"Katherine Kurtz - Adept 02 - The Lodge of the Lynx" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

at the edge of a bleak escarpment, the glancing rays of the morning sun picked out the bluish roof slates and
Gothic-arched windows of a Victorian manor house, poised breathlessly above a rushing cataract of white
water.
The chopper followed the contour of the river as it made for the house, its shadow ghosting along the valley
floor. It surged upward just before the cataract, circling once around the great central tower before settling like
a wasp on the grass of the walled forecourt.
The pilot cut the rotors and got out of the chopper, rangy and economic of movement, barely ducking under
the decelerating sweep of the blades as he came around to open the door for his passenger. He wore the
brown leather flying jacket and scruffy peaked cap affected by military pilots half a century before, but
sunlight flashed briefly off thoroughly modern mirrored sunglasses.
The man who alighted from the passenger seat was pale and slender by comparison, with silky fair hair going
thin at the top and brushed back at the sides. By his dress, he might have been anything from a successful
barrister to a university professor. The well-cut topcoat suggested the former, thought it might have been
within the budget of a very senior university lecturer; the suit beneath it spoke more of Saville Row than the
halls of academia.
In fact, Francis Raeburn dabbled in both areas of enterprise - and had made his fortune in neither. When
pressed as to the source of his not inconsiderable wealth, it was his wont merely to smile and look
inscrutable, murmuring vaguely about prudent investments, an indulgent bank manager, and the hint of family
money.
The light grey eyes were even more inscrutable than usual as he stood motionless on the lawn, silently
contemplating the Gothic grandeur of the house. Behind him, the pilot stretched back into the cockpit to
retrieve an expensive leather document case, which he handed over to his employer with a deferential nod.
"Anything else, Mr. Raeburn?"
The man called Raeburn shook his head distractedly and tucked the case under his arm, his attention now
focused on the upper reaches of the tower.
"Not for now, Mr. Barclay. Consider yourself at liberty for the next hour or so, but don't wander too far. In fact,
you might head down to the kitchen and see if Cook can provide something for that insatiable sweet tooth of
yours."
At his glance and bemused half-smile, the pilot grinned and sketched his employer an appreciative salute.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Raeburn!"
As the man leaned back into the chopper to make certain everything was properly switched off, Raeburn set
off briskly across the lawn toward the house. The front door opened as he approached, a man in what looked
like a white monk's robe greeting him with a nod that was almost a bow. Without speaking, the man ushered
him respectfully through the entrance lobby and into a long corridor panelled in oak. Off the corridor to the left,
an interior door gave access to a small cloakroom, where another open-fronted robe of white wool was
hanging next to a full-length mirror.
Raeburn shrugged himself out of his topcoat and suit-jacket, handing them into the care of the waiting acolyte
before sitting briefly on a small stool to remove his shoes and socks. He donned the white robe over his shirt
and trousers, retrieved his document case, then allowed the acolyte to lead him back out into the main
corridor.
A steep turnpike stair at the far end took them up to a circular landing with doors on two sides. The acolyte
knocked at the south door, waited for a word of acknowledgement from within, then admitted Raeburn to the
opulent confines of a Victorian library.
The south wall of the library was dominated by a great bay window, its upper panels worked in stained glass
and grey-patterned grisaille. Sunlight spilling in from outside laid jewel-like splashes of color on the floor
across a rich array of Oriental rugs. Where the walls were not lined with bookshelves, a patterned paper of
crimson and gold echoed drapes of a heavy, antique damask swagged to either side of the bay.
At the center of the room, silhouetted dark against the bright window, stood a broad mahogany library table,
its scrolled legs decorated in ornamental boulle-work. Seated at the head of the table, in the deep velvet
comfort of a heavily-padded wing-back armchair, was the old man Raeburn had come to see.