Тринадцать гостей / Thirteen Guests. Джозеф Джефферсон Фарджон

when the doctor had concluded his task, and had impressed on an elderly woman hovering in the background the necessity of frequent applications of surgical spirit, Lord Aveling had insisted that it would be wise for him to remain on the settee a while longer.

      “You won’t be in the way here,” he said. “We can move you to your room later.”

      “He will have to be moved very carefully,” commented the doctor.

      “Why move him at all?” suggested Nadine. “Why not move the couch? When I missed my fence two years ago, I was rolled for the night into the ante-room.”

      “Excellent idea,” agreed Lord Aveling. “Some time after tea.”

      “Yes, when the poor man gets tired of being looked at,” smiled Nadine.

      Lord Aveling had departed amiably. “The right sort,” ran his thoughts. “Good family, obviously. Interesting. Not many youngsters this week-end. Bultin coming down by next train. Make good paragraph. Yes, Bultin will use it. Another example of Aveling hospitality. Followed by list of guests. Wonder if this was the right week-end for Zena Wilding? And the Chaters? Still, of course, I had to have the Chaters.... Pity this young chap makes the thirteenth....”

      But welcome alone did not reign in the spacious lounge-hall that glowed in the late afternoon sunshine and flickered in the light of an enormous log-fire. Something brooded as well. The shadows seemed to contain uneasy secrets, and none of the people John had so far met reflected complete mental ease. Lady Aveling, when she had momentarily deserted a card-table in the drawing-room for a kindly peep at the casualty, had appeared nervously anxious to get back again. Two guests—a thin, angular, cynical man in a black velvet coat and large artist’s tie, and a short, stout, grey-haired man of the retired-pork-butcher-and-made-a-damn-lot-out-of-it type (he had made a cool hundred thousand out of it, which alone explained his presence here)—struck a vaguely jarring note when they passed through the hall together. The elderly woman deputed to apply surgical spirit at intervals had been grim. A pretty maid on her way up the carved staircase with a tray had been flushed. A butler had followed her to the stairs, and then turned round and vanished.

      “Something’s wrong,” reflected John. “What is it?”

      He wondered whether the two new people who were just entering the hall would continue the impression.

      They were a man and a girl in riding kit, and they bore the dust and atmosphere of hard going. The girl’s cheeks were tingling from her ride, and she instinctively brushed her hand across her forehead as she entered, as though to sweep away the sudden fuggy warmth of the blazing logs. She was beautiful, in a slim boyish way, and although she looked well in her dark green riding habit, a stranger longed instinctively to see her in more definitely feminine attire. It was odd that a certain hardness around her mouth, a hardness held there by the set of her lips, did not detract from her beauty. Possibly because one could not quite believe it.

      The man, large and well-built, reminded you pleasantly of cricket, which in fact he played.

      “Half-past four,” said the girl, glancing at a clock on her way to the wide staircase.

      “Does that mean tea in your room?” inquired the man, pausing to light a cigarette.

      “No, I’ll be down,” she replied. “But the bath comes first. These things are sticking to me.”

      The settee on which John lay was fitted into a shadowed angle of the wall. The sun was slipping down behind a distant wood, preluding quick gloaming, and a servant entered the lounge-hall and switched on lights. The girl at the foot of the staircase turned her head and saw the patient.

      John endured an awkward moment. It occurred to him that perhaps, after all, the routine of Bragley Court had its little flaws. It should have protected him against the necessity of explaining himself. Yet it was unreasonable to expect some one to be in perpetual attendance on him, and even Lord Aveling’s generously-planned staff did not run to a Cook’s guide. So, after enduring the girl’s curious scrutiny for a moment or two, he remarked bluntly:

      “I’ve had an accident, and Lord Aveling’s been good enough to give me temporary shelter.”

      “Bad luck,” said the man. “Not riding, was it?”

      “No—a prosaic train. I jumped out while it was moving, and it tried to take my foot on to the next station.”

      The man smiled, and held out his case.

      “Have one?” he invited. “We smoke anywhere. Reassure him, Anne.”

      The girl advanced with a little nod.

      “Of course—quite in order,” she said. “I am Lord Aveling’s daughter. And this is Mr. Harold Taverley.”

      “Thanks awfully,” answered John. The momentary awkwardness created by these two had vanished very quickly. “It does help knowing! Mine’s John Foss. And my whole object in life just now is not to be a confounded nuisance. Please don’t delay that bath.”

      Anne laughed. Her mouth lost its hardness. She turned and ran upstairs. But her companion lingered.

      “Don’t you feel sticky?” asked John.

      “Oh, I’ve got a few minutes,” replied Taverley. He had a clear, full voice, but rarely raised it. The retired Pork King could only make his carry when he shouted. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do?”

      “Well—yes, there is,” said John impulsively. This was the kind of fellow you could talk to. “I’d like to know something about the people here. One feels such a fool, you know. Rather like a monkey in a zoo.”

      “I know,” smiled Taverley. “That is, if monkeys really do feel like that.” He squatted on a stool. “I suppose you’ll be staying a bit?”

      “There’s been some talk of rolling me into an ante-room for the night. Everybody’s frightfully decent.”

      “The ante-room? That’s where—” He paused. “Well, let’s run over the inventory. Who’ve you seen so far?”

      “Lord Aveling.”

      “He’s easy. Fifth baron. Hopes to be first marquis or earl. Conservative. I hope politics don’t make you feel suicidal?”

      “One has to bear them; but I’m not particularly interested.”

      “Just as well. You’ll be able to keep out of arguments. Have you seen Lady Aveling?” John nodded. “She needn’t worry you. She follows her husband’s lead. The daughter you’ve just met. The Honourable Anne. Keen on horses. Hunting people here, you know. And golfing. Private course. Anne can drive two hundred.”

      “I like her,” said John.

      “She’s O.K.” Taverley paused for an instant, then added: “She liked you.”

      “You made up your mind quickly!”

      “So did she about that. So did you. Well, let’s finish the family. There’s only one more.”

      “The son?”

      “No. That’s the disappointment. Lady Aveling’s mother. Mrs. Morris. You’re not the only invalid in the house. But you won’t see Mrs. Morris—she sticks to her room!”

      At that moment Mrs. Morris was lying two floors above, propped up on pillows, in an ecstasy of joy. She was almost free from grinding pain. The world was very good....

      “Fine old lady,” said Taverley. “Example to the lot of us. Right. Now for the guests. Who have you seen of those?”

      “A lady brought me here.”

      “Rather large and stout? Impressive glasses?”

      “My God, no!”

      “Would ‘distracting’ be the adjective?”

      “I can’t think of a better,” agreed John, fighting an annoying moment of self-consciousness.

      “That sounds like Nadine Leveridge. I heard she was coming