Goddess of Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

occasion turned out to be all that Arnold had expected, and dreaded. A magnificent oak-panelled room with early sculpted cornices and ceiling roses but peopled by a horde of individuals who were bent on inane conversation, banal discussions, drifting towards people who were Something in Northern social circles and wives who clung fiercely to their husbands whenever Karen made a casual appearance at their sides. Arnold managed to wedge himself with his drink in a fairly isolated corner of the room and watch Karen do her butterfly impression. She rarely stayed long in any one small group, but recognized other acquaintances and moved on, smiling, touching arms discreetly, flattering, but never losing her poise or confidence. Her dress was stunning: a low-cut, pale-blue sheath that showed off her magnificent gleaming shoulders and the slenderness of her upper arms. Arnold was amused to note how when she was talking to a man his eyes could not remain on hers but slipped towards the promise of her bosom.
    He was forced to offer some conversation from time to time with people he neither knew nor desired to cultivate, but was soon relieved to be given up for lost by anyone with a penchant for social climbing and he managed to remain, disregarded in his corner, for much of the duration of the cocktail party. He caught glimpses of the Minister of Industry from time to time: Alan Stacey was in his element, fortyish, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome , assured, graceful in his movement, accommodating in his welcome. It was inevitable, of course, that he would be surrounded by a shifting population of political hangers-on and celebrity wannabes, with a
coterie
of civil servants from his department carefully bringing in appropriate individuals whohad expressed a desire to be introduced. Arnold stayed well in the background. But after a while he noted that in the shifting satellite around Stacey one person seemed to be almost permanently at the politician’s side. She was about twenty-four, Arnold guessed: black-haired and dark-eyed, her lips challengingly red, her
décolletage
almost daring, her laughing confidence high among the slavish group attracted perhaps as much by her as by the politician. He wondered who she might be.
    As for their host, Arnold caught a brief glimpse of the man he took to be Stanislaus Kovlinski. He was well into his sixties, tall, keen-eyed, slimly built and slightly stooped, with an air that could be described only as predatory. His cheeks were hollow; his grey hair was slicked back from his high forehead and his eyes were protected by heavy brows. He prowled the fringes of the groups on soft feet. He clearly had no desire to hold court in the manner in which Alan Stacey MP comported himself. He drifted almost surreptitiously at the fringes of the crowded room. His conversation was briefly completed with any one person. At one point, shortly before dinner was announced, his sharp glance caught Arnold’s and for a moment it seemed he was going to come forward to speak, but after a momentary hesitation he turned away and shortly afterwards disappeared. Arnold was relieved.
    He had no idea what he would find to say to a Russian oil magnate.
    At dinner Arnold was seated next to Karen but she occupied herself with the guest on her left, a whipcord-featured minor politician with a braying Whitehall laugh. Arnold thought he might have seen him on television sometime. The black-haired girl Arnold had noticed earlier was seated next to Alan Stacey; the centrally seated presence of the host confirmed to Arnold that the prowling, somehow disconnected man at the cocktail party was indeed Stanislaus Kovlinski. His behaviour at the dinner table matched his performance before dinner: he waswatchful, sparing with his conversation, and, Arnold guessed, was somewhat irritated about something. From the way he occasionally glanced at the black-haired woman seated beside Stacey, Arnold finally concluded she must be Kovlinski’s