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

entrance under the impression that he is still in last week’s play. The charming laugh, the suggestion of tennis, freeze on his lips as he stares round the gaunt set and at the other members of the cast, all visibly racked with the tragedy they have been enacting. The Prince continued to turn towards the Professor, but withdrew several inches as he did so. Blech, a short, rotund man, bowed Austrian-fashion.
    â€œI have corresponded with your highness’s uncle, the Kemalah,” he said. “I hope His Holiness is in good health.”
    He spoke rapidly and softly, running the words together but putting a heavy stress on some syllables, apparently at random. His mien was perfectly solemn, but his small bloodshot eyes blinked frequently as he spoke, giving him a look of inquisitive delight, a child’s dangerous innocence. But clearly he knew his way about the world, for the mention of the Kemalah of Sorah acted like a letter of recommendation and had the effect of allowing the Prince to translate back into the sphere of light comedy.
    â€œThat old villain!” he cried. “Still raking in the shekels, as you would say, Professor.”
    He turned smiling to Mrs Blech, who curtsied as she touched his hand. She was a pale, harried-looking woman, taller than her husband. She emanated a sense of suppressed nerves, as though the station platform were swarming with snappy little dogs which she had to pretend, for form’s sake, not to notice. She clung to a worn green cello case. The Blechs’ only other baggage appeared to be a cloth suitcase and two brown paper bags.
    â€œI’m afraid the chauffeur’s sick,” explained Vincent. “I have to drive.”
    â€œThen I’ll come in front with you,” said the Prince, almost as though it were a social adventure to ride in front of the Daimler’s glass partition. This was probably just as well, for though there were two seats in the back, each running across the full width of the car, as well as the little folding chairs that popped out of the floor—so that in theory eight passengers could fit in behind the partition—Mrs Blech would not be parted from her cello and Sir Charles, constrained by the metal-ribbed corset he had to wear, also took up a good deal of room. It was distinctly tactful of the Prince not to add to the problems by asking them to fit royalty into the jig-saw.
    â€œI’ve never been allowed to drive this bus before,” said Vincent as the large engine took the Daimler breathily away. “It feels more like a ship than a car.”
    â€œOr a camel,” said the Prince. “You know, Masham, I’m delighted to have met you again. I have dreamed of you from time to time. That second innings! My century at Lord’s! Gone! Never another chance!”
    â€œSorry about that.”
    â€œI do not even know that it has been good for my character, as they promised. Do you still play? I don’t.”
    â€œIn the army, yes. The funny thing is that I’ve lost my leg break. I still do the flipper and the g-googly, but for some reason my ordinary plain tweaker won’t tweak.”
    â€œThat is symbolic of our progress to the tomb. I say, Masham, I’ve often wished the Prophet had played cricket. He’d have had some interesting things to say, don’t you imagine? Now tell me about this man Archer. Blech I know of.”
    â€œSir Charles? Oh … well, he’s a journalist and an MP, but he’s a bit more than that. There’s a small g-group in the House who follow him, but I don’t think they have much effect. Still, he has a lot of influence in other ways. He had a terrific war, you see. In the end he was so badly blown up that he has to wear a sort of steel corset thing all the time. And he’s a marvellous public speaker. Even so, it’s difficult to say why people think he’s important, but they do, and so he is.”
    â€œWhat is his