"Masterton, Graham - The Djinn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

"Sure," she nodded. "Perhaps you can read my future from cracked lobster claws."

"I'd rather read your palms. Or even the soles of your feet. By the way, I don't know your name." "Anna," she said. "Anna what?" "Just Anna."

I sniffed. "That's very mysterious." "It's not meant to be. It's just the way it is." "All right, Just Anna," I said. "Let me have a few words of condolence with my godmother, and then we'll go off and eat. Don't get led astray by any strange men."

"I think that's already happened," she said smiling.

I left her for a while and made my way through the chattering guests to Marjorie Greaves and her doleful consort. They were talking about the inferior quality of today's kitchen equipment, and it seemed to me that anyone would be grateful to be rescued from a conversation like that

"Marjorie," I said, taking her arm. "Can we just have a private word?"

"Of course," she replied. "Excuse me, Mr. Gorst."

Mr. Gorst mournfully raised his teacup of water. "Naturally, Mrs. Greaves, naturally."

Marjorie Greaves seemed distracted. Not grieving or particularly sad, but anxious and thoughtful.

"Is everything all right?" I asked her. "Yon don't have financial problems, do you? I mean, the house-"

She shook her head quickly. "It's nothing to do with money. I'm quite all right for money. There's no need to worry on that account."

"Marjorie," I said seriously, "the house is kind of run-down."

"I know," she said. She wouldn't look directly at me. "But it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter? This is an old house. If you don't look after it, it's going to collapse around your ears. All it needs is some repair-work on the roof and some of those gutters fixed."

"It's coming down anyway," she said quietly.

I frowned. "Coming down? I don't understand."

"I am having it demolished. When it is demolished, I shall sell the land for development. They tell me that, providing it's not down-zoned, I can build five houses to the acre."

"Well," I said, "that's your decision. I guess it makes sense. But I always thought you loved Winter Sails. It's a beautiful old house, Marjorie. It seems kind of sad to tear it down."

She shook her head. "It has to come down."

"What do you mean-has to?"

"I don't want to talk about it. It's a personal decision, Harry, and I assure you it's all for the best. Now I think I ought to talk to Robert before he leaves,"

I held her arm. Her skin seemed very cold through the thin black fabric of her funeral dress. It's always alarming to touch other people and find their body temperature radically different from your own. Lake icy feet in bed or a fiery sunburn.

"Marjorie," I said, "I am your godson."

She looked up at me at last, with those intent, black shrimp's eyes. "Harry," she said quietly, "I really can't explain."

I bit my lip. "I think you ought to," I advised her. "I mean, Marjorie, look at this room. Where has the furniture gone? Where are the paintings?"