Death and the Chaste Apprentice Read Online Free

knowledge of the language, but her letters to him had in fact been written by a friend.
    â€œI’ve arranged all this with your Ministry of Culture,” her agent said somewhat wearily.
    â€œArrange it with me again,” said Natalya.
    The agent, Bradford Mallory (“Call me Brad”) was, like the Galloways, something of a theatrical throwback, though in his case, Peter suspected, it was much more of a conscious act, for it had the label “performance” stampedon it, as theirs had not. He wore a cloak, he said, “dear boy,” and he occasionally patted the hand of the other singer on his books whom he had brought to Ketterick. This was the young man whom Mallory had apparently rechristened—“rather witty, wouldn’t you say, dear boy?”—with the single name of Singh. An incredibly good looking young man, his Indian complexion had lightened from long, perhaps lifelong, residence in Britain. He said little, occasionally pouted, and sometimes smiled abstractedly at Mallory’s affectionate advances. But what he did most often was to look at his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind Brad Mallory. When he had a clear, uninterrupted view of himself, he would put his chin up to pose in his most attractive position, pat his immaculately cut hair, adjust his tie, and then smile a catlike smile when the image presented to him was at its most pleasing. He was, Brad Mallory said, the coming countertenor, and he was to sing in the concert on the opening night of the festival.
    As Peter Fortnum translated between Natalya and her agent—yes, she did know the role, yes, she did realize that, small though the theater was, the festival held a unique position in British musical life and success here could be a springboard for a very promising operatic career—he was conscious of a discordant presence in the vicinity, an intrusive note. The Australian voice has a cutting edge, admirable in the opera house but less well adapted to the social hobnobbing of a saloon bar. Des Capper was giving someone the benefit of his curious store of knowledge and opinions, which meant, in effect, he was giving them to everyone.
    â€œDo you know that in Queensland they’ve got this new law forbidding hoteliers from serving sexual perverts?” There was a dirty little snicker. “Be a bit of a problem here in festival time, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t afford to lose half my customers.” Peter half-turned his head and sawthat it was the Galloways and Jason Thark whom Des was regaling with his muckiness. Peter’s glance caught him gesturing in the direction of Brad Mallory and Singh, and he immediately changed his tone. “Mind you, I’m tolerant. Live and let live, that’s my motto. I don’t know if you’ve read about it, but it’s been proved by scientists that sexual deviancy’s purely a matter of brain damage during childbirth. Just like spastics. I know all about what causes spastics. Well, it’s just the same with poofs, only more minor. It’s like this . . .”
    â€œDear God!” breathed Mallory, raising his eyebrows to heaven with theatrical eloquence. “What have we done to deserve this antipodean clodhopper clumping all over our private lives and our personal sensibilities?”
    He put his hand warmly on Singh’s, but Singh’s smile did not suggest that he had heard or, if he had, that he had understood. He said in an English that was perfect yet oddly inflected, addressing Mallory alone:
    â€œCan we go up and watch the video? I’ve got Little Lord Fauntleroy. You said we could watch it later tonight.”
    â€œAnd so we shall, dear boy, after one more little drinkie. It’s my first chance to have a real talk to lovely, lovely Natalya, and she’s full of questions that only I can answer.”
    Singh pouted but let himself be bought another sweet sherry.
    Over at the Galloways’