The Curious Incident at Claridge's Read Online Free Page A

let it fester. That’s how my fool of a doctor put it.’
    â€˜Medical men are not what they used to be,’ the Master said with a sigh. ‘My dentist is Chinese. He treats my teeth as though they were Hong Kong.’
    â€˜The abscess was caused by an ingrown nail. Perfectly idiotic, but I might have lost my toe, apparently. At my age it could have been fatal,’ Sir Seymour went on. ‘One more day and they might not have been able to save it—they would have had to amputate it or something. Terribly gruesome, I know. Reminds one of the worst excesses of the French revolution. Penelope was not particularly sympathetic, I am afraid.’
    â€˜I am sorry to hear that.’
    â€˜Not at all sympathetic. She insisted it was my own fault. Said I needed to have a pedicure regularly. Hinted that my washing habits weren’t up to scratch. Implied that I was mean—that I was saving on soap and hot water. That hurt me. I can’t tell you how that hurt me, Master. Pedicures cost the earth, apparently, if one gets the top people to do them.’
    Sir Seymour stared ruefully at his left foot. Beside him, propped against the leather armchair, was his ivory-topped cane. Since his arrival he had changed into a plum-coloured smoking jacket, black tie and black velvet shoes with his monogram stitched on the toes in gold braid. The Master, as was his invariable custom, wore a black dinner jacket. Both looked like figures from a bygone age. Dinner over, they were sitting in the Master’s study.
    â€˜I couldn’t wear a shoe on that foot till yesterday, things were so bad,’ Sir Seymour continued. ‘Feared I might end up in a wheelchair. Ghastly swelling.’
    â€˜But you have recovered now?’
    â€˜The swelling’s gone down. My foot is back to its natural colour, whatever that is. I am no longer in pain, just the tiniest twinge every now and then. I am taking the last of the antibiotics tonight, thank God. It’s been every six hours without fail for the past week. Hate the damned stuff. It seems to disagree with me. I have been getting these awful tummy aches—odd rashes. I get depressed too.’ Sir Seymour’s lugubrious pale eyes fixed on the bronze inkstand on the Master’s desk. ‘That may have nothing to do with the antibiotics, mind.’
    The Master asked if Sir Seymour was sure he wouldn’t like a nightcap.
    â€˜Would have loved nothing better, my dear fellow, but I am not allowed alcohol, not while I’m still taking antibiotics. I may get a reaction, apparently. May balloon and choke to death, or so my doctor tells me. They always exaggerate, these fellows. Terrible quacks. I worry too much, that’s the trouble. I wake up in the middle of the night and I have rather grotesque thoughts apropos of nothing in particular. No prospects except pain and penury on this side of the grave. That sort of idea. At one time, I decided Penelope was plotting to kill me. I keep falling into spells of sudden and morbid anxiety.’
    â€˜The Tradescants are long-lived.’
    â€˜Awfully long-lived, almost indecently so, you may say.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t dream of saying so,’ the Master said primly.
    â€˜My great-grandfather lived to be a hundred and two. A biblical age, almost. An uncle of mine is still going strong at ninety-seven. Keeps writing letters to The Times . Terribly depressing.’
    The Master observed that it had been pleasing to see Lady Tradescant looking so well.
    â€˜Oh, Penelope’s blooming, blooming. Well, she is young . Having a young wife can be a strain, I don’t mind telling you, Master. My mistake. Got a bee in my bonnet—wanted a young and beautiful wife.’ Sir Seymour shook his head. ‘Who was the fellow that kept calling for more of the food of love? Fellow in Shakespeare. Orsino? Nothing but the best would do for me. That was six years ago. I used to set store by that sort