The Mark of Merlin
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Mark of Merlin». Краткое содержание книги:
Turtle had kept his mouth shut during my tirade. DeLord had ducked his head as if that would help him avoid participating in the tense scene. I saw DeLord tenderly finger the bullet score on his head as if it suddenly bothered him.
“Well,” I said, turning my attack to him, “now how do you think James Carlysle Murdock is adjusting to her father’s death?”
The lieutenant shot me a penetrating look, compounded of surprise and shock. I saw him dart a glance at Laird and then at Turtle. He pulled himself back into the pose he adopted - I was sure now it was a pose - and laughed nervously.
“No comment.”
“Chicken!”
He threw up both hands in a mock defense. “I’ll take krauts any day against a colonel’s daughter.” For the first time I noticed the West Point ring on his finger.
“A typical career man’s remark!” I scoffed. “It just volunteered you for KP. Turtle, we need wood everywhere.”
“Sounds like the colonel, too,” DeLord muttered good-naturedly to Turtle. “Yes, sir, ma’am, sir,” he said, saluting me repeatedly.
“I’ll unload the sled,” the major offered before I could pointedly ignore him in my summary disposition of duties.
“Dinner in an hour, with Yorkshire pudding,” and I cocked a finger at Turtle.
One of the basic facts I had learned from the years with my father was that occasionally men enjoy being ordered around by a woman. Just occasionally. Whether it’s a voluntary return to the status of small, naughty boys or whether it’s just a relief not to have to make decisions, I don’t know. But I often found it worked with my father. However, he was quick enough to inform me when I was out of line, if I did not sense it first.
I seized upon this ploy because I wanted some time to think. I wanted the air to clear between Major Laird and myself, now that the unexpected arrival of DeLord had erased the nice sense of companionship between Turtle, Laird, and me.
Whatever those two said, I could not place Robert De-Lord in Warren’s camp. He was a very cool man and his green eyes missed nothing. I was certain he was sensitive to a lot of what was not being discussed.
The major did not seem to trust him nor want him to know that we suspected Dad had been murdered - there, I could actually think it without wincing - and that all my father’s effects were under this roof. It was compatible with the respect in which my father’s men had held him that they would make the duty call, however painful, on his daughter were they able to. That sufficiently explained DeLord’s reason for seeking me out. I had myself, at Dad’s instigation, made several calls on Boston families of combat fatalities. I had been rather surprised to learn that Mrs. Colonel Warren had also paid such visits. She didn’t live in Boston. I wondered what had got into her. Bucking for Warren’s chicken wings, probably.
In the meantime, I set the lieutenant to peeling potatoes.
“I didn’t really intend to impose on your hospitality, Miss Carlysle.”
“Carla,” I corrected automatically. I couldn’t get that message through to the major but the lieutenant was going to start out right.
“Carla.”
“And don’t give me any nonsense about imposing. If a man has the decency to hunt up his colonel’s daughter, he is entitled to one good meal. Especially when he braves blizzards to pay his respects.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all he said to that but his eyes sparkled.
I didn’t want him to get the idea that I was too stupid to realize he had some double purpose.
“How long is your leave?” I went on, not letting him reform his thoughts.
“Oh, I’m entitled to quite a bit,” he temporized.
“You’re peeling them too thick. Didn’t you learn anything at the Point?”
His grin widened. He concentrated on his peeling.
“I certainly look forward to a piece of your apple pie.” He reverted to his original trend of thought.
“Yes, I’d noticed.”
He stopped peeling a moment, looking at a middle distance as he reflected.
“It’s funny, ma’am, apple pie was one of the things you’re supposed to miss.”
I snorted.
“Actually, what I craved most was an Idaho baked potato!”
“Not hominy grits?”
He gave me a rueful grin. “I keep trying to live down my rebel origins. No, a baked potato, hot and fluffy inside, with buckets of butter!”
“The major must have an ‘in’ with the local cow,” I commented, showing him the wheel of butter.
His eyes widened with delight at such a supply.
“In Europe,” he continued, peeling carefully, “the potatoes are small and yellow. When you can get ‘em at all. Oh, all right in stews and such but they don’t bake.” He turned the potato over in his hand. The russet was not exactly in prime condition nor very large, but the flesh was white. “Your father was a good rough cook. Did you know?”
I snorted. “And who do you think taught him?”
“I got a few days off in October and made for Paree.” I expected him to respond to his reminiscences in some typically military fashion, a smirk, a smile, or a grimace. But he went on, “And, of all people, guess who I met?” He slapped his thigh for emphasis, a gesture entirely out of character, “Who do I run into but Colonel Murdock? Never guessed then he’d be my C.O. in a few weeks’ time. And guess where?”
“You tell me.”
He looked at me squarely for a moment, wonderingly.
“Buying stamps!”
He paused and deliberately finished peeling the potato. I said nothing.
“Yes, ma’am. We were fellow philatelists.” He glanced up at me. “He was lucky that day. He picked up some departing German officer’s abandoned collection. Has it been returned to you?”
He was regarding me squarely, his eyes on mine, his face grave.
“Yes, Lieutenant, it has.” I failed to add that the two onionskin lists were in my pocket, one with his name in pencil at the top.
He heaved a counterfeit sigh of relief. It irritated me beyond measure that he continued this playacting. He must be aware I was not fooled by it.
“I’m very glad, Miss Carla, because I know some of those stamps were valuable. Your father was very pleased to get the French-Chinese 1900 issues.”
That gave me pause for those were some of the items Dad had listed and checked off.
“I was afraid,” the lieutenant continued, concentrating on his potato for a moment, “that it might have gone astray in the shuffle at Division HQ. Or that someone might have offered you a good price for it?” He gave me a quick look.
“The peels are getting thick again,” I remarked caustically.
He paid attention to his peeling.
“Or maybe,” he suggested softly, “you know enough about stamps to realize the collection is valuable?”
“Yes, I do know Dad’s stamps are valuable.”
“The ones he got in France?” and DeLord scanned my face.
“I haven’t gone through them closely but I thank you for the warning. No one will get them without paying a lot for them.”
We were looking directly in each other’s eyes now. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking or what reaction he had been trying to get from me. He was forewarned, at any rate, if his part in all this was devious.
I had a sudden urge to level with Robert DeLord completely. I disliked underhanded dealings and hidden meanings. I liked things open and understood. I preferred to know where I stood with people and I wanted them to know where they were with me. My instinct was to trust DeLord. Dad had. He might even have trusted DeLord with information he didn’t pass on to Turtle or the major for some peculiar reason. He might even have charged DeLord with keeping an eye on Warren - which would account for DeLord’s interest in that man. If Dad had been conscious as DeLord had been bringing him back in the jeep, he might have told DeLord something, even who murdered him. And if DeLord had buddy-buddied Warren maybe there was a damned good reason. It would certainly explain DeLord’s line of questioning as well as his efforts to reach me. And the major? Oh, no. No!