Read Online The Manor by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Nicholson
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portrait of Korban. Most of the room joined her. Anna reached for her glass again, then changed her mind. Mason saw her and smirked. Asshole. Probably one of those "holier than thou " types. An artist with a superiority complex. Now, THERE'S a rarity.
She grabbed her glass. When Miss Mamie drank, Anna took a large gulp. It was house-bottled musca-dine, a little too sweet for swilling. But she took an extra swallow for good measure.
"You're welcome to join me in the study for after-dinner drinks and conversation," Miss Mamie concluded. "There's a smoking porch off the study as wel. Again, thank you for alowing us the pleasure of your company. Good evening."
The room erupted in chatter and ratling silverware. Cris wobbled slightly as she stood, and she put a hand on Mason's shoulder to balance herself. Anna pretended not to notice. She was after ghosts, damn it. Ghosts didn't make a fool out of you the way men always did.
She slipped away up the stairs. The lamps along the hall threw a warm glow over the woodwork. She en-tered the dark bedroom and stood by the window, look-ing over the dark manor grounds. The sky was fading into a deep periwinkle, soon to be smothered by the blackness creeping from the east, the moon rising faint and blue in the east.
She took her flashlight from the nightstand. At least one modern convenience had been allowed, probably on the demands of the manor's insurance provider. She turned the light on and played it across the walls, half expecting to see a restless spirit, but revealing only a spiderweb crack in the plasterboard.
She sighed. Ghoulie-chasing. That was what Stephen called it.
"Leave me to do the serious investigating," he'd say. "You can play at ghoulie-chasing." A ghost lived in this house. She knew it as surely as she knew that she was dying. And she would chase it to hel if she had to, because she wanted to be right for once in her life. At least, she wanted Stephen to know she had been right. Even if it was only her own ghost she found.
She collected a sweater and put the flashlight in her pocket. A long walk alone with the night would do her good.
Rubbish.
Rubbish and poppycock
Rubbish, poppycock, and swill.
William Roth ran through the derogatory nouns in his mind as he studied the books that lined the study walls. The books were all hardbacks, many with leather covers and gilded titles. The dust on them was proof of their dullness.
A jolly good put-on for the intelligentsia. Because the books are all poppycock and. . . claptrap. Yes, CER-TAINLY claptrap.
Precis of the French Revolution. The Diary of Sir Wendell Swanswight. Talmud. Juris Studis. They would make rather bully paperweights. The only thing they had going for them was that they fit the shelves perfectly. Roth sipped his scotch-and-water as he worked his way toward the small crowd that had gathered around Jefferson Spence. The great man's tremulous voice held forth on some didactic opinion or other. Spence went unchallenged by his admirers.
The Arab bird stood across the room, her ever-present camera around her neck. He mentally practiced her name, because it was difficult to fake a British accent while saying it. Zay-ih-nahb. He would have to teach her a few things about photographic codes of conduct. You don't blunder about like a rhino through the veldt. You stalk, you wait, you seduce your subject with infinite pa-tience and care, you lull, you caress, and then—flick, click, thank you, prick.
But he could get Zainab anytime. She was easy meat waiting to be culled from the herd. She was a crippled gazelle, and Roth was a lion. First he had bigger game to snare.
Wait a minute, bloke. Bad metaphor. You know from your time in Afrikker that a lioness does all the hunting while the lion lies around licking his balls. But the bloody Yanks don't know that. King of the Jungle, and that bit.
He was thinking in his Manchester accent. He had descended into Liverpudlian in the mid-nineties during that brief
She grabbed her glass. When Miss Mamie drank, Anna took a large gulp. It was house-bottled musca-dine, a little too sweet for swilling. But she took an extra swallow for good measure.
"You're welcome to join me in the study for after-dinner drinks and conversation," Miss Mamie concluded. "There's a smoking porch off the study as wel. Again, thank you for alowing us the pleasure of your company. Good evening."
The room erupted in chatter and ratling silverware. Cris wobbled slightly as she stood, and she put a hand on Mason's shoulder to balance herself. Anna pretended not to notice. She was after ghosts, damn it. Ghosts didn't make a fool out of you the way men always did.
She slipped away up the stairs. The lamps along the hall threw a warm glow over the woodwork. She en-tered the dark bedroom and stood by the window, look-ing over the dark manor grounds. The sky was fading into a deep periwinkle, soon to be smothered by the blackness creeping from the east, the moon rising faint and blue in the east.
She took her flashlight from the nightstand. At least one modern convenience had been allowed, probably on the demands of the manor's insurance provider. She turned the light on and played it across the walls, half expecting to see a restless spirit, but revealing only a spiderweb crack in the plasterboard.
She sighed. Ghoulie-chasing. That was what Stephen called it.
"Leave me to do the serious investigating," he'd say. "You can play at ghoulie-chasing." A ghost lived in this house. She knew it as surely as she knew that she was dying. And she would chase it to hel if she had to, because she wanted to be right for once in her life. At least, she wanted Stephen to know she had been right. Even if it was only her own ghost she found.
She collected a sweater and put the flashlight in her pocket. A long walk alone with the night would do her good.
Rubbish.
Rubbish and poppycock
Rubbish, poppycock, and swill.
William Roth ran through the derogatory nouns in his mind as he studied the books that lined the study walls. The books were all hardbacks, many with leather covers and gilded titles. The dust on them was proof of their dullness.
A jolly good put-on for the intelligentsia. Because the books are all poppycock and. . . claptrap. Yes, CER-TAINLY claptrap.
Precis of the French Revolution. The Diary of Sir Wendell Swanswight. Talmud. Juris Studis. They would make rather bully paperweights. The only thing they had going for them was that they fit the shelves perfectly. Roth sipped his scotch-and-water as he worked his way toward the small crowd that had gathered around Jefferson Spence. The great man's tremulous voice held forth on some didactic opinion or other. Spence went unchallenged by his admirers.
The Arab bird stood across the room, her ever-present camera around her neck. He mentally practiced her name, because it was difficult to fake a British accent while saying it. Zay-ih-nahb. He would have to teach her a few things about photographic codes of conduct. You don't blunder about like a rhino through the veldt. You stalk, you wait, you seduce your subject with infinite pa-tience and care, you lull, you caress, and then—flick, click, thank you, prick.
But he could get Zainab anytime. She was easy meat waiting to be culled from the herd. She was a crippled gazelle, and Roth was a lion. First he had bigger game to snare.
Wait a minute, bloke. Bad metaphor. You know from your time in Afrikker that a lioness does all the hunting while the lion lies around licking his balls. But the bloody Yanks don't know that. King of the Jungle, and that bit.
He was thinking in his Manchester accent. He had descended into Liverpudlian in the mid-nineties during that brief
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