Read Online A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) by Edward Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward Wilson
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young East Asian woman. Catesby greeted her in English, ‘Good evening.’
The woman answered in German. Her accent, in total contradiction to her appearance, was very upper-class East Prussian. She shook hands, bowed and silently clicked her soft boots.
‘Do you live here?’ said Catesby.
‘I am staying here for the moment, but I don’t know for how long.’
‘Was it you who invited me here this evening?’
‘No, it was my uncle. I must tell you about him before you go up.’ She stirred nervously and reached into a deep hidden pocket. ‘But you will be safe.’ She extended her palm. It bore a dark flat needle-shaped object about two inches long. ‘I took the precaution of removing the firing pin from his pistol. But I don’t think he would have used it in any case.’
‘How very kind.’
‘My uncle is mad, but doesn’t always seem so. Follow me closely – it’s easy to get lost here. A visitor recently died when he stepped on to a staircase that wasn’t there.’
The dining room was high Gothic with add-ons. The fireplace was marble with a carved lintel depicting a primal battle between beasts, demons and naked men. The panelling and chairs were carved oak – with more laughing demons. It reminded Catesby of the pew ends at Blythburgh Church that had escaped being vandalised by Cromwell’s soldiers. The room was dominated by two life-size oil paintings. One was of Baron Roman Nikolai Maximilian von Ungern-Sternberg wearing the imperial Russian St George’s Cross for Bravery. He had won the medal for leading Cossack cavalry charges against German troops in 1915–1916. The Tsar had personally presented him the medal. The other oil painting depicted Nicholas II, the Empress Alexandra and their son, Alexei Nikolaevich, translated to heaven and wearing the hallows of sainted martyrs. Catesby rightly surmised that he was the only atheist socialist in the room – but he still deplored what the Bolsheviks had done to the Tsar and his family. And yet, Catesby realised, he was a murderer too. He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t done it.
The host, despite having an Asian niece, had blue eyes and greying blond hair. He greeted Catesby with formality andshowed him to a low table where they seated themselves on richly brocaded cushions.
‘Do you like fermented mare’s milk?’
‘I think I could acquire a taste for it.’ Catesby held out a silver goblet and studied his host while his eyes were averted pouring.
‘The Mongolians call it airag – it’s their national drink.’ The host lifted the lid of a silver tray. ‘These dumplings are called buuz – they are filled with minced mutton, but any meat can be used.’
‘Thank you. Is your niece Mongolian?’
‘She is a Manchurian princess, but she also has the blood of my own ancestors. We are Baltic German aristocracy, but related to the royal families of Finland and Russia.’
‘Have you a name?’
‘Quite a long list of names, but I’m not going to tell them to you.’
Catesby smiled and nodded to the portrait of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg. ‘But you obviously are not him?’
‘No, but he is a close kinsman.’
Catesby looked at the painting and then at his host. They both had the same mad – completely insane – eyes. One of the baron’s eyes was so demented and glaring that Catesby had thought it magnified by a monocle, but there was none. ‘There is a resemblance.’
‘Thank you for saying so.’ The nameless host raised his goblet and drank. ‘ Airag has a calming influence. They say you should drink it if you suffer from a nervous condition.’
Catesby laughed.
‘You find that amusing?’
‘I was thinking of Genghis Khan – did airag calm him down?’
‘It might have made his strategic planning more thorough. Genghis Khan was a great and visionary conqueror.’
For the first time Catesby noticed a number of strange objects hanging from a bright yellow cord affixed to the oak panelling next to the
The woman answered in German. Her accent, in total contradiction to her appearance, was very upper-class East Prussian. She shook hands, bowed and silently clicked her soft boots.
‘Do you live here?’ said Catesby.
‘I am staying here for the moment, but I don’t know for how long.’
‘Was it you who invited me here this evening?’
‘No, it was my uncle. I must tell you about him before you go up.’ She stirred nervously and reached into a deep hidden pocket. ‘But you will be safe.’ She extended her palm. It bore a dark flat needle-shaped object about two inches long. ‘I took the precaution of removing the firing pin from his pistol. But I don’t think he would have used it in any case.’
‘How very kind.’
‘My uncle is mad, but doesn’t always seem so. Follow me closely – it’s easy to get lost here. A visitor recently died when he stepped on to a staircase that wasn’t there.’
The dining room was high Gothic with add-ons. The fireplace was marble with a carved lintel depicting a primal battle between beasts, demons and naked men. The panelling and chairs were carved oak – with more laughing demons. It reminded Catesby of the pew ends at Blythburgh Church that had escaped being vandalised by Cromwell’s soldiers. The room was dominated by two life-size oil paintings. One was of Baron Roman Nikolai Maximilian von Ungern-Sternberg wearing the imperial Russian St George’s Cross for Bravery. He had won the medal for leading Cossack cavalry charges against German troops in 1915–1916. The Tsar had personally presented him the medal. The other oil painting depicted Nicholas II, the Empress Alexandra and their son, Alexei Nikolaevich, translated to heaven and wearing the hallows of sainted martyrs. Catesby rightly surmised that he was the only atheist socialist in the room – but he still deplored what the Bolsheviks had done to the Tsar and his family. And yet, Catesby realised, he was a murderer too. He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t done it.
The host, despite having an Asian niece, had blue eyes and greying blond hair. He greeted Catesby with formality andshowed him to a low table where they seated themselves on richly brocaded cushions.
‘Do you like fermented mare’s milk?’
‘I think I could acquire a taste for it.’ Catesby held out a silver goblet and studied his host while his eyes were averted pouring.
‘The Mongolians call it airag – it’s their national drink.’ The host lifted the lid of a silver tray. ‘These dumplings are called buuz – they are filled with minced mutton, but any meat can be used.’
‘Thank you. Is your niece Mongolian?’
‘She is a Manchurian princess, but she also has the blood of my own ancestors. We are Baltic German aristocracy, but related to the royal families of Finland and Russia.’
‘Have you a name?’
‘Quite a long list of names, but I’m not going to tell them to you.’
Catesby smiled and nodded to the portrait of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg. ‘But you obviously are not him?’
‘No, but he is a close kinsman.’
Catesby looked at the painting and then at his host. They both had the same mad – completely insane – eyes. One of the baron’s eyes was so demented and glaring that Catesby had thought it magnified by a monocle, but there was none. ‘There is a resemblance.’
‘Thank you for saying so.’ The nameless host raised his goblet and drank. ‘ Airag has a calming influence. They say you should drink it if you suffer from a nervous condition.’
Catesby laughed.
‘You find that amusing?’
‘I was thinking of Genghis Khan – did airag calm him down?’
‘It might have made his strategic planning more thorough. Genghis Khan was a great and visionary conqueror.’
For the first time Catesby noticed a number of strange objects hanging from a bright yellow cord affixed to the oak panelling next to the
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