She wanted to vanish, but mad curiosity froze her to her perch on the branch. Even if Dolm looked up, he would not notice her face peering at him through the foliage. Yet outsiders prying into secret rites were asking for very serious trouble. Trouble from Zath?
And Dolm?
Dolm Actor, her friend?
Piol Poet would never eat fish. Ambria belonged to a women's cult that she would never discuss, and recently had begun taking Uthiam along to meetings, whenever they could get away. Eleal had overheard them talking about it when they did not know she was listening, but she had not learned much more than that it had something to do with Ember'l, who was goddess of drama, avatar of Tion in Jurg. Probably many people had sworn special allegiance to some particular god or goddess. A twelve-year-old was not likely to be told about such private matters.
Oh, Dolm!
Soldiers always wore something black. Many other men did—but an actor? An actor worshiping Zath?
She stared in disbelief as that lanky, bony man strode forward to stand before the god and raise his lean arms in supplication. He was almost as tall as the idol. She did not recognize the word he began to chant—they sounded Thargian, but not a dialec she recognized.
It was a complex ritual. Dolm turned around several times—he had an extremely hairy chest, Dolm. He dropped to his knee and touched his face to the ground. He sprang up, legs astride and recited something else. He touched his toes, crouched, rose bowed, in careful sequence, chanting softly all the time in his sonorous actor's voice. He dropped on hands and knees and barked three times like a dog. And finally he wriggled forward on his belly to the base of the plinth. Eleal shivered at the thought of all that cold, wet stone, and snow.
Dolm Actor rose to his knees, and grasped the sword with his left hand. It came free of the plinth easily. He recited another formula and kissed the rusty blade. He stretched out his right arm, laying his hand at the god's feet, palm upward. For the first time his voice faltered and he seemed to hesitate. Then he slashed down at his wrist as if trying to sever it completely.
He cried out, dropping the sword. A torrent of blood spilled from the cut arteries.
Eleal's hair rose straight up, or at least felt as if it did.
Steadying the wounded arm with his left hand, Dolm lifted it so the red fountain of his own life's blood gushed down upon his own balding head. The injured hand hung limp and useless.
That last obscenity snapped the spell that had rooted Eleal. This was no normal worship! This was no little clique of gossipy women muttering secret prayers. This was some arcane invocation. Hiding from Dolm Actor was child's play, but she could not hide from the god of death if he came in person.
Teeth chattering, she slithered wildly downward through the branches until she collapsed on the leaf-strewn ground. Then she sprang to her feet and fled.
ACT II
Mystery
13
THE NEW HOTEL IN GREYFRIARS WAS A GLOOMY VICTOrian structure of red brick, a short walk from the High Street, blanked by Robinson & Son Drapers on one side and Wimpole Bros. Chemists on the other. Its prices were reasonable—four shillings and sixpence for bed and breakfast. It was convenient to the station and much favored by commercial travelers. On Bank Holiday weekend, it was as vivacious as the inside of a sealed Comb. No games of auction bridge would liven its Residents’ Lounge this evening. Very few pairs of shoes would be set outside its bedroom doors tonight for Boots to polish before morning.
The entrance hall was dark, but still stuffy from the day's heat. Permanent odors of yeast and stale cigar smoke lingered amid the aspidistras drooping in the windows and the horsehair sofas banking the dead hearth. Walls and woodwork were a uniform, sad brown; the elaborate plaster ceiling was stained to the color of old tea. As the revolving door hissed to a stop behind her, Alice Prescott mentally prepared for a few hours of dread boredom before she could sleep. Her room would still be hot, and it overlooked the shunting yard. The bed was surely the lumpiest south of the Humber.
The West Country could never be as unbearable as London, but she longed to reach her room and shed a few clothes. Africa had been hotter, but in the Colonies a woman was not required to wrap herself in quite such absurd creations of Oriental silk underskirts and ankle-length cotton voile gowns and broad silk sashes. Or, if she were, then she would not be expected to spend an afternoon trudging around a county town.
Her plumed hat was going to come off before anything else did.
Most Sunday evenings in Greyfriars would offer nothing whatsoever in the way of entertainment except Divine Service at St. Michael and All Angels'. Today, however, there had been an impromptu meeting in the park, which had provided sorry unexpected excitement. Mr. Asquith, God Bless Him, had been three-cheered several times, the Kaiser had been loudly booed. The mayor had spoken a few words about the Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets and England Expecting Every Man to Do His Duty. A hastily gathered band from the Boys’ Brigade had played some martial music, and everyone had sung “Land and Hope and Glory” and “God Save the King.” Then the crow had quietly dissolved, slinking away as if ashamed of having displayed emotion in public.
Alice headed for the desk to collect her room key. She could see it dangling on the board with the others, well out of reach. There was no message in her pigeonhole, and no news was good news because the only people who knew where she was staying were the hospital and the police.
She hoped D'Arcy had found the note she had left for him in the sitting room—at times he could be quite astonishingly unperceptive, blind as a mole. She teased him about that. She had left another note on the pillow: “See note on mantelpiece. She wondered what he had done this morning without her. Perhaps this Sunday he had actually gone to church! She would send a telegram to his chambers in the morning. Unless Edward took a grave turn for the worse, she absolutely must get back to town tomorrow.
The clerk was not in evidence. Before she could lift the little brass bell thoughtfully placed on the desk for just such an emergency, a man spoke from the far end of the hall.
"Miss Prescott?"
She jumped and turned.
He must have been sitting in the corner armchair. Now he had risen. He was large, portly, dressed like a banker in his Sunday best, waistcoat and gold watch chain.
"I am she."
He nodded and walked over to her, taking his time, carrying his bowler. She closed her fingers on the bell. His hair was thinning, his graying mustache turned up in points like the Kaiser's.
"Inspector Leatherdale of the County Constabulary, Miss Prescott. Wonder if I might have a word with you?"
Alice released the bell. Her heart was behaving disgracefully. “Of course, Inspector. I hope you can inform me what has transpired. I did inquire at the station, but the officer there was most uncommunicative."
The policeman nodded, as if that was to be expected. He gestured to the heavy sofas by the fireplace. “There are some gentlemen in the Residents’ Lounge, ma'am. This should be private enough."
She led the way over there and perched carefully on an edge, keeping her back straight as a musket. The cushion sagged so low that her knees tilted uncomfortably to the side. She stood her parasol upright against the arm and removed her gloves. Leatherdale pulled up the creases of his trouser legs at the knees in thrifty middle-class fashion, then settled deeply into the sofa beside hers. He produced a notebook and fountain pen.