The Devil's Mask Read Online Free PDF Page A

now,’ Carthy’s tone softened. ‘You’ve done what was asked of us. If these are your findings, so be it. We’ll report them to Mr Orton and he can decide what to do. Who knows, he may even be of your persuasion.’
    Carthy had advanced to the window and was feigning interest in the limited view it gave of the street. The pretence, coupled with his ‘so be it’, further unsettled me. I ran my finger around the inside of my collar. I had not mentioned my father by name to Carthy. Why? Because his involvement was not strictly relevant. If anything, since my father had last cleared the Company’s debts, he appeared in the best light. Did he not? Regardless, it was one thing to have chosen not to work for the family business, quite another to strew obstacles in its path. I would hold fire until I’d spoken with Father himself about the matter.
    Anne wandered into the office now, a tube of rolled paper pressed to her eye. Carthy’s brows immediately unfolded at the sight of her.
    â€˜What’s that you’ve got?’
    â€˜A telescope.’
    â€˜Do you mean to inspect Inigo with it?’ the lawyer asked,gathering his daughter up. ‘Or were you going to lend it to him, the more closely to examine his case with?’
    Again I stiffened in my chair.
    â€˜Neither. It’s for you. To look at the moon with,’ Anne said.
    Carthy picked up his daughter under one arm and squeezed her like a set of bagpipes. She duly squealed. He said, ‘We need to go and practise your piano playing,’ to her. And to me: ‘It would be useful if your final reckoning of the sum outstanding could incorporate whatever the Company owes in respect of the last ship, the Belsize . Attend to that.’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Then begin again with the rest of the dock records. The crate will no doubt furnish further … anomalies.’ He squeezed a further chirrup from Anne and turned away, muttering, ‘Hours of fun.’

Six
    That evening I went home. I did not take Carthy’s rickety coach, preferring to walk despite the bank of grey cloud which had overrun the clear sky at lunchtime and now pulsed with fine drizzle. A veil of droplets too small to see swept across my face and clung to the wool of my greatcoat and beaded in my hair. I put my head down up the steep hill of Park Street, towards the great house in which I grew up, the home my father commissioned beside Brandon Hill on his return from the West Indies some twenty-one years ago.
    Nothing much about the house, inside or out, has altered in at least fourteen years, not since my stepmother, Clarissa, died. Shucking off my coat, I took stock. The worn tiles of the hall floor hadn’t moved. Nor had the mahogany chest which squatted upon them, or the silver candlesticks which stood sentry on its dull lid. The portrait of my grandfather astride his black horse still hung on the landing wall. I ran my hands through the damp tangle of my hair, thinking: the house is too big, that’s the problem. Carthy’s place in town may be taller, but Bright House is wider, squarer, deeper, never mind the stables and grounds. It’s too spread out. That’s why Carthy’s place feels full but home has always felt empty, even before Clarissa died.
    More sameness washed over me: the familiar sound of Sebastian playing the piano upstairs. As a child, my youngestbrother played piano to soothe a nervous disposition. Father even credited the instrument with having cured his stutter. I wiped my feet on the faded hall rug and made my way up to the music room. The door stood ajar. I glimpsed the paleness of Sebastian’s neck, his fair head bent over the keys.
    â€˜Where is everyone?’ I asked.
    He looked up, shrugged and said, ‘You’re staying for dinner though? They’ll no doubt be here then.’
    â€˜Father keeping you busy?’
    â€˜The work does that by itself. It’s not called