A Wreath for Rivera by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online

wasn’t it? You’ll enjoy yourself, Lisle.”
    He returned with a drawer filled with a strange collection of objects — pieces of wire, a fret-saw, razor blades, candle-ends, wood-carving knives, old photographs, electrical gear, plastic wood, a number of tools and quantities of putty in greasy paper. How well Carlisle remembered that drawer. It had been a wet-day solace of her childhood visits. From its contents, Lord Pastern, who was dextrous in such matters, had concocted manikins, fly-traps and tiny ships.
    “I believe,” she said, “I recognize almost everything in the collection.”
    “Y’ father gave me that revolver,” Lord Pastern remarked. “It’s one of a pair. He had ’em made by his gunsmith to take special target ammunition. Couldn’t be bored having to reload with every shot like you do with target pistols, y’know. Cost him a packet, these did. We were always at it, he and I. He scratched his initials one day on the butt of this one. We’d had a bit of a row about differences in performance in the two guns, and shot it out. Have a look.”
    She picked up the revolver gingerly. “I can’t see anything.”
    “There’s a magnifying glass somewhere. Look underneath near the trigger guard.”
    Carlisle rummaged in the drawer and found a lens. “Yes,” she said. “I can make them out now. C.D.W.”
    “We were crack shots. He left me the pair. The other’s in the case, somewhere in that drawer.”
    Lord Pastern took out a pair of pliers and picked up one of the cartridges. “Well, if you haven’t got a young man,” he said, “we’ll have Ned Manx. That’ll please your aunt. No good asking anyone else for Fée. Carlos cuts up rough.”
    “Uncle George,” Carlisle ventured as he busied himself over his task, “do you approve of Carlos? Really?”
    He muttered and grunted. She caught disjointed phrases: “ — take their course — own destiny — goin’ the wrong way to work. He’s a damn’ fine piano-accordionist,” he said loudly and added, more obscurely: “They’d much better leave things to me.”
    “What’s he like?”
    “You’ll see him in a minute. I know what I’m about,” said Lord Pastern, crimping the end of a cartridge from which he had extracted the bullet.
    “Nobody else seems to. Is he jealous?”
    “She’s had things too much her own way. Make her sit up a bit and a good job, too.”
    “Aren’t you making a great number of blank cartridges?” Carlisle asked idly.
    “I rather like making them. You never know. I shall probably be asked to repeat my number lots of times. I like to be prepared.”
    He glanced up and saw the journal which Carlisle still held in her lap. “Thought you had a mind above that sort of stuff,” said Lord Pastern, grinning.
    “Are you a subscriber, darling?”
    “Y’ aunt is. It’s got a lot of sound stuff in it. They’re not afraid to speak their minds, b’God. See that thing on drug-runnin’? Names and everything and if they don’t like it they can damn’ well lump it. The police,” Lord Pastern said obscurely, “are no good; pompous incompetent lot. Hidebound. Ned,” he added, “does the reviews.”
    “Perhaps,” Carlisle said lightly, “he’s G.P.F., too.”
    “Chap’s got brains,” Lord Pastern grunted bewilderingly. “Hog sense in that feller.”
    “Uncle George,” Carlisle demanded suddenly, “you don’t know by any chance if Fee’s ever consulted G.P.F.?”
    “Wouldn’t let on if I did, m’dear. Naturally.”
    Carlisle reddened. “No, of course you wouldn’t if she’d told you in confidence. Only usually Fée can’t keep anything to herself.”
    “Well, ask her. She might do a damn’ sight worse.”
    Lord Pastern dropped the bullets he had extracted into the waste-paper basket and returned to his desk. “I’ve been doin’ a bit of writin’ myself,” he said. “Look at this, Lisle.”
    He handed his niece a sheet of music manuscript. An air had been set down, with many rubbings