"Paul J. McAuley - Inheritance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

the scrubby trees on the far bank. He had Beaumont take a couple of
photographs of it, waiting patiently as the older man fussed with his
camera and (of all things in this electronic age) a light meter. The
frost
made the contours of the ground easy to read, and Tolley could make out
the long strips of the ancient field system beyond the hummocks where
the
village had been. Everything was quiet and still, the solitude
emphasised
when a train passed.
"It's a lonely place," Beaumont remarked, uncannily echoing Tolley's
thoughts. "But it's not as bleak as this in summer. Buttercups all over
the place, boats on the river. People like to picnic here."
"Yeah? You know, I wish the title to the land was still in the family.
This would be a great place for a hotel; just think of those ruins as a
feature in the grounds."
"It's nice enough as it is," Beaumont said stiffly.
"I'm sorry. I forgot you English don't like things to change."
"And you Americans don't know anything else; that's why you think the
past
is quaint instead of real." Perhaps it has been intended as a rebuke,
but
the man was smiling, and after a moment Tolley smiled too.
They were amongst the scattered remnants of the manor house now.
Beaumont
laboriously framed and took a picture of the chimney, then turned up
the
collar of his Norfolk jacket and asked, "Did you have a look at the
cemetery?"
"The graveyard? Just a glance."
"They still use the church a few times a year, you know. Come on, I'll
show you the gravestones. Some of the inscriptions are rather funny."
But first he led Tolley beneath the spreading shade of the yew tree
behind
the church, where two gravestones stood apart from the others, their
brief
inscriptions blotted by lichen. "Them are the buggers that are causing
the
trouble, according to Marjory."
"I thought your wife said it was the woman?"
"Who knows? Seems daft to me, talking like this. It's this place,
Professor Tolley, if it's anything. Not anyone who was buried here.
Down
in the mines, you know, there are galleries you don't like to be alone
in,
old workings with a funny feeling to them. Miners are as superstitious
as
sailors; like it or not, I suppose a bit of that rubbed off on me.
About
places, though, not ghosts."