Read Online A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) by Edward Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward Wilson
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baron’s portrait. ‘Are those things Mongolian?’
‘What things?’
Catesby pointed.
‘They’re sacred,’ said the man. ‘But I’ll let you see them andtouch them – it is a great honour.’ The man got up with difficulty; he seemed to have a gamey leg. He limped across the room, unhooked the yellow cord and brought the objects to the table.’
Catesby guessed they were talismans of some sort. The largest was a round copper disc with an outer ring inscribed with symbols. There were also leather pouches, tiny mirrors with blue strings attached, painted pieces of wood and various chains and charms. The most sinister was a silver plaque embossed with skeletons.
‘They’re not all Mongolian,’ said the host touching the copper. ‘This is a Tibetan zodiac disc. The yellow cord, by the way, was blessed by Gautama Buddha. But these are my favourite toys.’ The man picked up a pouch with a leather drawstring. He loosened the string and emptied four yellow-white objects on to the table. ‘They are Mongolian dice. We use them for divining the future.’
Catesby was tempted to ask how Ipswich Town were going to finish the season, but bit his tongue.
The man picked up the objects and rolled them.
‘Good news?’ said Catesby.
The man stared for a second. ‘Outside force will influence you.’
‘They look like bones,’ said Catesby.
The man smiled and picked up the first die: ‘This one is from a horse.’ He then pointed to the other bone dice: ‘Cow, goat, man.’
Catesby gave a cold smile. ‘May I roll them?’
‘Please, you are my honoured guest.’
Catesby gathered the bones. They were dry and smooth. He momentarily pressed the human one between his thumb and forefinger. Then shook them in his fist and rolled them.
The man looked at them from two angles and frowned.
‘What’s the verdict?’ said Catesby.
‘Others might try to harm you, better be careful.’
‘How do you know they refer to me?’
‘You were the one who rolled them.’ His host smiled. ‘Would you like to try again?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll leave fate alone.’
‘Sometimes that is wise. Meanwhile, we must eat.’ The man lifted another silver lid. ‘The next course is khorkhog . It is a popular dish from the countryside that you eat with your fingers.’
As Catesby ate he felt the mad eyes of the baron burning into the side of his head. And when he looked across the table he saw the same demented eyes staring at him. ‘You like khorkhog ?’ said his host.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘It was a staple of the great Khan’s warriors as they pillaged the lands of the Jin Dynasty. As you know, they conquered Zhongdu in 1215.’
‘Modern Peking,’ said Catesby wiping his lips.
‘And it will happen again.’ The nameless host paused and glared. ‘You are a strange person, Herr Catesby.’
‘In what way?’
‘You have not asked why I invited you.’
‘I assumed you would eventually tell me.’
‘You assumed correctly. First of all, I owe you an apology – even though I did not personally arrange your attempted murder.’
Catesby struggled to keep his composure. It wasn’t what he had expected to hear. He assumed that his host was just another right-wing monarchist nutcase. Catesby reckoned that one in five of his agents claimed blood ties with the Romanovs. He calmed himself. Perhaps the ‘attempted murder’ was just another of his host’s fantasies and had nothing to do with what had actually happened that night in Kensington. Catesby smiled blandly. ‘Which particular attempted murder?’
‘You mean there have been others?’
‘Yes, but I can’t give you the details.’
‘I didn’t realise that being a very junior cultural attaché was such a dangerous job.’
‘Artists are very sensitive – and sometimes explosive creatures.’
‘The people who tried to kill you were not artists – they were low-level criminals of the most common sort. I was utterly appalled when I found
‘What things?’
Catesby pointed.
‘They’re sacred,’ said the man. ‘But I’ll let you see them andtouch them – it is a great honour.’ The man got up with difficulty; he seemed to have a gamey leg. He limped across the room, unhooked the yellow cord and brought the objects to the table.’
Catesby guessed they were talismans of some sort. The largest was a round copper disc with an outer ring inscribed with symbols. There were also leather pouches, tiny mirrors with blue strings attached, painted pieces of wood and various chains and charms. The most sinister was a silver plaque embossed with skeletons.
‘They’re not all Mongolian,’ said the host touching the copper. ‘This is a Tibetan zodiac disc. The yellow cord, by the way, was blessed by Gautama Buddha. But these are my favourite toys.’ The man picked up a pouch with a leather drawstring. He loosened the string and emptied four yellow-white objects on to the table. ‘They are Mongolian dice. We use them for divining the future.’
Catesby was tempted to ask how Ipswich Town were going to finish the season, but bit his tongue.
The man picked up the objects and rolled them.
‘Good news?’ said Catesby.
The man stared for a second. ‘Outside force will influence you.’
‘They look like bones,’ said Catesby.
The man smiled and picked up the first die: ‘This one is from a horse.’ He then pointed to the other bone dice: ‘Cow, goat, man.’
Catesby gave a cold smile. ‘May I roll them?’
‘Please, you are my honoured guest.’
Catesby gathered the bones. They were dry and smooth. He momentarily pressed the human one between his thumb and forefinger. Then shook them in his fist and rolled them.
The man looked at them from two angles and frowned.
‘What’s the verdict?’ said Catesby.
‘Others might try to harm you, better be careful.’
‘How do you know they refer to me?’
‘You were the one who rolled them.’ His host smiled. ‘Would you like to try again?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll leave fate alone.’
‘Sometimes that is wise. Meanwhile, we must eat.’ The man lifted another silver lid. ‘The next course is khorkhog . It is a popular dish from the countryside that you eat with your fingers.’
As Catesby ate he felt the mad eyes of the baron burning into the side of his head. And when he looked across the table he saw the same demented eyes staring at him. ‘You like khorkhog ?’ said his host.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘It was a staple of the great Khan’s warriors as they pillaged the lands of the Jin Dynasty. As you know, they conquered Zhongdu in 1215.’
‘Modern Peking,’ said Catesby wiping his lips.
‘And it will happen again.’ The nameless host paused and glared. ‘You are a strange person, Herr Catesby.’
‘In what way?’
‘You have not asked why I invited you.’
‘I assumed you would eventually tell me.’
‘You assumed correctly. First of all, I owe you an apology – even though I did not personally arrange your attempted murder.’
Catesby struggled to keep his composure. It wasn’t what he had expected to hear. He assumed that his host was just another right-wing monarchist nutcase. Catesby reckoned that one in five of his agents claimed blood ties with the Romanovs. He calmed himself. Perhaps the ‘attempted murder’ was just another of his host’s fantasies and had nothing to do with what had actually happened that night in Kensington. Catesby smiled blandly. ‘Which particular attempted murder?’
‘You mean there have been others?’
‘Yes, but I can’t give you the details.’
‘I didn’t realise that being a very junior cultural attaché was such a dangerous job.’
‘Artists are very sensitive – and sometimes explosive creatures.’
‘The people who tried to kill you were not artists – they were low-level criminals of the most common sort. I was utterly appalled when I found
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