[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
were in short trousers. A boy with a thousand questions about . . . turquoise
and rubies, wasn t it?
Our host s face opened in a grin. I should have known you would forget
nothing. And you must be . . . Miss Russell, I m told you prefer? I m Geoffrey
Nesbit.
His hand was cool and strong, and I thought, as he turned to face me fully,
that Holmes act of memory was less impressive than inevitable: Even as a
child, this would have been a difficult person to forget.
Nesbit was one of the most beautiful men I have ever laid eyes on, the thin
scar running down his jaw line merely serving to emphasise his looks. Neat,
blond, and sun-burnt, he was not the kind who usually stirs me to admiration,
but his green eyes shone with intelligence and humour, and he watched with the
quiet attentiveness of a cat, missing nothing. Like a cat, too, he appeared
ageless, although the skin beside his eyes and down his throat testified to an
age near forty. He reminded me eerily of T. E. Lawrence, another small,
tow-headed, and youthful man who looked at the world out of the corners of his
eyes, as if in constant dialogue with an amusing inner voice.
Nesbit was dressed in an odd combination of garments, jodhpur trousers
beneath a long muslinkameez,and if the aura of horse he carried with him
explained the trousers, he had certainly changed his footwear upon returning
from his morning gallop. Unless he was in the habit of riding in soft leather
slippers, in the style of an American Indian. Certainly in the photographs the
man wore ordinary riding boots.
He poured himself a cup of tea, taking it black with sugar, and urged us back
into our chairs, sitting down on the other side of the low, intricately carved
table. He settled into a third, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
How is your brother? he asked Holmes.
Improving. I had a telegram yesterday night, he sounded himself.
I am glad. The world would be a lesser place without Mycroft Holmes. And a
great deal less secure.
Which observation declared, as surely as an exchange of Kipling s whispered
code-phrases, that this man knew well that Mycroft Holmes, who described
himself as an accountant in the Empire s bureaucracy, kept ledgers recording
transactions considerably more subtle than pounds and pence. The suspicion was
confirmed with his next words.
When we have drunk our tea, we shall take a turn through the garden. His
raised eyebrow asked if we understood; Holmes curt nod and my reply answered
him.
We should love to see your garden, I told him. And, clearly, to talk about
those things the walls were not to hear. It was difficult to press one s ear
to a key-hole when the speakers were surrounded by open space. And the sad
fact was, there were some things with which servants were not to be trusted.
So we drank our tea and passed a pleasant quarter of an hour hearing Nesbit s
suggestions about what to see during our stay in the country. He particularly
urged us north, even though the weather would still be cool, and suggested one
or two of the hill rajas who might show us an entertaining time.
Do you shoot, either of you?
I suppressed a wince: The last shooting party I d joined had nearly ended in
tragedy for the duke who was our host and friend.
Some, Holmes replied. Russell here is a crack shot.
Of course, it s pretty tame compared to some sports even going after tiger
from the back of an elephant pales once you ve tried pig sticking. Or tiger
sticking, although that s harder to come by. You ever ridden after boar, Mr
Holmes?
Er, no, I m afraid not.
Is that what the Kadir Cup is about? I asked, adding, I noticed the
photographs.
Yes, that s it. Held annually, near Meerut, just north of here. Pig sticking
is the unofficial sport of British India. Great fun. Though not, I fear, for
the ladies. He smiled at the thought. I smiled back, automatically plotting
how I might go about learning to stick pigs until I caught myself short. I
didn t even like fox-hunting, much less what sounded like a rout fit for [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl exclamation.htw.pl
were in short trousers. A boy with a thousand questions about . . . turquoise
and rubies, wasn t it?
Our host s face opened in a grin. I should have known you would forget
nothing. And you must be . . . Miss Russell, I m told you prefer? I m Geoffrey
Nesbit.
His hand was cool and strong, and I thought, as he turned to face me fully,
that Holmes act of memory was less impressive than inevitable: Even as a
child, this would have been a difficult person to forget.
Nesbit was one of the most beautiful men I have ever laid eyes on, the thin
scar running down his jaw line merely serving to emphasise his looks. Neat,
blond, and sun-burnt, he was not the kind who usually stirs me to admiration,
but his green eyes shone with intelligence and humour, and he watched with the
quiet attentiveness of a cat, missing nothing. Like a cat, too, he appeared
ageless, although the skin beside his eyes and down his throat testified to an
age near forty. He reminded me eerily of T. E. Lawrence, another small,
tow-headed, and youthful man who looked at the world out of the corners of his
eyes, as if in constant dialogue with an amusing inner voice.
Nesbit was dressed in an odd combination of garments, jodhpur trousers
beneath a long muslinkameez,and if the aura of horse he carried with him
explained the trousers, he had certainly changed his footwear upon returning
from his morning gallop. Unless he was in the habit of riding in soft leather
slippers, in the style of an American Indian. Certainly in the photographs the
man wore ordinary riding boots.
He poured himself a cup of tea, taking it black with sugar, and urged us back
into our chairs, sitting down on the other side of the low, intricately carved
table. He settled into a third, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
How is your brother? he asked Holmes.
Improving. I had a telegram yesterday night, he sounded himself.
I am glad. The world would be a lesser place without Mycroft Holmes. And a
great deal less secure.
Which observation declared, as surely as an exchange of Kipling s whispered
code-phrases, that this man knew well that Mycroft Holmes, who described
himself as an accountant in the Empire s bureaucracy, kept ledgers recording
transactions considerably more subtle than pounds and pence. The suspicion was
confirmed with his next words.
When we have drunk our tea, we shall take a turn through the garden. His
raised eyebrow asked if we understood; Holmes curt nod and my reply answered
him.
We should love to see your garden, I told him. And, clearly, to talk about
those things the walls were not to hear. It was difficult to press one s ear
to a key-hole when the speakers were surrounded by open space. And the sad
fact was, there were some things with which servants were not to be trusted.
So we drank our tea and passed a pleasant quarter of an hour hearing Nesbit s
suggestions about what to see during our stay in the country. He particularly
urged us north, even though the weather would still be cool, and suggested one
or two of the hill rajas who might show us an entertaining time.
Do you shoot, either of you?
I suppressed a wince: The last shooting party I d joined had nearly ended in
tragedy for the duke who was our host and friend.
Some, Holmes replied. Russell here is a crack shot.
Of course, it s pretty tame compared to some sports even going after tiger
from the back of an elephant pales once you ve tried pig sticking. Or tiger
sticking, although that s harder to come by. You ever ridden after boar, Mr
Holmes?
Er, no, I m afraid not.
Is that what the Kadir Cup is about? I asked, adding, I noticed the
photographs.
Yes, that s it. Held annually, near Meerut, just north of here. Pig sticking
is the unofficial sport of British India. Great fun. Though not, I fear, for
the ladies. He smiled at the thought. I smiled back, automatically plotting
how I might go about learning to stick pigs until I caught myself short. I
didn t even like fox-hunting, much less what sounded like a rout fit for [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]