Ellis Peters - George Felse 04 - A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs Read Online Free
Author: Ellis Peters
made a sound or turned a hair, but the effect was the same. He had been eighteen for such a short time that he hadn’t mastered his face yet on these occasions.
“It’s all right, lamb,” she said in his ear wickedly, “you’re doing fine. You don’t blush any more. But you haven’t
quite
got over that tendency to a brazen stare yet.”
“Thanks for the tip, I’ll practise in front of a mirror. All right, Mum-Machiavelli,” he said darkly. “You needn’t think I don’t know what a clever minx you are, because I do. Which tie did you tell him to put on?”
“Anything you want to know about Maymouth and environs,” said Tim Rossall, over coffee in the lounge,“just ask that well-known authority, Simon here. He’s never been down here for more than three days at a time, not until this visit, but what he doesn’t know about the place and its history by now isn’t worth knowing. No, I mean it! He made a big hit with my Aunt Rachel, and she’s given him the run of her library up there at the Place.”
“The Place? That’s Treverra Place? That big pile with the towers, at the top end of Maymouth?”
“That’s it. Phoney towers, actually, they built ’em on late in the nineteenth century. The old girl rattles round in that huge dump like a pea in a drum, but she’s still got the money to keep it up, and nobody else has. When she goes the National Trust will have to take it, or else it’ll simply have to fall down.”
“The National Trust wouldn’t touch the place,” said Phil cheerfully. “Tim’s mother was Miss Rachel’s younger sister. He’s the last nephew, and he’s horribly afraid she’ll leave the house to him. There’s a fine kitchen garden, though. She grows splendid apricots—a bit late ripening, but a lovely flavour. They’ll be ready any day now, I must get her to send you some. “
Dominic sat back happily in his corner and surveyed his successful and voluble party. They were all there but Paddy, who had gone to a cinema with friends of his own age; but Paddy, thought Dominic in the arrogance of his eighteen years, would have been bored, anyhow, in this adult circle. And they were getting on like a house afire. They’d liked one another on sight. Phil Rossall looked a different but equally attractive person with her dark hair coiled on top of her head, and her boy’s figure disguised in a black, full-skirted dress. And Simon—no one ever seemed to call him anything but Simon—was the centre of any group he joined, even when he was silent and listening. Everything was going beautifully.
“A wild lot, these Treverras,” Simon was saying, one wicked brown eye on Tim. “I’m thinking of writing the family history. Unless you make it worth my while not to, of course.”
“Me? I’m relying on selling the film rights. Go right ahead. Two of ’em hanged for complicity in various faction plots, one time and another, several of ’em smuggled—”
“They
all
smuggled,” said Phil firmly.
“But the most celebrated of the lot was the poet-squire, Jan Treverra, in the eighteenth century. Go on, Simon, you’re the expert, tell ’em about Jan.”
“On your own head be it! No one can stop me once I start. But let’s adjourn to the bar, shall we? It’s cosier down there.”
They adjourned to the bar. There was a panelled corner that just held them all, with one place to spare, and Phil spread her skirt across that, with the glint of a smile at Simon.
“That’s for Tam, if she drops in later.”
“Tam?”
“Tamsin Holt, Aunt Rachel’s secretary. It’s only a quarter of an hour’s walk from the Place, across the Dragon’s neck. We’re about on the same level, up here. And I should think the poor girl’s had enough of Miss Rachel by evening. She is,” said Phil blandly, “the real reason for Simon’s passionate interest in the Treverra Library. She’s re-cataloguing it and collating all the family papers. And when she takes off her glasses she
“It’s all right, lamb,” she said in his ear wickedly, “you’re doing fine. You don’t blush any more. But you haven’t
quite
got over that tendency to a brazen stare yet.”
“Thanks for the tip, I’ll practise in front of a mirror. All right, Mum-Machiavelli,” he said darkly. “You needn’t think I don’t know what a clever minx you are, because I do. Which tie did you tell him to put on?”
“Anything you want to know about Maymouth and environs,” said Tim Rossall, over coffee in the lounge,“just ask that well-known authority, Simon here. He’s never been down here for more than three days at a time, not until this visit, but what he doesn’t know about the place and its history by now isn’t worth knowing. No, I mean it! He made a big hit with my Aunt Rachel, and she’s given him the run of her library up there at the Place.”
“The Place? That’s Treverra Place? That big pile with the towers, at the top end of Maymouth?”
“That’s it. Phoney towers, actually, they built ’em on late in the nineteenth century. The old girl rattles round in that huge dump like a pea in a drum, but she’s still got the money to keep it up, and nobody else has. When she goes the National Trust will have to take it, or else it’ll simply have to fall down.”
“The National Trust wouldn’t touch the place,” said Phil cheerfully. “Tim’s mother was Miss Rachel’s younger sister. He’s the last nephew, and he’s horribly afraid she’ll leave the house to him. There’s a fine kitchen garden, though. She grows splendid apricots—a bit late ripening, but a lovely flavour. They’ll be ready any day now, I must get her to send you some. “
Dominic sat back happily in his corner and surveyed his successful and voluble party. They were all there but Paddy, who had gone to a cinema with friends of his own age; but Paddy, thought Dominic in the arrogance of his eighteen years, would have been bored, anyhow, in this adult circle. And they were getting on like a house afire. They’d liked one another on sight. Phil Rossall looked a different but equally attractive person with her dark hair coiled on top of her head, and her boy’s figure disguised in a black, full-skirted dress. And Simon—no one ever seemed to call him anything but Simon—was the centre of any group he joined, even when he was silent and listening. Everything was going beautifully.
“A wild lot, these Treverras,” Simon was saying, one wicked brown eye on Tim. “I’m thinking of writing the family history. Unless you make it worth my while not to, of course.”
“Me? I’m relying on selling the film rights. Go right ahead. Two of ’em hanged for complicity in various faction plots, one time and another, several of ’em smuggled—”
“They
all
smuggled,” said Phil firmly.
“But the most celebrated of the lot was the poet-squire, Jan Treverra, in the eighteenth century. Go on, Simon, you’re the expert, tell ’em about Jan.”
“On your own head be it! No one can stop me once I start. But let’s adjourn to the bar, shall we? It’s cosier down there.”
They adjourned to the bar. There was a panelled corner that just held them all, with one place to spare, and Phil spread her skirt across that, with the glint of a smile at Simon.
“That’s for Tam, if she drops in later.”
“Tam?”
“Tamsin Holt, Aunt Rachel’s secretary. It’s only a quarter of an hour’s walk from the Place, across the Dragon’s neck. We’re about on the same level, up here. And I should think the poor girl’s had enough of Miss Rachel by evening. She is,” said Phil blandly, “the real reason for Simon’s passionate interest in the Treverra Library. She’s re-cataloguing it and collating all the family papers. And when she takes off her glasses she
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