes. “We cannot allow this to turn into an even worse tragedy. We need to speak with Monica now.”
* * *
Penelope had succeeded in very effectively communicating her trepidation to the others; they were all on edge as they piled into Stokes’s and Montague’s carriages for the short journey to Hanover Square.
Less than fifteen minutes after making their collective decision, they gathered on the pavement outside the Galbraith residence. Stokes was about to lead their party up the steps when he noticed a group of four people heading their way through the unlit park.
Spotting Stokes and company, the group walked faster.
Following Stokes’s gaze, Penelope turned as the group reached the street and the light from the streetlamps fell on them.
“Adair! Inspector!” With one hand locked about the hand of a young lady, Hartley Galbraith strode quickly across the street.
The young lady kept pace by his side, her expression concerned, her gaze swiftly raking their group. “Has something happened?” The young lady directed her question to Penelope.
Stokes realized the young lady had to be Cynthia Latimer—which suggested that the older couple currently crossing the street were most likely her parents. Stokes’s first impulse was to reassure everyone that all was in hand…but it wasn’t.
Inwardly sighing, he glanced at Penelope.
She barely waited for the acknowledgment to take charge. In her usual no-nonsense fashion, she introduced the older couple to everyone they hadn’t previously met.
Stokes found himself having his hand wrung by Lord Latimer.
“Has there been some breakthrough, Inspector?” Lord Latimer was a strong, hearty gentleman; he had a grip like iron.
“Yes, and no,” Penelope answered, saving Stokes from having to obfuscate. “But there have been some developments, and we felt it imperative to pursue them immediately.” She glanced at Cynthia and her parents. “Indeed, I’m rather glad to see you. It’s possible you might be needed.”
Hartley’s anxiety plainly escalated, but before he could speak, Penelope held up a hand. “We believe we are close to understanding what happened, but we need to go inside. This isn’t a conversation for the front steps.”
“Yes, of course.” Recalled to his manners, Hartley stepped up, opened the door, and waved everyone inside. “Please—come in.”
Accepting the invitation, they entered and milled in the front hall.
Penelope turned to Hartley. “We need to speak with Monica.”
Hartley blinked. “Monica?”
Barnaby quietly said, “We believe she can shed some light on what occurred.”
“Oh.” Hartley looked surprised.
But before he could probe further, drawn by the commotion, Lord Galbraith came out of the library. He appeared weighed down, his movements slow; his loss clearly still rode heavily on his shoulders. Then his gaze fell on Lord and Lady Latimer, and he stopped dead.
The three old friends stared at each other.
A moment of tortured silence ensued, then Lord Galbraith said, “Hester? Humphrey?” His voice was weak, then he swallowed and managed, “Thank God you’re here.”
Lady Latimer swept across the intervening yards. Lord Galbraith opened his arms, and they embraced. Lady Latimer murmured soothing words, and then Lord Latimer joined them.
Penelope watched as the three older people clustered together, sharing their loss, the Latimers clearly providing desperately needed and deeply welcome comfort to Lord Galbraith.
Hartley and Cynthia exchanged a relieved glance, then, drawing in breaths and raising their heads, they crossed the hall to join their elders.
Penelope and the others hung back by the door, allowing Hartley and Cynthia to break their news to Lord Galbraith; clearly, they’d already gained the blessing of Cynthia’s parents. As his lordship looked from Hartley and Cynthia to the Latimers, taking in their approval and their hopes, his face slowly suffused with even deeper relief and the first hint of life beyond his sorrow.
It was necessary to give the families time to regroup; Penelope told herself that, yet impatience prodded her like a sharpened spur. She wasn’t sure why her trepidation was mounting, why she felt so strongly that they needed to act now; all she knew was that she did, and that her amorphous dread was building.
Rustling and light steps on the stairs drew all eyes to the landing above. The voices rising from the hall—Lord Galbraith’s much firmer and with quite a different timbre as he congratulated his son and embraced Cynthia with sincere joy—had drawn Geraldine and Primrose from their rooms; they paused on the landing, clearly uncertain.
Lord Galbraith saw them and, smiling, beckoned. “Come down, come down! See who’s here.”
That was all the encouragement Geraldine and Primrose needed; lifting their hems, they rushed down the last flight and across the tiles. Their expressions dissolving, they flung themselves into Cynthia’s and Lady Latimer’s arms. Amid a storm of weeping and choked words, the ladies clung, while the three gentlemen patted shoulders and stroked backs and tried to calm and soothe.
Then Cynthia and Hartley told his sisters their news, which provoked a fresh round of tears. From the broken words and disjointed phrases it was clear that all in the group were caught between relief and welling joy on the one hand and lingering grief and sorrow on the other.
A frown in her eyes, Penelope shifted from foot to foot. “This is all very touching,” she murmured, “but we need to see Monica.”
Griselda was watching the head of the stairs. “She hasn’t even come to look.”
Montague said, “Perhaps her room is further away, or she might be sleeping.”
“Or…” Penelope paused, then, lips setting, she walked across the hall, circling to come up by Hartley’s side. She tugged his sleeve.
When he glanced at her, she said, “We need to speak with Monica rather urgently. Can you please send someone to fetch her?”
Hartley glanced around the heads as if only then realizing his youngest sister wasn’t there. “Yes, of course.” He looked around and spotted the butler, who had come into the hall but hung back. “Millwell—please send someone to ask Miss Monica to join us.”
“Indeed, sir.” Having overheard the family’s latest news, the old butler was teary-eyed. With a bow, he retreated toward the rear of the hall, to where a young footman stood at attention in the shadow of the stairs.
Returning to Barnaby and the others, who had remained closer to the front door, Penelope watched the footman go quickly up the stairs. Straining her ears, after a moment she thought she heard a knock, followed by the footman’s voice.
A sudden burst of chatter from the family drowned out further sound from above, but then the footman, looking puzzled, came back down the stairs alone. The elderly butler met him at the bottom of the stairs. The footman said something, his voice too muted for Penelope to hear. Frowning, the butler replied, then the footman turned and, followed by the butler, went quickly back up the stairs.
Penelope glanced at Violet, then both hurried to the stairs. Griselda was right behind them.
Gaining the top of the stairs, Penelope looked around.
“That way.” Violet pointed down a corridor.
Penelope hurried forward, Violet at her heels. Entering the short corridor, in the light from the wall sconces, they saw the old butler urging on the footman, who was attempting to break down the door at the corridor’s end.
Glancing back, Penelope saw Griselda enter the corridor behind Violet. “Tell Stokes and Barnaby we need them here now.”
Having glimpsed the activity further down the corridor, Griselda turned and ran back to the stairs.
Penelope and Violet hurried on.
The elderly butler was working himself into a state; when Penelope and Violet reached him, he was wringing his hands, and the tears in his rheumy eyes were threatening to overflow.
The footman bounced back from his third try at shouldering open the door.
Penelope addressed the pair equally. “Has anyone replied from inside?”
The footman glanced at the butler, then said, “No, ma’am. I came up and knocked, and I thought I heard something. But when no one answered, I knocked again and called, then I tried the door and”—he waved at the panel—“it’s locked. It never normally is.”
A stir along the corridor heralded Stokes, followed by Barnaby and Griselda.
“Monica’s door is locked,” Penelope said. “And she might be in there.”
Grim-faced, Stokes nodded and waved them all aside. He positioned himself before the door, then raised one large boot and kicked hard at the panel just below the lock.
The frame splintered on the inside and the door swung free.
Penelope whisked inside. Violet and Griselda followed.
The room wasn’t that large. It contained a tester bed with a frilly pale blue bedspread. Although the bedspread was rumpled, the bed was empty.
A lamp turned very low had been left alight on a small desk beside the fireplace. As Griselda went to turn up the wick, Penelope heard a muffled thump-thump from the corner beyond the wardrobe. Crossing the room, she called, “Bring the lamp.”
As Griselda complied and the light strengthened, Penelope walked past the end of the wardrobe and found herself looking down into the tear-stained face of a young maid, trussed and gagged and left propped in the corner.
“Mmm-mmm!” The maid thrashed helplessly, squinting in the sudden glare.
Penelope crouched and reached for the gag. “It’s all right.”
The maid was still weeping.
Violet crouched on the maid’s other side and started working on the rope binding the girl’s hands.
A strip of cotton flounce, the gag had been tied tightly; it took a minute and more for Penelope to ease the knot apart and pull the material from the girl’s face. As it fell away, the maid gasped, then choked.
“Here.” Griselda held out a glass of water.
Penelope took it and helped the maid to sip. “We need to know where your mistress is.”
Still sipping, the maid nodded, then she raised her head, swallowed, and hoarsely said, “You have to go after her—quickly. She’s gone down to the river—she said she was going to throw herself in.”
“Why?” Penelope asked.
The maid hesitated, obviously unsure.
Violet glanced at the others, then took one of the maid’s freed hands in hers and simply said, “It’s important that you tell us so we can save your mistress—we can’t help her if we don’t know.”
The maid stared at Violet for a second more, then she turned to Penelope. “Miss Monica thinks she killed her mother, but that can’t be right—she loved the old lady, even if her ladyship didn’t pay much attention to her. Like a puppy, Miss Monica was, just wanting and waiting for a smile—there’s never been even the smallest bit of nastiness in Miss Monica, and I’ll swear that all the way to my grave.” The maid drew breath and went on, “Then she found those shoes, and she made her big plan to show them off to her ladyship, all to make her mother happy—so excited she was when she went off to that big ball…” The maid’s expression grew grim. “But then she came back, and her ladyship was dead, and Miss Monica fell apart. She was a wreck. I thought she’d come around, but she only got worse. This evening…I didn’t see it coming. She knocked me out. When I woke up, she’d already gagged me and tied my hands and was tying my feet.”
Struggling to sit up from her slump, the maid gripped Penelope’s sleeve. “She spoke like someone who believed there was no hope. She said she had to do what was right because she’d killed her mother…but she didn’t! She couldn’t have—not her. Not in a million years.”
Penelope patted the maid’s hand as she detached it from her sleeve. “I don’t believe she murdered her mother, either.”
“Unfortunately,” Barnaby said, “it appears that Monica believes she murdered her mother.”
Barnaby was standing by the fireplace with Stokes; when Penelope looked his way, he held up the note he’d found on the mantelpiece. “Her explanation for what she intends to do, but no hint of how or why she did the deed.” He glanced again at the neat schoolgirl script. “All she says is that she didn’t mean to do it, and she’s sorry.”
Penelope’s face set. “We can ask her all our questions when we find her.” Turning back to the maid, she caught the girl’s eyes. “How long ago did Miss Monica leave?”
The maid glanced at the mantelpiece; Stokes stepped out of the way so she could see the clock. The maid paled. “Oh, God—it’s been a good twenty minutes. She’ll be more than halfway there.”
“I need you to think as if you were Miss Monica.” Penelope’s commanding tones overrode—quashed—the maid’s rising hysteria. “If she’s going to the river to throw herself in, how would she go? In a hackney? To where?”
The maid opened her mouth, paused, then nodded to herself. “Walking—she has to be walking.” She met Penelope’s eyes. “That’s why I said halfway there—she can’t have taken a hackney because just this afternoon, she gave me all her pin money and told me to give it to that young shoemaker, the one who made her the shoes. She said it was only fair. But I know it was all of it—and she was dressed to walk. She had her half-boots on, and she put on her bonnet, too.”
“Good,” Penelope said. “So where along the river would she go? Is there any particular place she would make for?”
The maid blinked. “The Privy Gardens. The family used to go there when the girls were little. She used to love going there.”
Stokes stirred. “What route would she take?”
“Down Saville Street and through Albany.” The maid spoke with certainty. “She won’t go down Piccadilly—we never went that way. She’ll go past St. James’s Square and down onto the Parade Grounds, then around and across Whitehall to the gardens.” The maid looked at Stokes. “They border the river.”
Stokes nodded. “I know them.” He turned to the door. “Now let’s see if we can get there in time.” He led the way from the room.
Barnaby waved the three ladies ahead of him; leaving the footman and the butler to tend to the maid, they all went quickly downstairs to where Monica’s family was waiting with Montague in the front hall.
As they stepped onto the tiles, Stokes flicked a glance at Penelope.
She caught it. Before anyone could voice the questions burning their tongues, she crisply stated, “Monica has left the house. She believes she killed her mother, which seems highly unlikely, but we don’t have time to go into that now.” Sternly, she eyed the family. “And we don’t have time for any vapors or hysterics, either—we need to go after Monica and get her back. We can sort everything out later, but you all need to help. We don’t have much time.”
She’d succeeded in capturing everyone’s attention. No one spoke, much less argued. Appeased, she rolled on, giving a brief outline of where they thought Monica had gone and what route they believed she would take.
Recovering from the shock most rapidly, Hartley and Cynthia confirmed that the Privy Gardens via St. James’s Square was, indeed, the most likely destination and route Monica would have chosen.
“Good.” Penelope met Hartley’s eyes. “You and Cynthia are in charge of the family search party. Take carriages or hackneys to St. James’s Square and start from there—on foot, because in a carriage you might easily miss her. You need to hurry, because we know she’s well ahead of you, but she might have paused or stopped to think anywhere along the way. She might be sitting on a bench somewhere. We need her found and brought back here—do you understand?”
Hartley wanted to go straight to the river; it was there in his face, but he was the only one who could keep the family members focused. Clearly swallowing his reluctance, he nodded. “Yes. All right.”
“Stay in small groups,” Stokes advised. “At least two together at all times, and stay within sight of each other.”
“How far should we go?” Cynthia asked.
“Keep searching thoroughly all the way to the Privy Gardens,” Stokes said.
“We,” Penelope stated, “will go straight there. We’ll be the last line between Monica and the river.” She paused, then waved at everyone. “We don’t have time to discuss anything more. We have to act immediately if we’re to save Monica.”