"Mcauley, Paul J - Inheritance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

said, "I thought you might be back, Professor."
Tolley managed a polite smile, told them that his camera had broken and
couldn't be repaired here . . . but he would like some pictures of steeple
Heyston, and wondered if Gerald Beaumont would mind . . . ? He'd thought
this up as he had navigated the country lanes, not a great excuse, but
better than telling the whole truth. If the couple was behind this,
perhaps he could lull them; perhaps they'd commit some obvious error.
Marjory Beaumont said, "Is this important to you?"
"Well, I promised myself I'd take back some pictures of the old ancestral
home. I'll pay whatever it costs, of course."
"I'd be delighted," Gerald Beaumont said. "We'd best hurry to catch the
light."
Tolley saw the look his wife gave him, stern yet at the same time worried.
"Be careful now," she said. "Do be careful."
"Stuff and nonsense," Gerald Beaumont told her amiably. He said to Tolley,
"She had quite a shock last night, I'm afraid."
"I'm sorry if it had anything to do with me," Tolley said disingenuously.
Marjory Beaumont touched her throat and smiled; Tolley saw for an instant
the vivacious girl she had once been. "I know it was nothing conscious on
your part, and we invited you here, after all. So you believe it now,
Professor?"
"I admit to being kind of sceptical before," Tolley said tactfully. He was
wondering if she was trying to con out of him. Maybe something to do with
her son.
She followed them out to the car, watched as Gerald Beaumont fussily
settled his equipment on the backseat. "Take care," she said, then turned
and hurried into the cottage.
As Tolley shifted into first gear, he said, "I hope I haven't upset your
wife."
Gerald Beaumont was fiddling with the seat belt. "She doesn't mean
anything by it. High-strung, you see, and after last night. . . . I'm not
what you'd call a spiritualist, Professor. I've always believed that
there's an explanation behind everything, if you look hard enough. Being
an engineer, you see. But last time we went to Steeple Heyston, you know,
a couple of years ago now, she fainted. Sensitive to atmospheres. D'you
think there's something to the idea that places might be printed by things
that happen there, if you follow me? That would be your ghosts, you see.
Perhaps you acted like a catalyst, your family being from there."
"That was a long time ago." Tolley was tempted to tell Beaumont about his
ransacked hotel room, the stench of burning, the initials in the carpet
pile. But that might blow the whole thing; instead, he pretended to be
intent on driving. Soon, the car was bumping down the track, and he pulled
up in the same place as the previous afternoon.
The air was cold and sharp. Frost still lay in hollows, and a light mist
floated above the water of the divided river. Tolley felt a little
frisson, pure anticipation, when he saw the ruined stub of wall amongst
the scrubby trees on the far bank. He had Beaumont take a couple of
photographs of it, waiting patiently as the older man fussed with his
camera and (of all things in this electronic age) a light meter. The frost
made the contours of the ground easy to read, and Tolley could make out