Maxwell’s Curse by M. J. Trow Read Free Book Online Page A

centre of the room. Beneath the roof’s apex, three hundred and eighty two such plastic men sat painted and ready to ride into the Valley of Death. It was an expensive and time-consuming hobby, but it filled the dead hours of Maxwell’s life. And one day, all six hundred and seventy-eight of Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade would be saddled and waiting. By then, Maxwell computed, he would be retired and too broke to buy any more. At the moment however, though he’d rather Mr Blunkett never found out, he had the paint, he had the glue, he had the money too.
    ‘Couldn’t borrow your lesson plans for Year Thirteen, could I, Max?’ his green Head of Department, Paul Moss, had once had the temerity to ask.
    ‘Lesson plans, Paul?’ Maxwell’s basilisk stare had frozen more sensitive men. ‘What they?’
    No, Peter Maxwell had far more interesting things to fill his time with than something as trivial as education.
    ‘Yes, of course he rides a grey, Count,’ Maxwell was talking to his cat again. ‘Have I taught you nothing about the Light Cavalry in all these years?’
    Evidently not. Metternich twitched an ear and yawned ostentatiously. ‘Trumpeter Hugh Crawford, Number 1296 4 th Light Dragoons. All trumpeters of the cavalry rode grey horses for ease of identification, except in the Scots Greys, of course, where it would cause a little confusion. There the trumpeter rode a black or a bay.’
    As if to show his passionate fascination, Metternich rolled a little way and placed his right leg behind his right ear, before pedantically licking his bum. ‘Kama Sutra, page 194,’ Maxwell murmured, unimpressed by the beast’s agility. He had after all seen it all before. It was only the fact that he’d been to a good school that prevented him from doing the same.
    ‘Crawford was Canadian actually, born at Fort George. He was taken prisoner in the Charge, but Sam Parkes of his regiment saved his life. Left his wife behind at the depot at Brighton,’ he carefully rested the plastic trumpet across the soldier’s shoulder, concentrating hard with the glue stick in his other hand, ‘which, as you know, is just up the … Shit!’
    The phone’s harsh ring shattered the moment and Metternich was gone like a cat out of hell, down the attic stairs.
    ‘War Office,’ Maxwell reached the receiver seconds later.
    ‘Hello?’ a rather startled voice said from the other end.
    ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘Mr Maxwell?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh, you don’t know me. I’m Ken.’
    ‘Ken,’ Maxwell lolled back in his swivel chair, ‘how’s Barbie?’
    ‘Er,’ there was an attempt at a giggle. But Ken Templeton had heard that one before. ‘I was wondering if I might …’
    ‘Double glazing? Got it. Treble, in fact. Car? Don’t drive. Medical insurance? I’ll take my chances with AIDS, TB, swamp fever …’
    ‘No, no. I’m ringing on behalf of Beauregard’s.’
    ‘Beauregard’s?’
    ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
    ‘It does indeed. Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard was one of the gentlemen of the South from West Point. Rather an ace general, as it happens. Took part in that little spat the Americans had among themselves a few years back.’
    There was a pause. ‘Oh, really? Well, no, this has nothing to do with him. We’re a new fitness club recently opened in Leighford.’
    ‘Ken,’ Maxwell interrupted. ‘It must be a very depressing business trawling through the phone book …’
    ‘No, no, Mr Maxwell. You were recommended. This isn’t a cold sell, I can assure you.’
    ‘St Benedict himself couldn’t have had one colder, Ken, I can assure you.’ And he put the phone down, desperately scrabbling on hands and knees for the tiny trumpet that had fallen God knew where.
    ‘Recommended?’ He suddenly knelt up and fetched himself a smart one on the corner of his desk. ‘Who the hell would recommend me for a fitness club? I, who put the potato into couch. Dear God in heaven, is this what the twenty-first