The Pendragon Legend by Szerb Antal

Author:Szerb, Antal [Szerb, Antal]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781906548520
Publisher: Perseus Books Group
Published: 2007-08-30T16:00:00+00:00

The Earl was present at breakfast the next morning. He had also invited the Rev Dafyd Jones. Everyone else bore signs of sleeplessness, especially Cynthia. The black rings around her eyes and her extreme paleness against the dark dress made her intensely attractive to me. She was again the legendary Lady of the Castle, hounded by the strange misfortune of her family.

The Earl told the vicar about the events leading up to Maloney’s death: the deep suspicion he was under, his inability to produce any defence, his escape on the motorbike and secret return by night, his attempt to break into the Earl’s rooms, his fall from the second storey and the horrible manner of his dying. Though no one knew what his religious affiliation was, the Earl ordered an Anglican burial, to take place that very day, and delegated the arrangements to Osborne. No one knew of any family or friends, as Maloney had never mentioned any, and Rogers advised that he had received no letters during his stay at Llanvygan.

The Earl also repeated his request to me to carry out what we had agreed the day before, and to do so without delay. It then occurred to us that we couldn’t catalogue the Persian codices, as planned, since neither of us knew Persian. We could understand nothing beyond the pictures. He suggested that I should select the five that seemed from their illustrations to be the oldest and most valuable, and take them to London.

I did this, and packed my bags. We had lunch, and I took my leave of the Earl, promising him that I would return with the manuscript as soon as I could.

Next came the touching farewell to Cynthia. It was our first parting. Choking with emotion and British reserve, she stammered:

“I do hope you’ve enjoyed your stay with us … ” And we were both overcome by an embarrassment that conveyed more than eloquence.

I arrived in London that evening, at my little hotel among the endless rows of similar establishments around the British Museum. Having unpacked, I went down to the dining room to face the compulsory roast beef and the gruesome vegetables that always accompanied it.

After the meal I sat gloomily stirring an orange liquid and debating whether the inability of the English to make a decent cup of coffee was the result of Puritanical Methodist inhibition, when a hand—the heavy hand of a stone statue—descended on my shoulder.

I looked up and discovered an old acquaintance standing over me. I felt mildly pleased to see her. It was Lene Kretzsch, who was studying history at Oxford on a Prussian state scholarship. Her vacations were usually spent in London, working in the British Museum, during which time she would stay at my hotel. As a fellow-researcher in the Reading Room I was a sort of colleague, and we were good friends.

However, I also went in some trepidation of her. If I felt low I would avoid going back to the hotel for supper in case she joined me for a beer afterwards.

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