Read Online The Curious Incident at Claridge's by R.T. Raichev - Free Book Online Page A

Rum, to say the least. He was not sure he liked it.
    It didn’t seem as though she had been called to identify her dead husband’s body. She most certainly did not look as though she had been up since the small hours of the morning, paying visits to the mortuary, calling her solicitor, answering questions from the police. She didn’t have a recently widowed air about her. Not a scrap of black on her. Had she used some untraceable poison? Did such poisons exist? Or maybe Sir Seymour’s death hadn’t been discovered yet? Jesty glanced at his watch. There was also the possibility that the bloody pantaloon had forgotten to take the capsule. Which meant he was still alive. What was she doing here then, if that indeed were the case?
    He sat down. He was aware of his heart racing. She seemed to expect him to start the ball rolling, but he felt tongue-tied. That was unlike him. He had always been at ease with the fair sex, man of the world par excellence, it didn’t matter whether he was in the company of countesses or call-girls, he’d had them all, he never lost his poise—
    â€˜Lovely colour,’ he heard himself say. ‘I mean your lapels. Damned attractive. A curious shade of red. Not exactly red, is it?’ At once he felt like kicking himself. Man of the world? Gabbling like some gauche schoolboy!
    â€˜It’s called “magenta”. Did you know that Napoleon III invented the colour magenta from the mixture of mud and blood on the battlefield of that name?’ She smiled. ‘As a military man, you must be familiar with the battle of Magenta?’
    â€˜Magenta. Yes. To be sure.’ Jesty had only the vaguest recollection of having read about the battle at Magenta. ‘Blood and mud, did you say?’
    â€˜Blood and mud. You wouldn’t think it, would you? It is hard to associate a smooth rich colour like this with filth and violence.’ She stroked her lapels with her hand.
    He swallowed. Such a lovely hand, like everything else about her. Filth and violence. The last thing one would have associated with her. She was perfection personified. She was a goddess. How could he have ever thought of her as a ‘girlie’? His eyes remained fixed on her lips—strayed down to her hands—then back to her lips. He wondered if he was falling in love with her …
    â€˜Are you ready to order? Madam? Sir?’ The waiter was standing beside their table, very correct, bending slightly from the waist.
    â€˜Yes, of course. What would you like to have?’ Jesty asked.
    â€˜They have king prawns al forno ,’ he heard her murmur over the menu.
    Later Jesty was to tell Payne that he had absolutely no recollection of what they had had to eat or drink. He had chosen something with lots of vodka in it for himself, to give himself courage, that much he remembered. He’d hardly eaten anything, in fact. It had never happened to him before, that sort of thing. He believed he was in love with her, yes. Head over heels.
    Absurd, he thought defiantly. Tommy rot. Absolute rubbish. He’d never been in love, never. Not even in his adolescence. He had been tormented by desire, lust he was jolly well familiar with, but what he felt now was—well, it was something completely different, dammit. A fluttering in his stomach—a great tension in his chest—the ridiculous urge to prostrate himself at her feet— tendresse . Was that what tendresse felt like? So far he’d only heard such sensations described; he’d never experienced them at first hand. He’d always despised chaps who went on about being head over heels in love with some girlie.
    All I want is to get her between the sheets, Jesty reminded himself.
    No—not true—he wanted more than that. Much more. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, he thought, appalled.
    Jesty was experiencing an odd sense of dislocation. It felt as though there were two people inside