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

now, Georgia?’
    Georgia Cavendish, in emerald-green velvet, her cockatoo perched on her shoulder, wrinkled up her monkey-face at him and grinned elfishly. At the other end of the table Lord Marlinworth was plying Lucilla Thrale with Edwardian attentions. The girl showed no outward sign of the emotional storm Nigel had overheard. Magnificent in her low-cut white dress, she replied to Lord Marlinworth’s sallies with cool provocativeness: but Nigel could see her gaze wandering away to O’Brien and hardening for an instant when it rested on Georgia Cavendish. Georgia’s brother was talking high finance with Philip Starling: it was the first time Nigel had heard him on what was presumably his own subject, and there was no doubt he had an acute and able mind. Nigel noticed that, while Philip was talking, Edward Cavendish’s eyes kept straying towards Lucilla; considering her nonpareil appearance tonight, there was nothing odd in that: but his expression was revealing by its very guardedness—he looked at her with the deliberate reticence of a poker player inspecting his hand. Nigel noticed, too, that Lucilla was aware of these glances and studiously avoided returning them. Knott-Sloman was vying with Lord Marlinworth for her attentions. His pale blue, restless, rather stupid eyes kept returning to her mouth and shoulders with a boorish sort of aggressiveness. He held her attention by brute force, as it were, raising his voice to subdue Lord Marlinworth’s thin tenor, and piling anecdote on anecdote. He had a coarse charm of his own, undoubtedly, as well as the crude ‘personality’ of the egotist.
    All round Nigel the conversation played, rising and falling and blowing to this side and that like fountains on a gusty day. But gradually, in the centre of it all, Nigel grew conscious of a deep nervous excitement. He had the fancy that it was not the cumulative excitement of a successful party, but radiated from one person. He shook his head irritably: what could it be but his own apprehension of O’Brien’s approaching zero hour? O’Brien himself looked almost fey. He rose suddenly, glass in hand, shot an incalculable glance at Nigel, and cried:
    ‘A toast! To absent friends—and to present enemies!’
    There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Georgia Cavendish bit her lip: her brother looked vaguely worried: Lord Marlinworth tapped on the table: Lucilla and Knott-Sloman glanced at each other: Philip Starling was smirking with amusement at the general embarrassment. Lady Marlinworth broke the spell. ‘What a droll toast, Mr. O’Brien! An old Irish one, I suppose. Such a whimsical people!’ The old lady tittered and sipped at her wine; the rest followed suit. Just as they were laying down their glasses, the lights went out. Nigel’s heart dropped like a stone. Now it was coming. It was here at last. The next moment he was cursing himself for a hysterical old woman. Arthur Bellamy entered with a flaming Christmas pudding. He set it down before O’Brien, remarking in a perfectly audible whisper, ‘Took a box of matches to light the blasted stuff, colonel. That there Mrs Grant been swigging it on the Q.T. you betcha life, and filling up the bottle with water.’ He retired and switched on the lights. O’Brien looked at Lady Marlinworth apologetically, but she was far beyond being shocked.
    ‘What a delightfully outspoken man your butler is! Quite a character! No, not a drop more. I vow you will have me tipsy. Well, just half a glass, then,’ she giggled. ‘You know,’ she proceeded, staring fixedly at him, and tapping his arm archly with her fan, ‘your face reminds me of someone—someone I met a long time ago. Herbert!’ she rapped out, ‘who does Mr O’Brien remind me of?’
    Herbert Marlinworth started, and fingered his silky gray moustache. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, my dear. Possibly one of your—ah—unlucky suitors. I don’t think we have had the pleasure of meeting any of the Irish O’Briens.