Читать книгу Landslide - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 14

Her ‘camp’ was quite a surprise. After we had walked for over half an hour up a slope that tested the calf muscles there came the unexpected dark loom of a building. The hunting beam of the flashlamp she produced disclosed walls of fieldstone and logs and the gleam of large windows. She pushed open an unlocked door, then said a little irritably, ‘Well, aren’t you coming in?’

The interior was even more of a surprise. It was warm with central heating and it was big. She flicked a switch and a small pool of light appeared, and the room was so large that it retreated away into shadows. One entire wall was windowed and there was a magnificent view down the valley. Away in the distance I could see the moonglow on the lake I had prospected around.

She flicked more switches and more lights came on, revealing the polished wooden floor carpeted with skins, the modern furniture, the wall brightly lined with books and a scattering of phonograph records on the floor grouped around a built-in hi-fi outfit as though someone had been interrupted.

This was a millionaire’s version of a log cabin. I looked about, probably with my mouth hanging open, then said, ‘If this were in the States, a guy could get to be President just by being born here.’

‘I don’t need any wisecracks,’ she said. ‘If you want a drink, help yourself; it’s over there. And you might do something about the fire; it isn’t really necessary but I like to see flames.’

She disappeared, closing a door behind her, and I laid down my rifle. There was a massive fieldstone chimney with a fireplace big enough to roast a moose in which a few red embers glowed faintly, so I replenished it from the pile of logs stacked handily and waited until the flames came and I was sure the fire had caught hold. Then I did a tour of the room, hoping she wouldn’t be back too soon. You can find out a lot about a person just by looking at a room as it’s lived in.

The books were an eclectic lot; many modern novels but very little of the avant-garde, way-out stuff; a solid wedge of English and French classics, a shelf of biographies and a sprinkling of histories, mostly of Canada and, what was surprising, a scad of books on archaeology, mostly Middle-Eastern. It looked as though Clare Trinavant had a mind of her own.

I left the books and drifted around the room, noting the odd pieces of pottery and statuary, most of which looked older than Methuselah; the animal photographs on the walls, mainly of Canadian animals, and the rack of rifles and shotguns in a glassed-in case. I peered at these curiously through the glass and saw that, although the guns appeared to be well kept, there was a film of dust on them. Then I looked at a photograph of a big brute of a brown bear and decided that, even with a telephoto lens, whoever had taken that shot had been too damn’ close.

She said from close behind me, ‘Looks a bit like you, don’t you think?’

I turned. ‘I’m not that big. He’d make six of me.’

She had changed her shirt and was wearing a well-cut pair of slacks that certainly hadn’t been bought off any shelf. She said, ‘I’ve just been in to see Jimmy. I think he’ll be all right.’

‘I didn’t hit him harder than necessary,’ I said. ‘Just enough to teach him manners.’ I waved my arm about the room. ‘Some shack!’

‘Boyd, you make me sick,’ she said coldly. ‘And you can get the hell out of here. You have a dirty mind if you think I’m shacked up with Jimmy Waystrand.’

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘You jump to an awful fast conclusion, Trinavant. All I meant was that this is a hell of a place you have here. I didn’t expect to find this in the woods, that’s all.’

Slowly the pink spots in her cheeks died away, and she said, ‘I’m sorry if I took you the wrong way. Maybe I’m a little jumpy right now, and if I am, you’re responsible, Boyd.’

‘No apology necessary, Trinavant.’

She began to giggle and it developed into a full-throated laugh. I joined in and we had an hysterical thirty seconds. At last she controlled herself. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That won’t do. You can’t call me Trinavant – you’d better make it Clare.’

‘I’m Bob,’ I said. ‘Hello, Clare.’

‘Hello, Bob.’

‘You know, I didn’t really mean to imply that Jimmy was anything to you,’ I said. ‘He isn’t man enough for you.’

She stopped smiling and, folding her arms, she regarded me for a long time. ‘Bob Boyd, I’ve never known another man who makes my hackles rise the way you do. If you think I judge a man by the way he behaves in a fight you’re dead wrong. The trouble with you is that you’ve got logopaedia – every time you open your mouth you put your foot in it. Now, for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut and get me a drink.’

I moved towards what looked like the drinks cabinet. ‘You shouldn’t steal your wisecracks from the Duke of Edinburgh,’ I said. ‘That’s verging on lèse majesté. What will you have?’

‘Scotch and water – fifty-fifty. You’ll find a good Scotch in there.’

Indeed it was a good Scotch! I lifted out the bottle of Islay Mist reverently and wondered how long ago it was since Hamish McDougall had seen Clare Trinavant. But I said nothing about that. Instead, I kept my big mouth shut as she had advised and poured the drinks.

As I handed her the glass she said, ‘How long have you been in the woods this trip?’

‘Nearly two weeks.’

‘How would you like a hot bath?’

‘Clare, for that you can have my soul,’ I said fervently. Lake water is damned cold and a man doesn’t bathe as often as he should when in the field.

She pointed. ‘Through that door – second door on the left. I’ve put towels out for you.’

I picked up my glass. ‘Mind if I take my drink?’

‘Not at all.’

The bathroom was a wonder to behold. Tiled in white and dark blue, you could have held a convention in there – if that was the kind of convention you had in mind. The bath was sunk into the floor and seemed as big as a swimming-pool, and the water poured steaming out of the faucet. And there was a plenitude of bath towels, each about an acre in extent.

As I lay soaking I thought about a number of things. I thought of the possible reason why Clare Trinavant should bring up the name of Howard Matterson when I brought up the subject of her marriage. I thought of the design of the labels of Scotch, especially on those from the island of Islay. I thought of the curve of Clare Trinavant’s neck as it rose from the collar of her shirt. I thought of a man I had never seen – Bull Matterson – and wondered what he was like in appearance. I thought of the tendril of hair behind Clare Trinavant’s ear.

None of these thoughts got me anywhere in particular, so I got out of the bath and finished the Scotch while I dried myself. As I dressed I became aware of music drifting through the cabin – some cabin! – which drowned out the distant throbbing of a diesel generator, and when I got back to Clare I found her sitting on the floor listening to the last movement of Sibelius’s First Symphony.

She waved me to the drinks cabinet and held up an empty glass, so I gave us both a refill and we sat quietly until the music came to an end. She shivered slightly and pointed to the moonlit view down the valley. ‘I always think the music is describing this.’

‘Finland has pretty much the same scenery as Canada,’ I said. ‘Woods and lakes.’

One eyebrow lifted. ‘Not only a backwoods cavalier, but an educated one.’

I grinned at her. ‘I’ve had a college education, too.’

She coloured a little and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was bitchy, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s all right.’ I waved my hand. ‘What made you build here?’

‘As your mysterious informant has probably told you, I was brought up around here. Uncle John left me this land. I love it, so I built here.’ She paused. ‘And, since you’re so well informed, you probably know that he wasn’t really my uncle.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have only one criticism. Your rifles and shotguns need cleaning more often.’