"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 30 - Dimension Of Horror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

"Long enough, sir."

"Do you like the job?"

"I've no opinion about it, sir."

"No opinion?"

"No, sir. I mind my own business . . " Left unspoken but strongly implied was: Why don't you
mind yours?

J settled back smiling, confident he was with his own kind.

The rain continued. The countryside became wilder and more mountainous and the farms fewer
and farther between. Leaving the main highway, the Rover wound its way upward over roads that
were no longer in good repair, that lapsed at times into little more than mud and bare bedrock.
There was no sign of human habitation now, except for the road itself, not even the herds of
black-faced sheep J had glimpsed earlier, let alone the dour bearded shepherds with their barking
collies.

Gray day shaded into night with no perceptible break before the lighted windows of the
sanitarium finally hove into view. The Rover bounced and jounced through the wide front
gateway and braked to a stop. Through the rain J could with difficulty make out the looming bulk
of an ancient manor, irregular in outline and half-timbered in the Tudor style.

Again J was forced to sprint for shelter, the big chauffeur puffing along protectively by his
elbow. A thick oak door swung wide to admit him, then closed behind him with a hefty thump
that echoed disturbingly in the high-ceilinged vestibule. As the chauffeur went out again into the
storm, a white-suited orderly obligingly closed J's umbrella and helped him out of his wet
raincoat.

A tall white-haired man in a dark tweed suit came forward, hand extended in greeting. "Ah, so
you're the one they call J, the chap everyone whispers about but no one is allowed to speak of.
I'm delighted to see you're an ordinary human being after all."

They shook hands vigorously. J said, "Yes, my ordinariness is England's most closely guarded
secret."

"My name is Dr. Hugh MacMurdo. I'm in charge here, as you no doubt know. You probably
know more about me than I do myself!" He had a trace of a Scotch accent peeping out from
behind his carefully correct BBC standard English. "Copra House phoned to tell me to expect
you. I've had supper kept warm for you. You must be starved!"

"I could do with a bite," J agreed, sniffing the air. "Is that mutton I smell?"
"Indeed it is, old boy. If you've no taste for mutton you've a hungry time ahead of you here. We
eat like regular crofters. Turnips. Oatcakes. Barley scones. And we've a most amazing pudding
the Highlanders call Sowans."

Chattering of trivia, he ushered his guest down a long dim corridor and into a spacious dining hall
where a fire blazed cheerily in a huge stone fireplace. Additional lighting was supplied by