Thou Shell of Death by Nicholas Blake Read Free Book Online Page A

uncommunicative, Nigel thought, with such an opening for scandalous fantasy in front of him. He had at least expected to be told that Lucilla was the natural daughter of the Vice-Chancellor.
    Just before teatime, a distant clanking and rattling were heard. Nigel looked out of the window and saw an extraordinary spectacle. An ancient two-seater was approaching up the drive, with bits of luggage tied on to every available part of the bodywork. A lady was driving it, a green parrot perched on her shoulder, and a huge bloodhound sitting up beside her. As much of the seat as was unoccupied by the bloodhound accommodated a middle-aged man in weekendish tweeds, looking justifiably rather sheepish. The car clattered to a standstill, more out of sheer inanition, it seemed, than through any application of brakes. The lady leapt out and at once set vigorously to work untying the knots which kept the luggage in place. Arthur Bellamy trundled out to help her.
    ‘Well, Arthur, you old ruffian,’ the lady exclaimed, ‘not hung yet?’
    Arthur grinned delightedly. ‘Don’t seem like it, Miss Cavendish. You’re looking a fair treat. And so is Ajax here. And is this your brother? Pleased to meet you, Mr Cavendish.’
    Georgia Cavendish rushed into the house, and practically flung herself into the arms of O’Brien, her dark, monkey-like face chattering with excitement. She certainly does live up to her reputation, thought Nigel, looking on and grinning involuntarily himself.
    Christmas Day. Seven-thirty p.m. For two days Nigel had been watching, with the whole concentrated force of his attention. The superb Lucilla, the colourful Georgia Cavendish, and her pompous, decent, elderly brother; Knott-Sloman, with his professional bonhomie; Philip Starling and Fergus O’Brien—all had passed and repassed under his trained scrutiny: and precious little he had to show for it. His mood alternated between incredulity and an apprehension that was increasing as the Feast of Stephen drew nearer. There were personal undercurrents of feeling among the guests: that was obvious. But the one sign that Nigel was looking for he could not find: it was almost impossible, he believed, to have planned murder against a person and to behave normally towards him in the interim. Yet, as far as he could observe, not one of the guests was less his normal self in O’Brien’s presence than out of it. Either someone had the most remarkable emotional control, or the threat came from outside this circle—or the whole thing was a hoax.
    Lord and Lady Marlinworth had accepted an invitation to dine at the Dower House this night, and Nigel came downstairs early to be ready for them. As he reached the drawing-room door, he heard a low-toned conversation within. There was no mistaking that resonant voice, its tones indifferent, humouring, a little impatient.
    ‘… No, not tonight.’
    ‘But, Fergus, darling, I want you so. It’s quite safe. Why can’t 1—?’
    ‘You can’t because I say you can’t. Now be a good girl and do what I tell ye; and don’t ask questions, because you’re wasting your breath.’
    ‘Oh, you’re cruel, cruel—’ the voice of Lucilla, almost unrecognisably altered from her usual cool drawl, broke; and Nigel had time only to retreat half a dozen paces from the door before she swept out and past him, quite oblivious of his presence. Well, for once you’re getting as good as you give, thought Nigel: no wonder O’Brien doesn’t want you coming to his bedroom when he means to be out in the hut …
    The Christmas dinner was half over. At the head of the table O’Brien, his black beard jutting out from his dead-pale face, looked like an Assyrian king; he was at the top of his form, blarneying away at Lady Marlinworth till the old lady was in a positive twitter of delight.
    ‘Fie, Mr. O’Brien, I declare you are the most outrageous flatterer.’
    ‘Not a bit of it. Lady Marlinworth looks as if she were at her first ball, doesn’t she