Nicholson THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-80-272-4397-6
Verlag: Musaicum Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 221 Seiten

Meredith Nicholson's 'The House of a Thousand Candles' is a riveting mystery novel that follows the story of John Glenarm as he inherits his eccentric uncle's estate, only to uncover hidden secrets and unexpected twists. Written in a Gothic style typical of the early 20th century, the book combines elements of romance, suspense, and intrigue to create a captivating narrative that keeps readers on the edge of their seats. Nicholson's descriptive prose and vivid storytelling transport readers to the eerie atmosphere of the mysterious mansion, making 'The House of a Thousand Candles' a truly immersive reading experience. The novel's exploration of themes such as family legacy, love, and betrayal adds depth and complexity to the plot, making it a timeless classic in the genre of mystery fiction. Meredith Nicholson, a prominent American author and diplomat, drew inspiration from his own experiences and observations to craft 'The House of a Thousand Candles'. His background in law and politics provided him with a unique perspective that is reflected in the novel's intricate plot and well-developed characters. Nicholson's ability to blend thrilling suspense with insightful social commentary showcases his talent as a versatile storyteller who masterfully combines entertainment with thought-provoking themes. I highly recommend 'The House of a Thousand Candles' to readers who enjoy classic mystery novels with a touch of romance and a captivating storyline. Nicholson's skillful writing and engaging narrative make this book a must-read for anyone looking for a thrilling and immersive literary experience.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Nicholson, Meredith

Leseproben

CHAPTER II
A FACE AT SHERRY’S

Table of Contents

“Don’t mention my name an thou lovest me!” said Laurance Donovan, and he drew me aside, ignored my hand and otherwise threw into our meeting a casual quality that was somewhat amazing in view of the fact that we had met last at Cairo.

“Allah il Allah!”

It was undoubtedly Larry. I felt the heat of the desert and heard the camel-drivers cursing and our Sudanese guides plotting mischief under a window far away.

“Well!” we both exclaimed interrogatively.

He rocked gently back and forth, with his hands in his pockets, on the tile floor of the banking-house. I had seen him stand thus once on a time when we had eaten nothing in four days — it was in Abyssinia, and our guides had lost us in the worst possible place — with the same untroubled look in his eyes.

“Please don’t appear surprised, or scared or anything, Jack,” he said, with his delicious intonation. “I saw a fellow looking for me an hour or so ago. He’s been at it for several months; hence my presence on these shores of the brave and the free. He’s probably still looking, as he’s a persistent devil. I’m here, as we may say, quite incog. Staying at an East-side lodging-house, where I shan’t invite you to call on me. But I must see you.”

“Dine with me to-night, at Sherry’s — ”

“Too big, too many people — ”

“Therein lies security, if you’re in trouble. I’m about to go into exile, and I want to eat one more civilized dinner before I go.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well. Where are you off for, — not Africa again?”

“No. Just Indiana, — one of the sovereign American states, as you ought to know.”

“Indians?”

“No; warranted all dead.”

“Pack-train — balloon — automobile — camels, — how do you get there?”

“Varnished ears. It’s easy. It’s not the getting there; it’s the not dying of ennui after you’re on the spot.”

“Humph! What hour did you say for the dinner?”

“Seven o’clock. Meet me at the entrance.”

“If I’m at large! Allow me to precede you through the door, and don’t follow me on the street please!”

He walked away, his gloved hands clasped lazily behind him, lounged out upon Broadway and turned toward the Battery. I waited until he disappeared, then took an up-town car.

My first meeting with Laurance Donovan was in Constantinople, at a café where I was dining. He got into a row with an Englishman and knocked him down. It was not my affair, but I liked the ease and definiteness with which Larry put his foe out of commission. I learned later that it was a way he had. The Englishman meant well enough, but he could not, of course, know the intensity of Larry’s feeling about the unhappy lot of Ireland. In the beginning of my own acquaintance with Donovan I sometimes argued with him, but I soon learned better manners. He quite converted me to his own notion of Irish affairs, and I was as hot an advocate as he of head-smashing as a means of restoring Ireland’s lost prestige.

My friend, the American consul-general at Constantinople, was not without a sense of humor, and I easily enlisted him in Larry’s behalf. The Englishman thirsted for vengeance and invoked all the powers. He insisted, with reason, that Larry was a British subject and that the American consul had no right to give him asylum, — a point that was, I understand, thoroughly well-grounded in law and fact. Larry maintained, on the other hand, that he was not English but Irish, and that, as his country maintained no representative in Turkey, it was his privilege to find refuge wherever it was offered. Larry was always the most plausible of human beings, and between us, — he, the American consul and I, — we made an impression, and got him off.

I did not realize until later that the real joke lay in the fact that Larry was English-born, and that his devotion to Ireland was purely sentimental and quixotic. His family had, to be sure, come out of Ireland some time in the dim past, and settled in England; but when Larry reached years of knowledge, if not of discretion, he cut Oxford and insisted on taking his degree at Dublin. He even believed, — or thought he believed, — in banshees. He allied himself during his university days with the most radical and turbulent advocates of a separate national existence for Ireland, and occasionally spent a month in jail for rioting. But Larry’s instincts were scholarly; he made a brilliant record at the University; then, at twenty-two, he came forth to look at the world, and liked it exceedingly well. His father was a busy man, and he had other sons; he granted Larry an allowance and told him to keep away from home until he got ready to be respectable. So, from Constantinople, after a tour of Europe, we together crossed the Mediterranean in search of the flesh-pots of lost kingdoms, spending three years in the pursuit. We parted at Cairo on excellent terms. He returned to England and later to his beloved Ireland, for he had blithely sung the wildest Gaelic songs in the darkest days of our adventures, and never lost his love for The Sod, as he apostrophized — and capitalized — his adopted country.

Larry had the habit of immaculateness. He emerged from his East-side lodging-house that night clothed properly, and wearing the gentlemanly air of peace and reserve that is so wholly incompatible with his disposition to breed discord and indulge in riot. When we sat down for a leisurely dinner at Sherry’s we were not, I modestly maintain, a forbidding pair. We — if I may drag myself into the matter — are both a trifle under the average height, sinewy, nervous, and, just then, trained fine. Our lean, clean-shaven faces were well-browned — mine wearing a fresh coat from my days on the steamer’s deck.

Larry had never been in America before, and the scene had for both of us the charm of a gay and novel spectacle. I have always maintained, in talking to Larry of nations and races, that the Americans are the handsomest and best put-up people in the world, and I believe he was persuaded of it that night as we gazed with eyes long unaccustomed to splendor upon the great company assembled in the restaurant. The lights, the music, the variety and richness of the costumes of the women, the many unmistakably foreign faces, wrought a welcome spell on senses inured to hardship in the waste and dreary places of earth.

“Now tell me the story,” I said. “Have you done murder? Is the offense treasonable?”

“It was a tenants’ row in Galway, and I smashed a constable. I smashed him pretty hard, I dare say, from the row they kicked up in the newspapers. I lay low for a couple of weeks, caught a boat to Queenstown, and here I am, waiting for a chance to get back to The Sod without going in irons.”

“You were certainly born to be hanged, Larry. You’d better stay in America. There’s more room here than anywhere else, and it’s not easy to kidnap a man in America and carry him off.”

“Possibly not; and yet the situation isn’t wholly tranquil,” he said, transfixing a bit of pompano with his fork. “Kindly note the florid gentleman at your right — at the table with four — he’s next the lady in pink. It may interest you to know that he’s the British consul.”

“Interesting, but not important. You don’t for a moment suppose — ”

“That he’s looking for me? Not at all. But he undoubtedly has my name on his tablets. The detective that’s here following me around is pretty dull. He lost me this morning while I was talking to you in the bank. Later on I had the pleasure of trailing him for an hour or so until he finally brought up at the British consul’s office. Thanks; no more of the fish. Let us banish care. I wasn’t born to be hanged; and as I’m a political offender, I doubt whether I can be deported if they lay hands on me.”

He watched the bubbles in his glass dreamily, holding it up in his slim well-kept fingers.

“Tell me something of your own immediate present and future,” he said.

I made the story of my Grandfather Glenarm’s legacy as brief as possible, for brevity was a definite law of our intercourse.

“A year, you say, with nothing to do but fold your hands and wait. It doesn’t sound awfully attractive to me. I’d rather do without the money.”

“But I intend to do some work. I owe it to my grandfather’s memory to make good, if there’s any good in me.”

“The sentiment is worthy of you, Glenarm,” he said mockingly. “What do you see — a ghost?”

I must have started slightly at espying suddenly Arthur Pickering not twenty feet away. A party of half a dozen or more had risen, and Pickering and a girl were detached from the others for a moment.

She was young, — quite the youngest in the group about Pickering’s table. A certain girlishness of height and outline may have been emphasized by her juxtaposition to Pickering’s heavy figure. She was in black, with white showing at neck and wrists, — a somber contrast to the other women of the party, who were arrayed with a degree of splendor. She had dropped her fan, and Pickering stooped to pick it up. In the second that she waited she turned carelessly toward me, and our eyes met for an instant. Very likely she was Pickering’s sister, and I tried to reconstruct his family, which I had known in my youth; but I could not place her. As she walked out before him my eyes followed her, — the erect figure, free and graceful, but with a charming dignity and poise, and...