The Djinn by Graham Masterton Page B

she stepped rather
mechanically into the drawing room. “We’ve been for a walk.”
    “Are you
feeling okay?” asked Anna. “You look a little tired.”
    Marjorie passed
a black-gloved hand lightly over her forehead. “Yes,” she said. “I am tired.”
    Miss Johnson
came into the room and stood awkwardly beside Marjorie, like an ugly daughter
who is constantly aware that her mother outshines her.
    “Mrs. Greaves,”
whispered Miss Johnson. “I’ll make your milk.”
    “Thank you,”
said Marjorie. “Would you like some milk, Harry?”
    I glanced at
Anna and frowned. There seemed to be something wrong with Marjorie, something
more than regret and exhaustion. She stood there stiff and immobile; her dark
eyes seemed to be focused miles and miles away. Or perhaps it was years and
years.”
    “I... er...
think I’ll skip the milk, thanks,” I said uncomfortably. “I’m a Jack Daniels
man myself.”
    I attempted a
small chuckle, but it sounded very flat in that vast mournful drawing room.
    Marjorie didn’t
seem to have heard me. She walked across to the old settee and sat down in the
same place I had imagined the hooded figure was sitting. I coughed, hefted the
pick in my hand, and said, “Oh, well, it’s time to start work. This won’t take
long.”
    Marjorie looked
up. “Where are you going with that?” she asked coldly.
    I frowned.
“Er... upstairs.”
    “To open the
turret?” asked Marjorie.
    “That’s right.
I mean, when you said it was sealed up, you weren’t kidding. All we have to do
is...”
    “Take it back.”
    I blinked. This
was a Marjorie I hadn’t seen before. She was composed and frigid and
authoritarian. Maybe the grief and shock of Max’s sudden death had gotten through
to her at last.
    “Marjorie,’ I
said patiently, “If we’re going to open the turret and remove the jar, we’re
going to have to break the door down. There’s no other way. That door has iron
bars, a wax seal, and God knows what else.”
    “We’re not
going to open the turret and get the jar out,” said Marjorie. “The jar must be
allowed to stay where it is.”
    “Marjorie, what
are you saying? That jar has been upsetting you and Max for years, and I really
believe that-”
    “What you
believe is not important,” interrupted Marjorie. “I appreciate your interest,
Harry, and yours, Miss Modena, but now I’m tired, and I would like you to go.”
    “Marjorie-”
    Miss Johnson
interrupted me. “It’s been a difficult day for Mrs. Greaves, sir. I think she’s
right.”
    “I couldn’t
care less what you think,” I said. “There’s something weird about that jar and
it needs to be looked at. I don’t care if it’s natural or supernatural, it’s
unhealthy. Jesus, Marjorie, it’s bad enough taking all
the pictures down, without giving free room and board to a goddamned pot.”
    Miss Johnson
almost seemed to flinch. “Sir,” she said, “you don’t have to-”
    “I don’t have
to listen to garbage like this, that’s what I don’t have to do. Marjorie, I’m
annoyed.
    Anna and I just
spent our entire afternoon looking through Max’s papers and diaries, and now
you’re throwing us out. I know today was his funeral, and I know you’ve been
under a strain, but you said yourself that the quicker we got this over with
the better. It won’t take five minutes just to-”
    “I’ve changed
my mind,” said Marjorie quietly. “The jar will stay exactly where it is.”
    Anna shook her
head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Greaves, but it can’t.”
    “It must. My
husband willed it.”
    “Mrs. Greaves,”
said Anna. “The jar didn’t even belong to your husband. The jar is the property
of the government of Iran. It’s quite priceless, and it’s part of that country’s heritage. It has to go back to its original owners.”
    Marjorie lifted
her head and stared at Anna with her beady shrimp’s eyes. “As long as I am
alive,” she said, “that jar will not be moved. That is my final word.”
    Anna