Read Online The Riddle of Sphinx Island by R. T. Raichev - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. T. Raichev
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prospect irresistible, didn’t I? You don’t think we should call the whole thing off, do you? I mean – in view of what happened?’
‘No. No. So long as we keep John incarcerated, there should be no more problems.’
‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Why is John’s bed in a diagonal position in the middle of the room?’
‘That’s according to the rules of Jutland. He’s always been awfully keen on Jutland. You remember the Jutland paper game, don’t you?’
‘I most certainly do. Good old Jutland. Such fun. I must say, John looked terribly distinguished in that eyeglass – same as that other chap, Feversham, who also cuts quite a dash. I haven’t seen a man wearing an eyeglass since 1951 , I believe, and now suddenly there are two of them. Most extraordinary. John handled that gun with such panache. There’s a lot to admire in John.’
Sybil said that, as always, Nellie was too kind.
Oswald Ramskritt had said he wanted to be left alone. He’d then opened the bottle of Louis Roederer champagne and started drinking.
He drank thirstily. He might have been drinking water.
He managed to finish the whole bottle in about twenty minutes.
He had had a narrow escape from death and that was his way of dealing with the shock.
Oswald didn’t seem to get drunk. He didn’t go into a stupor, he didn’t throw up, nor did he collapse or go to sleep. Only his face acquired a waxen corpse-like pallor. When at one point Feversham looked in and asked if he was all right, Oswald talked to him about yachting, fishing and how he intended to improve the facilities on Sphinx Island once he had become its owner. He spoke without a hint of a slur.
Eventually he rose to his feet and left the library.
Coming across Ella in the corridor, Oswald barred her way, stood in front of her and slapped her across the face. There had been no obvious reason for the attack. As she staggered back and leant against the wall, he brought his head close to hers and whispered something in her ear, which made her gasp and tremble with revulsion. The moment she turned her head away from him, he drew back. He smiled and told her he wanted to see her do her martyr act – ‘I’d like you to walk away from me, with your chin held as high as possible, your hands clenched in fists. I wish to see courageous suffering neatly portrayed in every inch of your body.’
He then went into the small study which had been placed at Mrs Garrison-Gore’s disposal. The study walls were covered in Victorian sporting prints. He sat down at the Regency desk and stared at the screen of Mrs Garrison-Gore’s laptop, which she had left turned on. He began to read the detective novel she happened to be writing, humming a little tune under his breath and tracing the words with his forefinger. When Mrs Garrison-Gore appeared, he commented on the way she had started changing her protagonists’ names as well as the names of places. ‘Not bad, not bad, if one likes this sort of thing. Stinking tripe of course. My fellow Americans call them “cozies” and it’s women mainly who read them, correct?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t read my novel,’ she said.
‘How come this bit sounds old-fashioned and that bit doesn’t? Your readers will accuse you of being inconsistent. Are you experimenting with styles or what?’
‘I am sorry, Oswald, but I do need my laptop –’
He took no notice. His eyes remained glued to the screen. His hand moved over the keyboard. ‘You leave the Internet on while writing? Why is that? The Project Gutenberg? Gutenberg Lite … What’s so special about the Project Gutenberg?’
‘Gutenberg invented the first printing press.’
‘You don’t say. The printing press, eh? And of what significance might that be to you?’
Mrs Garrison-Gore explained it was for something she was writing. ‘I do a lot of research on the Internet.’
‘It all seems to be about novels that are out
‘No. No. So long as we keep John incarcerated, there should be no more problems.’
‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Why is John’s bed in a diagonal position in the middle of the room?’
‘That’s according to the rules of Jutland. He’s always been awfully keen on Jutland. You remember the Jutland paper game, don’t you?’
‘I most certainly do. Good old Jutland. Such fun. I must say, John looked terribly distinguished in that eyeglass – same as that other chap, Feversham, who also cuts quite a dash. I haven’t seen a man wearing an eyeglass since 1951 , I believe, and now suddenly there are two of them. Most extraordinary. John handled that gun with such panache. There’s a lot to admire in John.’
Sybil said that, as always, Nellie was too kind.
Oswald Ramskritt had said he wanted to be left alone. He’d then opened the bottle of Louis Roederer champagne and started drinking.
He drank thirstily. He might have been drinking water.
He managed to finish the whole bottle in about twenty minutes.
He had had a narrow escape from death and that was his way of dealing with the shock.
Oswald didn’t seem to get drunk. He didn’t go into a stupor, he didn’t throw up, nor did he collapse or go to sleep. Only his face acquired a waxen corpse-like pallor. When at one point Feversham looked in and asked if he was all right, Oswald talked to him about yachting, fishing and how he intended to improve the facilities on Sphinx Island once he had become its owner. He spoke without a hint of a slur.
Eventually he rose to his feet and left the library.
Coming across Ella in the corridor, Oswald barred her way, stood in front of her and slapped her across the face. There had been no obvious reason for the attack. As she staggered back and leant against the wall, he brought his head close to hers and whispered something in her ear, which made her gasp and tremble with revulsion. The moment she turned her head away from him, he drew back. He smiled and told her he wanted to see her do her martyr act – ‘I’d like you to walk away from me, with your chin held as high as possible, your hands clenched in fists. I wish to see courageous suffering neatly portrayed in every inch of your body.’
He then went into the small study which had been placed at Mrs Garrison-Gore’s disposal. The study walls were covered in Victorian sporting prints. He sat down at the Regency desk and stared at the screen of Mrs Garrison-Gore’s laptop, which she had left turned on. He began to read the detective novel she happened to be writing, humming a little tune under his breath and tracing the words with his forefinger. When Mrs Garrison-Gore appeared, he commented on the way she had started changing her protagonists’ names as well as the names of places. ‘Not bad, not bad, if one likes this sort of thing. Stinking tripe of course. My fellow Americans call them “cozies” and it’s women mainly who read them, correct?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t read my novel,’ she said.
‘How come this bit sounds old-fashioned and that bit doesn’t? Your readers will accuse you of being inconsistent. Are you experimenting with styles or what?’
‘I am sorry, Oswald, but I do need my laptop –’
He took no notice. His eyes remained glued to the screen. His hand moved over the keyboard. ‘You leave the Internet on while writing? Why is that? The Project Gutenberg? Gutenberg Lite … What’s so special about the Project Gutenberg?’
‘Gutenberg invented the first printing press.’
‘You don’t say. The printing press, eh? And of what significance might that be to you?’
Mrs Garrison-Gore explained it was for something she was writing. ‘I do a lot of research on the Internet.’
‘It all seems to be about novels that are out
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