|
|
I stared into the middle distance, ignoring the diners at the tables around me, musing on the nature of Goblin magic ancient and modern, and on its recent impact on my clients. When Lady Strowan Westwood died she was already so famous that she would never be forgotten in a thousand years: as a stage star of great beauty and talent, and as a society hostess of considerable charm and warmth. It was obvious that people always liked her, many genuinely loved her - that word was not too strong a declaration for the emotion which Tibbermore felt for his mistress, I was sure - even at the shortest of acquaintance. Hells, even crabby and cynical old Private Eye Findo Gask was taken in by her charms over the few courses of a single dinner, won over by the slightly racy stories and anecdotes of an old and infirm lady. Even her final act, her memoirs, were part of her desire for some kind of immortality. She must have spent months labouring over them, with Tibbermore's help, to put together a work - now forever unfinished - for people to read and enjoy, and to remember her by. She wanted to live in her readers' memories for ever. All this was all the more remarkable since she had a choice, a conscious moral decision she had made, one not available to almost everybody. In the years after that meeting - was it really a chance encounter? - at the ball, she must have fully understood the import of what she had been told. Perhaps she even experimented with it, wearing it for a while to see if it had the magical properties as advertised. She must have discovered the truth. And then, to her credit, she elected to live a life of normal extent - perhaps three centuries for healthy Goblins - with people around her loving her, growing old naturally, becoming weak and wrinkled and crippled. And always with the temptation of the necklace to give her eternal life and beauty. She was a remarkable lady. Rousing myself, I picked up my beerglass and raised it in a silent toast to Lady Strowan Westwood. I swallowed the last of my beer and placed the glass back on the table. Then I carefully sorted and re-wrapped the manuscript in the brown paper. The document was dynamite, absolute dynamite. I needed to stash it somewhere safe and out of the way. I had a few ideas on that score. I kept Tibbermore's cover note separate, folding it and slipping it into an inside pocket. That might come in handy. The I stood up, threw a few bills on the tablecloth and nodded my thanks in the direction of the proprietor who was hovering discreetly some distance away, and made a swift exit.
|
Part 59