Marsh Ngaio / Марш Найо - Полное собрание художественных произведений (46 произведений) [1934-2018, fb2/epub, ENG]

РОМАНЫ

01 A Man Lay Dead / Игра в убийство (= Упав мёртвым) 1934, fb2; 2011, epub, ISBN: 978-1-934609-95-8, Felony & Mayhem
02 Enter a Murderer / Убийца, ваш выход! 1935, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-29-6, Felony & Mayhem
03 The Nursing Home Murder / Убийство в частной лечебнице 1935, fb2; 2011, epub, ISBN: 978-1-934609-96-5, Felony & Mayhem
04 Death in Ecstasy 1936, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-13-5, Felony & Mayhem
05 Vintage Murder 1937, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-15-9, Felony & Mayhem
06 Artists in Crime / Маэстро, вы — убийца! 1938, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34444-4, HarperCollins
07 Death in a White Tie / Смерть в белом галстуке (= Кто подслушал слонёнка Госпела) 1938, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-31-9, Felony & Mayhem
08 Overture to Death / Увертюра к смерти 1939, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-22-7, Felony & Mayhem
09 Death at the Bar / Выпить и умереть 1940, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34447-5, HarperCollins
10 Death of a Peer (= Surfeit of Lampreys) / Смерть пэра (= Объевшись миногами...) 1941, fb2; 2013, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-46-3, Felony & Mayhem
11 Death and the Dancing Footman / Смерть и танцующий лакей 1942, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-26-5, Felony & Mayhem
12 Colour Scheme / Купаться запрещено! (= Заклятье древних Маори) 1943, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34457-4, HarperCollins
13 Died in the Wool / Убитая в овечьей шерсти 1945, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-47-0, Felony & Mayhem
14 Final Curtain / Занавес опускается 1947, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-48-7, Felony & Mayhem
15 A Wreath for Rivera (= Swing Brother Swing) / Убийство под аккомпанемент 1949, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-49-4, Felony & Mayhem
16 Night at the Vulcan (= Opening Night) / Премьера убийства 1951, fb2; 2012, epub, ISBN: 978-1-937384-50-0, Felony & Mayhem
17 Spinsters in Jeopardy / Старые девы в опасности 1954, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 9780007344680, HarperCollins
18 Scales of Justice / Форель и Фемида 1955, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 9780007344703, HarperCollins
19 Death of a Fool (= Off With His Head) / Смерть дурака (= Снести ему голову!) 1957, fb2; epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34472-7, HarperCollins
20 Singing in the Shrouds / Пение под покровом ночи 1959, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34474-1, HarperCollins
21 False Scent / Смерть в день рождения (= Мнимая беспечность) 1960, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 9780007344765, HarperCollins
22 Hand in Glove / Рука в перчатке 1962, fb2; 2010, epub, ISBN: 9780007344789, HarperCollins
23 Dead Water / Источник соблазнов 1964, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34479-6, HarperCollins
24 Killer Dolphin (= Death at the Dolphin) / Смерть в театре «Дельфин» 1967, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34477-2, HarperCollins
25 Clutch of Constables / Кругом одни констебли (= На каждом шагу констебли) 1968, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34481-9, HarperCollins
26 When in Rome 1970, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34480-2, HarperCollins
27 Tied Up in Tinsel / Обманчивый блеск мишуры 1972, fb2; 2010, epub, ISBN: 9780007344826, HarperCollins
28 Black As He's Painted / Чернее некуда 1974, fb2; 2010, epub, ISBN: 9780007344840, HarperCollins
29 Last Ditch 1977, fb2; 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34483-3, HarperCollins
30 A Grave Mistake 1978, fb2
31 Photo Finish 1980, fb2; 2010, epub, ISBN: 9780007344864, HarperCollins
32 Light Thickens 1982, fb2; 2010, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34487-1, HarperCollins
Money in the Morgue 2018, epub (retail), ISBN: 978-0-008-20712-0, HarperCollins (with Stella Duffy)

РАССКАЗЫ

Death on the Air 1936, fb2
I Can Find My Way Out 1946, fb2
Chapter and Verse: The Little Copplestone Mystery 1974, fb2

Death on the Air and Other Stories (= The Collected Short Fiction of Ngaio Marsh) 2012, epub, ISBN: 9780007502059, HarperCollins

• Roderick Alleyn
• Portrait of Troy
• Death on the Air
• I Can Find My Way Out
• Chapter And Verse: the Little Copplestone Mystery
• The Hand in the Sand
• The Cupid Mirror
• A Fool About Money
• Morepork
• Moonshine
• Evil Liver
• My Poor Boy

Black Beech and Honeydew 2010, epub, ISBN: 978-0-007-34488-8, HarperCollins

Chapter I “And There Were Present…”

Nigel Bathgate, in the language of his own gossip column, was “definitely intrigued” about his week-end at Frantock. At twenty-five he had outgrown that horror of enthusiasm which is so characteristic of youth-grown-up. He was actually on his way to Frantock, and in “colossal form” at the very thought of it. They were doing it in such grandeur, too! He leaned back in his first-class corner seat and grinned at his cousin opposite. Odd sort of fellow, old Charles. One never knew much of what went on behind that long dark mask of his. Good-looking bloke, too; women adored him, reflected Nigel, mentally wagging his head — still flattered and made up to him although he was getting on in years… forty-six or seven. Charles Rankin returned his young cousin’s ruminative stare with one of those twisted smiles that always reminded Nigel of a faun. “Shan’t be long now,” said Rankin. “The next station is ours. You can see the beginnings of Frantock over there to the left.” Nigel stared across a patchwork landscape of little fields and hillocks to where a naked wood, fast, fast asleep in its wintry solitude, half hid the warmth of old brick. “That’s the house,” said Rankin. “Who will be there?” asked Nigel, not for the first time. He had heard much of Sir Hubert Handesley’s “unique and delightfully original house-parties” from a brother journalist who had returned from one of them, if the truth be told, somewhat persistently enthusiastic. Charles Rankin, himself a connoisseur of house-parties, had refused many extremely enviable invitations in favour of these unpretentious week-ends. And now, as the result of a dinner-party at old Charles’s flat, here was Nigel himself about to be initiated. So: “Who will be there?” asked Nigel again. “The usual crowd, I suppose,” answered Rankin patiently, “with the addition of one Doctor Foma Tokareff, who dates, I imagine, from Handesley’s Embassy days in Petrograd. There will be the Wildes, of course— they must be somewhere on the train. He’s Arthur Wilde, the archaeologist. Majorie Wilde is… rather attractive, I think. And I suppose Angela North. You’ve met her?” “She’s Sir Hubert’s niece, isn’t she? Yes, she dined that night at your flat with him.” “So she did. If I remember, you seemed to get on rather pleasantly.” “Will Miss Grant be there?” asked Nigel. Charles Rankin stood up and struggled into his overcoat. “Rosamund?” he said. “Yes, she’ll be there.” “What an extraordinarily expressionless voice old Charles has got,” reflected Nigel, as the train clanked into the little station and drew up with a long steamy sigh. The upland air struck chill after the stale stuffiness of the train. Rankin led the way out into a sunken country lane, where they found a group of three muffled passengers talking noisily while a chauffeur stowed luggage away into a six-seater Bentley. “Hullo, Rankin,” said a thin be-spectacled man; “thought you must be on the train.” “I looked out for you at Paddington, Arthur,” rejoined Rankin. “Have you met my cousin, all of you? Nigel Bathgate… Mrs. Wilde… Mr. Wilde. Rosamund, you have met, haven’t you?” Nigel had made his bow to Rosamund Grant, a tall dark woman whose strange uncompromising beauty it would be difficult to forget. Of the Hon. Mrs. Wilde he could see nothing but a pair of very large blue eyes and the tip of an abbreviated nose. The eyes gave him a brief appraising glance and a rather high-pitched “fashionable” voice emerged from behind the enormous fur collar: “How do you do? Are you a relation of Charles? Too shattering for you. Charles, you will have to walk. I hate being steam-laundered even for five minutes.” “You can sit on my knee,” said Rankin easily. Nigel, glancing at him, noticed the peculiar bright boldness of his eyes. He was staring, not at Mrs. Wilde, but at Rosamund Grant. It was as though he had said to her: “I’m enjoying myself: I dare you to disapprove.” She spoke for the first time, her deep voice in marked contrast to Mrs. Wilde’s italicized treble: “Here comes Angela in the fire-eater,” she said, “so there will be tons of room for everybody.” “What a disappointment!” said Rankin. “Marjorie, we are defeated.” “Nothing,” said Arthur Wilde firmly, “will persuade me to drive back in that thing with Angela.” “Nor I neither,” agreed Rankin. “Famous archaeologists and distinguished raconteurs should not flirt with death. Let us stay where we are.” “Shall I wait for Miss North?” offered Nigel. “If you would, sir,” said the chauffeur. “Do get in, Marjorie darling,” murmured Arthur Wilde, who was sitting in the front seat. “I’m longing for my tea and bun.” His wife and Rosamund Grant climbed into the back of the car, and Rankin sat between them. The two-seater sports car drew up alongside. “Sorry I’m late,” shouted Miss Angela North. “Who’s for fresh air and the open road and the wind on the heath and what-not?” “They all sound loathsome to us,” screamed Mrs. Wilde from the Bentley. “We are leaving you Charles’s cousin,” she opened her eyes very pointedly at Nigel. “He’s a fine, clean-limbed young Britisher. Just your style, Angela.” The Bentley shot away down the lane. Feeling incapable of the correct sort of facetiousness, Nigel turned to Angela North and uttered some inadequate commonplace about their having met before. “Of course we did,” she said. “I thought you very nice. Get in rather quickly, and let’s catch them up.” He climbed in beside her, and almost immediately had his breath snatched away by Miss North’s extremely progressive ideas on acceleration. “This is your first visit to Frantock,” she observed, as they skidded dexterously round a muddy bend in the lane. “I hope you like it. We all think Uncle Hubert’s parties great fun… I don’t know why, quite. Nothing much happens at them. Everybody comes all over childish as a rule, and silly games are played amidst loud cheers and much laughter from those present. It’s going to be Murders this time. There they are!” She caused the horn to give birth to a continuous belching roar, mended their speed by about fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and passed the Bentley as it were in a dream. “Have you ever played Murders?” she asked. “No, nor yet suicides, but I’m learning,” said Nigel politely. Angela laughed uproariously. (“She laughs like a small boy,” thought Nigel.) “Feeling flustered?” she shouted. “I’m a careful driver, really.” She turned almost completely round in her seat to wave to the receding Bentley. “Soon be over now,” she added. “I expect so,” breathed Nigel. The wrought-iron posterns of a gate flashed past them, and they dived into the rushing greyness of a wood. “This wood’s rather pleasant in the summer,” remarked Miss North. “It looks lovely now,” Nigel murmured, closing his eyes as they made for a narrow bridge. A few moments later they swung into a wide curve of gravelled drive and stopped with dramatic brevity in front of a delightful old brick house. Nigel extracted himself thankfully from the car and followed his hostess indoors. He found himself in a really beautiful hall, dim with the smoky greyness of old oak and cheerful with the dancing comfort of a huge open fire. From the ceiling an enormous chandelier caught up the light of the flames and flickered and glowed with a strange intensity. Half drowned in the twilight that was already filling the old house, a broad staircase rose indefinitely at the far end of the hall. Nigel saw that the walls were hung conventionally with trophies and weapons… the insignia of the orthodox country house. He remembered Charles had told him that Sir Hubert possessed one of the finest collections of archaic weapons in England. “If you don’t mind giving yourself a drink and getting warm by the fire, I’ll rouse up Uncle Herbert,” said Angela. “Your luggage is in the other car, of course. They’ll be here in a moment.” She looked squarely at him and smiled. “I hope I haven’t completely unmanned you… by my driving I mean.” “You have… but not by your driving.” Nigel was astonished to hear himself reply. “Was that gallantry? It sounded like Charles.” Somehow he gathered that to sound like Charles was a mistake. ...

Chapter 1 FIRST WEEK

Peregrine Jay heard the stage door at the Dolphin open and shut and the sound of voices. The scene and costume designer and the lighting manager came through to the open stage. They wheeled out three specially built racks, unrolled their drawings, and pinned them up. They were stunning. A permanent central rough stone stairway curved up to Duncan’s chamber. Two turntables articulated with this to represent, on the right, the outer facade of Inverness Castle or the inner courtyard, and on the left, a high stone platform with a gallows and a dangling rag-covered skeleton, or, turned, another wall of the courtyard. The central wall was a dull red arras above the stairway, open to the sky. The lighting manager showed a dozen big drawings of the various sets with the startling changes brought about by his craft. One of these was quite lovely: an opulent evening in front of the castle with the setting sun bathing everything in splendor. One felt the air to be calm, gentle, and full of the sound of wings. A heavenly evening. And then, next to it, the same scene with the enormous doors opened, a dark interior, torches, a piper, and the Lady in scarlet coming to welcome the fated visitor. “Jeremy,” Peregrine said, “you’ve done us proud.” “Okay?” “It’s so right! It’s so bloody right. Here! Let’s up with the curtain. Jeremy?” The designer went offstage and pressed a button. With a long-drawn-out sigh the curtain rose. The shrouded house waited. “Light them, Jeremy! Blackout and lights on them. Can you?” “It won’t be perfect but I’ll try.” “Just for the hell of it, Jeremy.” Jeremy laughed, moved the racks, and went to the lights console. Peregrine walked through a pass-door to the front-of-house. Presently there was a total blackout, and then, after a pause, the drawings were suddenly there, alive in the midst of nothing and looking splendid. “Only approximate, of course,” Jeremy said in the dark. “Let’s keep this for the cast to see. They’re due now.” “You don’t want to start them off with broken legs, do you?” asked the lighting manager. There was an awkward pause. “Well — no. Put on the light in the passage,” said Peregrine in a voice that was a shade too offhand. “No,” he shouted. “Bring down the curtain again, Jeremy. We’ll do it properly.” The stage door was opened and more voices were heard, two women’s and a man’s. They came in exclaiming at the dark. “All right, all right,” Peregrine called out cheerfully. “Stay where you are. Lights, Jeremy, would you? Just while people are coming in. Thank you. Come down in front, everybody. Watch how you go. Splendid.” They came down. Margaret Mannering first, complaining about the stairs, in her wonderful warm voice with little breaks of laughter, saying she knew she was unfashionably punctual. Peregrine hurried to meet her. “Maggie, darling! It’s all meant to start us off with a bang, but I do apologize. No more steps. Here we are. Sit down in the front row. Nina! Are you all right? Come and sit down, love. Bruce! Welcome, indeed. I’m so glad you managed to fit us in with television.” I’m putting it on a bit thick, he thought. Nerves! Here they all come. Steady now. They arrived singly and in pairs, having met at the door. They greeted Peregrine and each other extravagantly or facetiously, and all of them asked why they were sitting in front and not onstage or in the rehearsal room. Peregrine kept count of heads. When they got to seventeen and then to nineteen he knew they were waiting for only one: the Thane. He began again, counting them off. Simon Morten, Macduff. A magnificent figure, six feet two. Dark. Black eyes with a glitter, thick black hair that sprang in short-clipped curls from his skull. A smooth physique not yet running to fat and a wonderful voice. Almost too good to be true. Bruce Barrabell, the Banquo. Slight. Five feet ten inches tall. Fair to sandy hair. Beautiful voice. And the King? Almost automatic casting — he’d played every Shakespearian king in the canon except Lear and Claudius, and played them all well if a little less than perfectly. The great thing about him was his royalty. He was more royal than any of the remaining crowned heads of Europe and his name actually was King: Norman King. The Malcolm was, in real life, his son — a young man of nineteen — and the relationship was striking. There was the Lennox, sardonic man. Nina Gaythorne, the Lady Macduff, who was talking very earnestly with the Doctor. And I don’t mind betting it’s about superstition, thought Peregrine uneasily. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes late, he thought. I’ve half a mind to start without him, so I have. A loud and lovely voice and the bang of the stage door. Peregrine hurried through the pass-door and up onto the stage. “Dougal, my dear fellow, welcome,” he shouted. “But I’m so sorry, dear boy. I’m afraid I’m a fraction late. Where is everybody?” “In front. I’m not having a reading.” “Not?” “No. A few words about the play. The working drawings, and then away we go.” “Really?” “Come through. This way. Here we go.” Peregrine led the way. “The Thane, everybody,” he announced. It gave Sir Dougal Macdougal an entrance. He stood for a moment on the steps into the front-of-house, an apologetic grin transforming his face. Such a nice chap, he seemed to be saying, no upstage nonsense about him. Everybody loves everybody. Yes. He saw Margaret Mannering. Delight! Acknowledgment! Outstretched arms and a quick advance. “Maggie! My dear! How too lovely!” Kissing of hands and both cheeks. Everybody felt as if the central heating had been turned up another five points. Suddenly they all began talking. Peregrine stood with his back to the curtain, facing the company with whom he was about to take a journey. Always it felt like this. They had come aboard: they were about to take on other identities. In doing this something would happen to them all: new ingredients would be tried, accepted, or denied. Alongside them were the characters they must assume. They would come closer and if the casting was accurate, slide together. For the time they were onstage they would be one. So he held. And when the voyage was over they would all be again, as Peregrine thought, a little bit different. He began talking to them. “I’m not starting with a reading,” he said. “Readings are okay as far as they go for the major roles, but bit-parts are bit-parts and as far as the Gentlewoman and the Doctor are concerned, once they arrive they are bloody important, but their zeal won’t be set on fire by sitting around waiting for a couple of hours for their entrance. “Instead, I’m going to invite you to take a hard look at this play and then get on with it. It’s short and it’s faulty. That is to say, it’s full of errors that crept into whatever script was handed to the printers. Shakespeare didn’t write the silly Hecate bits so out she comes. It’s compact and drives quickly to its end. It’s remorseless. I’ve directed it, in other theatres, twice — each time, I may say, successfully and without any signs of bad luck — so I don’t believe in the bad-luck stories associated with it and I hope none of you do either. Or if you do, you’ll keep your ideas to yourselves. ” He paused long enough to sense a change of awareness in his audience and a quick, instantly repressed, movement of Nina Gaythorne’s hands. “It’s straightforward,” he said. “I don’t find any major difficulties or contradictions in Macbeth. He is a hypersensitive, morbidly imaginative man beset by an overwhelming ambition. From the moment he commits the murder he starts to disintegrate. Every poetic thought, magnificently expressed, turns sour. His wife knows him better than he knows himself and from the beginning realizes that she must bear the burden, reassure her husband, screw his courage to the sticking-place, jolly him along. In my opinion,” Peregrine said, looking directly at Margaret Mannering, “she’s not an iron monster who can stand up to any amount of hard usage. On the contrary, she’s a sensitive creature who has an iron will and has made a deliberate, evil choice. In the end she never breaks, but she talks and walks in her sleep. Disastrously.” ...

Добавлены 15 epub качества eBook (в придачу к имеющимся fb2): 17 Marsh Ngaio - Spinsters in Jeopardy (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 18 Marsh Ngaio - Scales of Justice (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 19 Marsh Ngaio - Off With His Head (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 20 Marsh Ngaio - Singing in the Shrouds (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 21 Marsh Ngaio - False Scent (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 22 Marsh Ngaio - Hand in Glove (Roderick Alleyn) - 2010.epub (eBook) 23 Marsh Ngaio - Dead Water (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 24 Marsh Ngaio - Death at the Dolphin (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 25 Marsh Ngaio - Clutch of Constables (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 26 Marsh Ngaio - When in Rome (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 27 Marsh Ngaio - Tied Up in Tinsel (Roderick Alleyn) - 2010.epub (eBook) 28 Marsh Ngaio - Black As He's Painted (Roderick Alleyn) - 2010.epub (eBook) 29 Marsh Ngaio - Last Ditch (Roderick Alleyn) - 2009.epub (eBook) 31 Marsh Ngaio - Photo Finish (Roderick Alleyn) - 2010.epub (eBook) 32 Marsh Ngaio - Light Thickens (Roderick Alleyn) - 2010.epub (eBook)

Добавлен роман, который Найо Марш начала писать во время войны, но не закончила. Роман дописан Стеллой Даффи. Marsh Ngaio - Money in the Morgue (Roderick Alleyn) - 2018.epub