David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию без сокращений). В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Жанр: Исторический детектив, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.

Death Called to the Bar: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Death Called to the Bar»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Death Called to the Bar — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Death Called to the Bar», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

‘Lord Powerscourt.’ The receptionist was waving him through to the holy of holies. The woman before him in the queue seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps she had been eaten by one of the lions. Dr Cavendish’s consulting room had two huge windows looking out into the garden. The decoration on these walls could not have been more different from the waiting room. Here reproductions of the religious masterpieces of the Renaissance held sway. Powerscourt thought he recognized a Filippo Lippi Annunciation from San Lorenzo in Florence, a crucifixion by Tintoretto and the Noli Me Tangere from the Accademia Gallery in Venice.

‘Good morning, Lord Powerscourt. How may I be of service?’

Rivers Cavendish was a small thin man, with white hair, a tightly trimmed white beard and a nervous way of looking about him. If you were feeling unkind, Powerscourt said to himself, you could describe him as a frightened rabbit. All he needed was the tail.

‘My business is personal rather than professional, Dr Cavendish, but before we get down to details, may I ask if you were responsible for the remarkable collection of wild life in your waiting room? I was most impressed.’

The little man roared with laughter. ‘My goodness me, Lord Powerscourt, what a compliment you pay me! I’m afraid that was my predecessor in these rooms. He was always going to Africa and shooting things. It was the death of him in the end, mind you. He went on one final expedition and missed his shot. Rather than his taking the lion, the lion took him instead. Not very much of him left at the end, the native bearers said, certainly not enough to bring home.’

Powerscourt thought the story of his predecessor’s unhappy demise seemed to bring great pleasure to the little man. ‘My business, Dr Cavendish, concerns the death of a barrister called Alex Dauntsey, poisoned at a feast at Queen’s Inn, and the subsequent shooting of his colleague Mr Stewart. Perhaps you are aware of the business, Dr Cavendish?’

The doctor bowed. ‘My wife has told me all she knows, Lord Powerscourt. And I believe she has spoken at length to you, is that so?’

‘It is indeed, Dr Cavendish. I hope you will forgive me if I begin with a most unusual question. It is not meant to sound rude, I have no wish to pry into your affairs, but it is something which would, if true, colour every other facet of our conversation. Your wife tells me you have but a short time to live. Pardon me, Dr Cavendish, but is that true?’

The doctor’s reaction was the last one Powerscourt would have expected. He smiled, no, he beamed with pleasure.

‘It is indeed, Lord Powerscourt. Three months left, maybe a bit less. I’m afraid I don’t wish to go into the details of my condition in any way, but that is the time I have left, thank God.’

Powerscourt was astonished at the attitude of the little man. ‘Dr Cavendish,’ he said, with a puzzled frown on his face, ‘most people grow fearful, apprehensive, terrified sometimes at the prospect of death. You look delighted. May I ask why?’

‘Of course,’ the doctor said. ‘I believe.’

‘You believe?’

‘I believe in the Anglican faith. Always have.’

‘One God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth and of all things visible and invisible?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten son of God, who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven and was made man and was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate?’

‘Totally. You left quite a bit out there by the way, or you’ve forgotten your Creed.’

‘And the third day he rose again according to the Scriptures, and ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of the Father and he shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the dead?’

‘Completely.’

‘One Catholic and Apostolic Church?’

‘Yes.’

‘One Baptism for the remission of sins?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you look for the Resurrection of the dead?’

‘I do,’ said Dr Cavendish, ‘and the life of the world to come.’

‘Christ!’ said Powerscourt.

‘Him too.’

‘God bless my soul,’ said Powerscourt, leaning back in his chair. ‘No sad cadences from Dover Beach for you then, Dr Cavendish.’

‘“Dover Beach”. . .’ You could see the little man’s brain pursuing the poem as if it were some erratic tumour. ‘Author Matthew Arnold, most moving and famous verses about the loss of faith in Victorian England.’ He closed his eyes for a second. ‘The eternal note of sadness in the movement of the waves, heard by Sophocles long ago, reminding him of the turbid ebb and flow of human misery,

‘The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar . . .’

‘Let me tell you a little story about “Dover Beach”, doctor, if I may,’ said Powerscourt. ‘It concerns a young man reading for the Anglican priesthood at one of those Oxford theological colleges. After a year or two, the young man becomes afflicted by doubt. Did God create man or did man create God? Book of Genesis can’t be true if the geologists are right. Creation story can’t be true if Darwin is right, can one person be man and God, the usual cocktail of doubt. And he is terribly affected by “Dover Beach”. If he can only recite the poem on Dover Beach itself, at the evening time mentioned at the start of the poem, he says to himself, then surely his doubts will be resolved. So, he takes the evening train bound for Maidstone, Ashford, Canterbury, Dover. By Ashford or thereabouts the young man is word perfect on the verses. There he is at last on the beach. He advances to the water’s edge and begins his recital in his most powerful voice. I should say that the wind is coming in fairly hard from the Channel at this point so the Matthew Arnold is being carried back towards the town. By the end he is nearly in tears with the beauty of the words and the idea that this world which seems a land of dreams,

‘Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.’

‘What happened to him, Lord Powerscourt?’ said the doctor eagerly. ‘Did his faith come back?’

‘I’m afraid his faith didn’t come back, doctor. What came instead were two burly members of the Kent Constabulary who were on patrol looking out for smugglers. They heard these, to them very strange, words and couldn’t decide whether the young man was a lunatic or not. They clapped him in the cells for the night – would you believe an explanation like his must have been? – and he was bound over to keep the peace by the magistrate the next morning for a period of thirty days. They say that by the time he got to Maidstone on his return journey, his faith had completely disappeared.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Very fine story, Lord Powerscourt. But no Dover Beach for me. I still believe. I believe I shall see God. I believe I shall be reunited with my dead parents and my dead first wife. Now, how can I help you?’

‘Could I ask where you were on the evening of Friday, the 28th of February?’

‘The evening poor Mr Dauntsey was murdered, you mean? Well, I was here in my consulting rooms until the early evening. I’m sure my secretary could give you the name of the last patient on that day. That would have been about five or half past five. Then I made some notes for an address I had to give at a conference in Oxford the following day. At seven o’clock or thereabouts I took a cab to Paddington station and the train to Oxford. I’m sure Wilfrid Baverstock, the Professor of Medicine who was organizing this conference, will vouch for the time I arrived at his college, Hertford, shortly after nine, I think.’

Читать дальше
Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Death Called to the Bar»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Death Called to the Bar» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё непрочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «Death Called to the Bar»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Death Called to the Bar» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.

x