The Queen's Cipher Read Free Page B

you come from New England, probably somewhere near Hartford in Connecticut; that you’ve had many boyfriends but have never got engaged; and you are thinking seriously about laser surgery to correct your short-sightedness.”
    There was a stunned silence. Dr Dilworth opened her mouth but said nothing.
    “Then there’s your recent skiing accident,” he added, warming to the task.
    “How could you possibly know about that?” she asked
    “That’s easy. There’s swelling on your right thumb and the ligament between the thumb and the index finger is obviously tender. That’s why you are grasping your glass in your left hand.”
    “How do you know I did this skiing,” she persisted.
    “I don’t for sure, but such an injury occurs when a skier holds on to the ski pole during a fall. The pole gets caught in the snow and acts as a lever which forces the thumb into an extended position and this puts a lot of stress on the ligament.”
    “Spot on,” she said admiringly. “People were stoned to death in the Old Testament for this kind of sorcery.”
    Dr Dilworth fingered the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. “What about the rest of your character study? How did you know about the laser treatment?”
    “I saw the way you were squinting at your audience when you were on the conference podium and I also noticed that you have big blue eyes and, forgive me for saying this, large eyes may be beautiful but they can also be a weakness. Do you want to know why?”
    “I’ve a feeling you are going to tell me anyway.”
    “If the eyeball grows too large the light focuses in front of the retina, rather than on it and this causes ...”
    “Myopia,” she interjected. “Distant objects appear blurred. I’ve needed spectacles for years but I’m too vain to wear them. I guess you worked out I’d never been engaged from the smooth tan on my ring finger but I don’t understand how you knew where I grew up. For the record, it’s a town called Wethersfield just south of Hartford on the Connecticut River and I didn’t think I’d got much of an accent.”
    “It’s quite subtle but in mentioning my research fellowship you dropped the ‘t’ in ‘British’. This is called a glottal stop and it’s a common feature of the slightly flat New England dialect in the Hartford region. But what confirmed my impression was the nutmeg bracelet on your wrist. People from Connecticut are nicknamed ‘Nutmeggers’ although I’ve no idea why.”
    “May I interrupt?” They had now been joined by a smiling Milton Cleaver.
    “Just wanted a word with my former student,” he said, putting a protective arm around Sam’s shoulder. “And I find her with the notorious Dr Brett.”
    Freddie rose to the bait. “Really, so you think what I did was wrong?”
    “Seeing you ask, yes. You have no respect for authority and you destroyed a good man’s career.”
    The damage done, Cleaver looked to make his exit. “Will you excuse me,” he murmured. “That’s the Chilean ambassador over there. He’s sponsoring the glove puppeteers who are performing this weekend.”
    Freddie grabbed hold of Cleaver’s immaculate sleeve. “Fuck the glove puppets,” he snarled. “You and Cartwright had a cosy relationship, didn’t you? He scratched your back and you scratched his, favourably reviewing one another’s books.”
    Cleaver’s eyes narrowed. “That’s an outrageous thing to say. You are a real troublemaker Brett. You wouldn’t even be at this cocktail party if I had my way.”
    “Well, there’s a first! The mighty Milton Cleaver can’t even control his own guest list.”
    By now their raised voices were the only ones in the room as the other guests stopped talking in order to overhear the heated exchange. “You don’t really belong anywhere, do you Brett? You’re only too willing to bite the hand that feeds you.”
    “You’ve got that wrong, Cleaver. I revere universities, but not professorial chairs held by people like you.