Death Mask

Ellis Peters

Description

A student recruits his tutor to help him investigate his father’s murder

The moment Evelyn Manville enlists in the British Army, his thoughts turn to Dorothy Grieve. He’s loved her since they were children, and now he can finally ask her to be his wife. But when she refuses, the heartbroken Evelyn flees to the fringes of the British empire, and doesn’t return to London for sixteen years. He’s been home just three hours before he runs into his former love, and his old feelings come flooding back. This time, however, she has a proposal for him.

A newly minted widow, Dorothy has been left alone to care for Crispin, a son she hardly knows. Desperate for help, she invites Evelyn to come to the country and act as the young boy’s tutor. But Evelyn will soon find that Crispin believes his father was murdered—and discovering the truth could break Evelyn’s heart all over again.
 

Sujets

• Suspense
• Crime fiction
• English Mistery
• Archaeology
• Irish Luck

Informations

• Publié par: Open Road Media
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781480445352
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Death Mask
Ellis Peters

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
ONE
I was drifting down a back street in Chelsea, fingering the loose silver in my trouser pocket, which represented all the money I had between myself and Aunt Caroline s spare room, and wondering whether the old girl would find it worth a loan not to have me on the premises, when a taxi stopped at a house just ahead of me, and a woman got out. I stopped in my tracks for the pleasure of watching her walk. Just of watching her walk, that s all. She sailed out of the car, leaned lightly back for an instant to slip the fare and a smile to her driver, and then sailed on across the broad pavement towards the door of the house. She carried her shoulders well back, and her head afloat like a flower on its stem, and moved with long, supple, resolute steps upon her objective; and her gaze seemed to be fixed always a little above everything that crossed her path, as though her sights were raised for a longer journey than the one which was apparent. Everything she did would always carry that implication of another, less obvious significance hidden somewhere behind and beyond the act as other people saw it.
I stood back against the house wall, and watched her, and thought how like Dorothy she was; and suddenly she turned her head a little, in the very act of stretching out a gloved hand towards the bell; and it was Dorothy.
I hadn t set eyes on her for over sixteen years, not since the day I asked her to marry me, and she turned me down. And there wasn t much external resemblance between this remarkably elegant woman of-let s see, it must be thirty-four-and that wild young creature of eighteen, elegant, too, in a lawless way, like an unbroken greyhound. The clothes were the last word in sophistication; for a fashionable concert violinist I suppose they had to be. So austere that virtually there was nothing there but a slender casing of two or three luxurious materials, and the shape of the body within them. And, of course, the hat, which was an enormous flat grey tam- o-shanter in what I suppose was probably some kind of nylon tulle. She wore it not straight, which was the mode, to judge by what I d seen around me in those few hours in London, but tilted slightly forward towards her brows, which were still high, shapely, and unplucked, and still gave her that faintly bewildered look of her extreme youth, as though the world never failed to astonish her. The poise of the hat and the poise of the head combined to detach her a little further from the object of her wonder, as though she drew back to take a more measured view, but without ridding herself of the impulse of startled disbelief.
And of course, I thought, enjoying the glimpse of her more than I d dreamed possible, she won t know me from Adam by this time; and even if she did, she wouldn t particularly want to meet me me again. Why should she? We can hardly have much to say to each other, after sixteen years.
Evelyn! cried Dorothy in her gay, high, unself-conscious voice, calling half Chelsea to bear witness to her surprise and pleasure; and she swung smartly away from the door, and bore down on me with the same imperious stride, her hand out and reaching for mine. I thought you were thousands of miles away, in the Persian Gulf, or somewhere. How lovely to see you again! Why haven t you ever written? Are you still angry with me?
Very few women but Dorothy, I suppose, would greet a man with that question after sixteen years, just because on the last occasion when they met him they happened to turn down his offer of marriage. And probably no one but Dorothy could approach him with the assumption that he would still be angry about it, and be dead right.
Don t be an ass! I said, which, besides not being at all what I d meant to say, was also a prevarication, if not a downright lie. I was still sore about that refusal. I hadn t realised it until I saw her again. Sixteen years blew away like a scud of dead leaves in the wind. When did we ever write letters to each other? How are you, Dorothy? You re looking wonderful.
I wasn t feeling wonderful, she said, until now. Evelyn, are you really not angry? You do look cross. Are you sure it s not with me?
It s not with you, I assured her. There s nobody in the world I could be more glad to see.
Then come to this idiotic party with me. She waved a hand towards the lighted windows of the house. We needn t stay long, but I promised to show up for a while. It s only Gilda Friedmann-I don t know if you know her, she paints, quite well when she s sober. Then we could go and have dinner somewhere together, and talk. Evelyn, it s years and years since we had a chance to talk to each other. She tilted her head back to look at me long and earnestly from under the shadow of the enormous hat, and I caught the full glow of those great eyes of hers, dark as violets, and saw the long, pure, slanting line of her cheekbones. She had always the air of an extremely aristocratic model, except that her eyes and mouth were kind, and wild, and alive in the patrician face, instead of fashionably blank. Don t just go away from me with only a few polite words, I want to know all about you. Give me this evening! Unless, of course, you ve got a date already?
I ve only been back in London three hours, I said, and I haven t seen a soul I know yet, apart from the firm. But how on earth can I walk in on this woman s party? I don t know her. And I m not even presentable.
Wait until you see the crowd Gilda collects! No one s going to notice you among her friends, except as being rather conservative in your dress. And as for gate-crashing, she won t even remember by this time who she invited and who she didn t. Not that she d mind an extra man even if she did remember. Her hand was on my arm, she was drawing me irresistibly towards the light-blue door. She stabbed the bell with a long, delicate forefinger, and a shrill girl with long, blonde hair opened the door to us and screamed greetings, waving a glass in one hand.
Up the stairs, darling, you know the way. I should stick to gin, poppet-or sherry. Rolie s been experimenting again-the cocktails are wonderful, but they kick like a mule. Whatever you do, don t mix your drinks tonight.
She shrieked after us up the staircase: Don t ask Gilda where Bernie is-he s out cold already, and she s sensitive about it. But of course, you know all the pitfalls-
Do you? I asked, stepping round a bearded gentleman who was nursing two glasses on the stairs, and supporting a very pretty and somewhat tipsy partner in one arm.
In a way, yes. Bernie s her husband, and he thinks he has a strong head, and hasn t. They re not as bad as they look on nights like this. And neither am I. I only come to London when I must. I have other amusements.
I should have felt snubbed, if her face hadn t been so thoughtful, and her voice almost diffident in offering explanations. We can t all be empire builders, she said, quite innocent of irony, retiring into that odd humility of hers, always unexpected, and usually inappropriate. I didn t ask you how long you ll be in England, Evelyn? You re on leave, I suppose?
Not leave-I m out on my ear. I was beginning to raise my voice in competition with the babel that rolled down upon us from the upstairs room, which was quivering and bulging with people.
Dorothy turned to stare at me in consternation. Evelyn! They couldn t be so ungrateful! After all you ve done for the company-
The company s out on its ear, too. Hadn t you heard? The local oil industry is now a native affair. We ve all got the push.
But how idiotic! The Sultanate will lose all its income-
We reached the doorway. Two rooms had been rolled into one by the removal of a partition, and the resultant acreage heaved and throbbed gently with tightly packed humanity in arduous social movement. We launched ourselves into the press. The din was tremendous.
It isn t a Sultanate any longer, I shouted, losing her round the plump shoulders of a middle-aged woman in metallic green. They ve had a revolution. Not before it was time!
A tray of drinks, carried at the full stretch of a long arm, sailed perilously over my head, and was lowered to let me reach down two glasses. Large white teeth grinned at me amiably through a red beard. These are guaranteed, old boy, said the owner of these assets confidentially. I mixed em myself. Not a hang-over in a reservoir of the stuff.
Dorothy reappeared round his sleeve, accepted a glass, and shouted warmly: How awful for you! I m so sorry!
Don t be! I d had enough. I was glad to come home. And the Sultan was no loss to anyone. He ll do far less harm on the Riviera, and help the local trade no end. He was no good for anything at home.
But the company will find you another job, of course?
The company doesn t see its way. Times are bad. They re paying us off with a month s salary in compensation. I didn t tell her I d lost my temper and told the personnel manager what the directors could do with their month s salary, and walked out without accepting it. That s the sort of thing you regret afterwards, when you begin counting your last few shillings, but you can never admit it.
Then you re out of a job? Absolutely free?
It sounded like the kind of freedom I might be in a hurry to surrender; but I never had time to say so, for at that moment we battled our way through to a far corner of the room, and Dorothy fell into the arms of a tall, gaunt, intense brunette, who must, I concluded, be Gilda. Two youngsters with pony tails, flowered skirts and pin heels stilt-walked between us in search of drinks, and I lost sight of the grey tulle hat for a while. The brunette, carrying on three conversations at once, and all at a high scream, fielded me, called me by the