"Christopher Priest - The Prestige" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

When I next looked towards the gates I discovered they were opening silently from some
remote command, so I climbed back into the car and took it up the sloping, gravelled drive. This
curved as it went up the hill, with a lawn rising in a shallow convex on one side. Ornamental trees
and shrubs had been planted at intervals, drooping in the veils of misty rain. On the lower side
were thick clumps of dark-leafed rhododendron bushes. In the rear-view mirror I noticed the
gates closing behind me as I drove out of sight of them. The main house soon came into view: it
was a huge and unattractive building of four or five main storeys, with black slate roofs and solid-
looking walls of sombre dark-brown brick and stone. The windows were tall and narrow, and
blankly reflected the rain-laden sky. The place gave me a cold, grim feeling, yet even as I drove
towards the part of the drive made over as a car park I felt my brother's presence in me once
again, urging me on.
I saw a Visitors this Way sign, and followed it along a gravel path against the main wall of the
house, dodging the drips from the thickly growing ivy. I pushed open a door and went into a
narrow hallway, one that smelt of ancient wood and dust, reminding me of the Lower Corridor in
the school I had been to. This building had the same institutional feeling, but unlike my school
was steeped in silence.
I saw a door marked Reception, and knocked. When there was no answer I put my head
around the door, but the room was empty. There were two old-looking metal desks, on one of
which was perched a computer.
Hearing footsteps I returned to the hallway, and a few moments later a thin middle-aged
woman appeared at the turn of the stairs. She was carrying several envelope wallet files. Her feet
made a loud sound on the uncarpeted wooden steps, and she looked enquiringly at me when she
saw me there.
"I'm looking for Mrs Holloway," I said. "Are you she?"
"Yes, I am. How may I help you?"
There was no trace of the American accent I had half-expected.
"My name is Andrew Westley, and I'm from the _Chronicle_." I showed her my press card,
but she merely glanced at it. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about Father
Franklin."
"Father Franklin is in California at present."
"So I believe, but there was the incident last week--"
"Which one do you mean?" said Mrs Holloway.
"I understand Father Franklin was seen here."
She shook her head slowly. She was standing with her back to the door which led into her
office. "I think you must be making a mistake, Mr Westley."
"Did you see Father Franklin when he was here?" I said.
"I did not. Nor was he here." She was starting to stonewall me, which was the last thing I had
expected. "Have you been in touch with our Press Office?"
"Are they here?"
"We have an office in London. All press interviews are arranged through them."


6
 "I was told to come here."
"By our Press Officer?"
"No . . . I understood a request was sent to the _Chronicle_, after Father Franklin made an
appearance. Are you denying that that happened?"
"Do you mean the sending of the request? No one here has been in contact with your
newspaper. If you mean am I denying the appearance of Father Franklin, the answer is yes."
We stared at each other. I was torn between irritation with her and frustration at myself.