The Hand of the Devil Read Online Free PDF Page B

sipped his tea. ‘An old friend of mine did the same thing with photographs of beautiful women. He insisted they were all ex-girlfriends.’ He laughed out loud. ‘If they were then they must have been after him for something other than his looks. Still, what would I know about women?’
    I suddenly remembered the female voice I’d heard while outside in the porch. ‘Do you live alone here, Mr Mather?’
    ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
    ‘Oh, it’s just that I thought I heard a woman’s voice when I was outside. Was it your television?’
    ‘Heavens, no! I’ve never owned one of those infernal devices.’
    ‘Oh . . . a radio?’
    Mather merely shook his head.
    ‘I must have imagined it then.’
    ‘Don’t worry, Mr Reeves, we all hear voices from time to time. It’s nothing to be concerned about.’
    ‘True.’ I looked back at the picture above the fireplace. ‘You certainly have a steady hand,’ I said.
    ‘Yes. A steady hand and deep concentration come from my days as a surgeon. I’m retired now, but one never loses such skills.’
    ‘Where did you practise?’ I took a bite of sandwich. It was good.
    ‘Guy’s Hospital for the first few years; then I moved back to Charing Cross, where I originally studied. I retired early and moved here to follow my hobby.’
    ‘Etymology?’
    ‘Ah.’ Mather smirked. ‘I think etymology is more your speciality than mine.’
    ‘Mmm?’ I looked up from my sandwich, raising my eyebrows. Then I realized my mistake. ‘Oh, it’s ento mology, of course. I’m always getting those two mixed up.’
    ‘It’s all right – I used to have the same problem, before my fascination with insects. Since then, nearly every book I’ve bought has had “entomology” on the cover. I’d much rather leave the study of language and its complexities to others. I imagine it must seem like quite a fruitless pursuit sometimes, considering how every language is in a constant state of flux.’
    ‘Yes. It’s amazing how fast they can evolve.’
    ‘Ah, evolution,’ Mather said, staring into the fire. ‘Another interest of mine. So simple, yet at the same time so immeasurably complex. It’s taken some pretty big leaps, but in the process has overlooked so much.’
    ‘Overlooked?’ I put the last piece of sandwich into my mouth.
    Mather seemed absorbed in the dancing light from the fire. ‘Well, for example,’ he said, almost in a daze, ‘haven’t you ever wondered why, after all these millennia, our perspiration, while doing its job as well as ever, still smells and still stains our clothes?’
    ‘I can’t say I—’
    ‘And blood – why is it bright red and not transparent like water? Why does it give us away so easily with its pungent aroma. It only makes a predator’s job simpler.’
    ‘Maybe that’s the point,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s nature’s way of keeping a balance. I mean, if predators couldn’t track their prey they’d starve to death. They need some sort of advantage.’
    Mather chuckled to himself and chose not to pursue the subject, but what he said had puzzled me. I was beginning to wonder where all this was leading, and had determined to return to the purpose of my visit when Mather stood up suddenly and took the cups and plate back into the kitchen.
    While the sound of jostling crockery and splashing water came from down the corridor, I went over to one of the shelves of hefty volumes. Large, dry patches had formed on my trousers. It looked as if I was wetting myself in reverse. As a result of the drying, an uncomfortable spate of itching had broken out all over my body. I scratched my knee, then examined a couple of the titles on the shelf in front of me: Manhunters of the Congo Basin by M. Baxter, The Queen of the Hive by Hawke Ellison. One title in particular caught my eye: Her Story by R. H. Occum. The book lay on its side atop a row of similar editions. My curiosity aroused by the title, I picked it up.
    The front cover featured a large pentagram