Read Online The Last Houseparty by Peter Dickinson - Free Book Online

specialist slave trade they run. Girls from Persia.”
    â€œThere c-can’t be much of that these days, sir.”
    â€œOfficially, none. Unofficially … you are aware that half-hearted suppression of trade in any commodity increases the profits of the middleman? If there are too many girls coming through Sorah—they’re said to be pretty well children by our standards—the Emir instructs his officials to be zealous for a while. The flow slackens, and the price per child rises. You know, I find it curious to consider that this young man’s education in the art of passing himself off as a gentleman should have been paid for by the sale of children to gratify the perversions of savages.”
    â€œOh, cuh … cuh … cuh …”
    Sir Charles’s voice had deepened to a richly throbbing bass, perhaps only an indication of his relish in the dramatic manipulation of language. When he turned to smile at Vincent his eyes seemed to have gained colour and to twinkle with only slightly malicious charm. Or it might not even have been malice, merely inquisitiveness at the shape of a mind that could not savour an irony he himself enjoyed.
    â€œI was teasing, my boy,” he said. “The trade is very nearly suppressed, as you say. And in any case the Emir is anxious to show himself a good friend to Britain. There is an American company exploring for oil, too, and if they find it the Emir will be able to suppress the trade entirely, I imagine. No, it would be truer to say that the Prince’s education in the ideal of a Christian gentleman had been paid for by a levy on the poor who make the journey to Mecca. Just as curious as irony, but less repellent. At last! Next time I see Tuffy Gallacher at White’s I shall take great pleasure in twitting him on the performance of his railway.”
    Very slowly, almost as though the driver was uncertain that this was the right station, the train steamed in, stopping with a long, exhausted sigh.
    â€œYour chap will no doubt be travelling first,” said Sir Charles. “One cannot be sure about the Blechs.”
    There were not many passengers. Vincent stood back from the train, craning along the carriages, his usual look of faint anxiety now quite marked. After all it was perfectly possible that two brownish young men would alight, and then how was one to be sure of recognising a figure last seen four years ago at the length of a cricket pitch? In fact there was no chance of mistake. A porter homed on a first-class compartment and heaved out three large new cases. A small man stepped down and gazed around him.
    At Lord’s the Prince had looked two or three years younger than his age, lissom and soft-featured. The softness was still there but the lines had changed, becoming definitely bulbous; and he had grown a neat black beard. He was wearing grey flannels and a college blazer. As soon as he spotted Vincent walking towards him he sprang forward, hand held out.
    â€œHello, Masham,” he said. “How are you?”
    â€œVery well, thank you, sir. Very g-glad you were able to c-come.”
    â€œNone of this ‘sir’ business, please. I gather from your aunt—she is your aunt, eh?—that the only formalities take place this evening.”
    â€œZena would manage to make a c-coronation feel informal. That’s all your bags? We’re meeting some other people off this train … He’s found them, by the looks of it.”
    Vincent led the way down the platform and introduced the Prince to Sir Charles.
    â€œHonoured to meet you, your highness,” said Sir Charles. “Allow me to present Professor and Mrs Solomon Blech.”
    The Prince had been on the verge of saying something, probably another request to forsake protocol. Now he underwent a marked change, almost a spasm. The effect was like that occasionally seen when an actor in a repertory company suffers an aberration and makes his first