The Jade God by Alan Sullivan (snow like ashes series txt) 📕

only, veering sometimes to ground where as yet it was trespass to enter, and just as often diverted with a deftness that only added to the growing reality of what they both felt but must not declare. He studied the girl, wanting her the more as moments passed, finding in her the charm that is beyond explanation, delighting in her perception, caressing her with the arms of his spirit, and wondering a little at the strangeness of his own voice. Often in days to come they would remember this meeting and smile at each other.

And Jean, timid lest she show what must not yet be shown, discovered in him a companion of her fancy, a swift interpreter, creative, sensitive, and ambitious, whose nature was fresh and unexhausted. She did not realize how secluded a life had been hers. She only knew that never before had she met a man just like this. And, above all, he made her feel safe.

He walked thoughtfully back to Beech Lodge and, approaching the gates, unconsciously slackened his pace. He pictured the jade god in its hidden cabinet, ominous behind the mellow oak, its creamy fingers resting on its rigid miniature knees. Who had lifted this thing from the place where it should be, and where was that place? It had brought death to Millicent. What would it bring to others? He pictured Perkins, haunting the room of tragic memory that would not let her go. How much more did Perkins see than that to which she had sworn? He pictured Martin, his thick fingers among the rose-trees. What was written on the screen of Martin’s mind, what had jerked him out of the jungle, and why should fear be written on his swarthy face at sight of the stranger of that morning? How could he fear a man he did not know? But he did know him!

Pondering this last, and with the cottage but a few yards ahead, Derrick thought he could hear voices, and stepped close against the high hedge that fronted the grounds of Beech Lodge. Peering through this, he could make out the window of the cottage kitchen, and it was from here that the voices came. There was a little stirring of wind that made it difficult to distinguish anything clearly, but even at this distance it was evident that some kind of heated argument was in progress. Martin was speaking with a stubborn sort of rasp in his tones that carried with it a queer suggestion of nervousness, while the other man talked with a contemptuous lift in his voice as though he reminded the gardener of things he had culpably forgotten. Coming as close as he dared, and, leaning tensely forward, Derrick listened. He could not understand one word.

The men were using some unknown language, sometimes sharp, sometimes liquid, shooting it out with a speed that showed complete familiarity. Into Derrick’s brain flashed his sister’s description of how Perkins had talked in her sleep, and he knew that this was the same tongue. Breathless at the discovery, he listened the more intently. Martin was rapidly getting on the defensive, jabbering a jargon of defiance, in which, however, fear seemed always present. Derrick started at the sound of his own name, then Millicent’s, then Thursby’s. The word “Buddha” was repeated, but always linked to some unintelligible prefix, and never with the usual respect accorded to the god by the Oriental.

What the peddler now said appeared to take the form of some kind of pronouncement as though he were delivering a verdict, framed almost in a mysterious chant that sounded as though it came from an infinite distance. In the middle of this Martin burst forth in a great English oath, to which the stranger replied with one word that came like the hiss of a snake, whereat Martin choked audibly and fell silent. Then Derrick, his brain working like an engine, stepped back on the road, strolled on to the gate at his usual pace, and, turning in, went casually on to the house. No sooner had his foot touched the gravel than instantaneous silence spread in the cottage. And at that he smiled grimly.

Passing directly to the study, he closed the door and, making sure he was not observed from the lawn, opened the oak panel. Inside was the jade god and its waxen copy. Weighing these in either hand, he deliberated a moment; then, putting the original back, he closed the cabinet and dropped the model into his pocket. From the top drawer of the big desk he took a small automatic. Finally, with god and gun balancing each other in their concealment, he lit his pipe and strolled back toward the cottage.

This time he knew he was observed, for, as he neared the gates, Martin emerged from the front of the cottage and touched his cap. His face was of a curiously mottled appearance, and betrayed signs of great tension, but as his eyes met those of his master he pulled himself together and assumed his ordinary gruff though respectful manner. Derrick nodded affably.

“Well, Martin, what do you think of those Lady Hillingdons for next year? I see you’ve been at them.”

“They promise well, sir, but I don’t think so much of the Richmonds.”

“Sorry to hear that. Why not?”

“One thing, they weren’t properly pruned last winter, and for another the mildew’s been at them.”

“You don’t seem to think much of the man who was here last.”

“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact!”

“And what do you make of your visitor of this morning? Does he know anything about flowers?”

“No, sir, flowers aren’t exactly in his line from what I make of him. Queer sort of chap, I should say, but I don’t take it there’s any harm in him.”

“He told me he came from the East. Does he know any of the parts you know?”

“Yes, sir, some.”

“Never happened to come across him before, did you?”

Martin stiffened ever so slightly. “No, sir, never set eyes on him. The