Death and the Chaste Apprentice Read Online Free Page B

cozy?” he inquired to a quartet of frozen faces. “Are the Russian lady and the Indian gentleman finding everything to their liking? They’ve only to give a shout if not and I’ll personally see that something is done.”
    â€œSingh is English.” Bradford Mallory sighed. “As English as I am—and rather more so than you. Natalya has not, so far, been able to express any discontents she may have accumulated, but she has now acquired an interpreter, so if she feels you don’t warm the samovar sufficiently beforeyou pop in the tea bag, she will be able—thanks to our char ming young friend here—to expostulate with you on the subject.”
    Des Capper blinked, as if he had been hit with a dictionary. But he was unputdownable, at the same time giving the impression that he was registering all the snubs.
    â€œAh—Mother Russia.” he said with a sigh.
    â€œMotherfu—? Oh, Mother Russia .”
    â€œMother Russia. It’s an expression . . . sort of a nickname. It’s a country that has always held a fatal fascination for me. The Winter Palace, Anastasia, Battleship Potemkin . .  .”
    â€œÂ â€˜Lara’s Theme,’ Gorky Park ,” murmured Brad Mallory.
    â€œExactly. It’s a country of great elemental passions. I think I’d have been able to come to terms with it. The tragedy is, I’ve never been. I’d like to have told them a thing or two about how to run their agriculture. Ask the little lady”—he turned to Peter Fortnum, but he patted Natalya Radilova on the knee—“if they’ve ever been lucky enough to hear our great Joan Sutherland at the Bolshoi.”
    â€œTell this stupid peasant to take his fat hand off my knee,” said Natalya Radilova in Russian.
    â€œAh—she understood me. What did she say?”
    â€œShe asked you to take your hand off her leg,” said Peter diplomatically.
    Des Capper burst out into a chilling mine-host laugh.
    â€œWell, well, well. No offense meant and none taken, I hope. I know they’re a little puritanical still in these Iron Curtain countries. Me, I believe in being broad-minded. There’s more than one kind of partnership, eh, sir?” Des gave a broad and repulsive wink at Brad. “If you ask me, the Russkies could take a few tips from your country, young man,” he added, turning to Singh, who was lost in rapturous contemplation of the mirror image of himself sipping sweet sherry.
    â€œSingh is English,” breathed Mallory.
    â€œThe Indians know a thing or two about sexual tricks, eh? Not that we were in a position to cast the first stone as far as moral habits were concerned. We, the Raj, the ruling class, I mean. As I was saying at the next table, I was there in ’46-7, aide-de-camp to the Viceroy—”
    â€œ Aide-de-camp , now?”
    â€œThat’s right. And some of the goings-on and permutations and possibilities that I saw while I was with the Mountbattens you wouldn’t believe. Still, when you went out among the natives—as I did, because I’ve got what you might call an inquiring mind, as you may have noticed—you saw things you’d never even read about. Even an old soldier like me had his eyes opened, I can tell you. Ever since then India has always exercised—”
    â€œA fatal fascination?”
    â€œIt has. It’s been calling me back—”
    â€œPlease. That chair. Madam—you are my soprano?”
    The voice—clipped, exact, icy—seemed to come from a great height. The young man was no more than six feet, but he seemed as high as the Matterhorn, and as daunting. He took Natalya Radilova’s hand and, bending over, implanted on it a kiss, much as if he were stamping her passport.
    â€œGunter Gottlieb,” murmured Brad Mallory with a pretense of enthusiasm.
    It was a name more often breathed with devotion, even fanaticism, but that