"Inspector Leatherdale, Mr. Exeter.” He pulled up the chair. “I am not asking for a formal statement. You do not need to tell me anything, but I would appreciate hearing what you can recall of the events which led to your injuries."
Edward told what he could, mostly while studying the way the inspector's hair was combed over his bald spot. His memories were so patchy that he thought he must sound like an absolute ass.
"That's the lot, sir. Er..."
"Take your time. Even vague impressions may be helpful to us."
"Crumpets? Crumpets and strawberry jam on a deal table."
"Why crumpets at your age? Why not raid the sherry?"
Edward started to smile and then remembered Bagpipe. “We tried that three years ago and were sick as dogs. It was a tradition, that's all.” Never again, Bagpipe!
"Anything else you recall?"
"A woman with long curly hair?"
The rozzer's face was as unmoving as a gargoyle's. “What color hair?"
"Dark brown, I think. It hung in ringlets, sort of a Gypsy look. Very pale face."
"Where did you see her? What was she doing?"
Edward shook his head on the pillow. “Screaming, I think. Or shouting."
"What was she wearing?"
"Don't remember, sir."
"But this might have been hours earlier, and you don't know where?"
"Yes. No. Yes it might have been and no I don't know why I remember her."
"What more?"
"A ... A porcelain sink turning red, scarlet. Blood running into a sink. A stream of blood.” He felt a rush of nausea and bit his lip. He was shaking—lying flat on his back and shaking like a stupid kid!
Leatherdale studied him for a minute, and then rose. “Thank you. We shall require a formal statement as soon as you are up to it."
"Bodgley's dead?"
The massive head nodded. “You fell down some steps. He was stabbed."
"And you think I did it?"
Inspector Leatherdale went very still, and yet seemed to fill the room with menace. “Why should I think that, Mr. Exeter?” he asked softly.
"Private room, sir. You said I didn't need to tell you anything. Nobody would answer my questions."
The man smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. “No other reason?"
"I didn't!” Edward yelled.
"Five minutes are up, sir,” Matron said, sailing in like a dreadnought, clipboard ready and fountain pen poised. “Your full name and date of birth, Mr. Exeter?"
"Edward George Exeter..."
The inspector moved the chair back to where it had been without taking his eyes off Edward.
"C. of E.?” Matron said, writing busily.
"Agnostic."
She looked up with a Medusa stare of disapproval. “Shall I just put, ‘Protestant'?"
Edward was certainly not going to support any organization that tolerated Holy Roly as one of its advocates. The Nyagatha horrors had been provoked by meddling, addle-headed missionaries, and that was another reason.
"No, ma'am. Agnostic."
She wrote unwillingly. “Diseases?"
He listed what he could recall—malaria and dysentery in Africa, and all the usual English ones he'd caught when he came Home: mumps, measles, whooping cough, chicken pox.
Then he saw that the policeman was still standing in the doorway, watching him.
"You want to ask me some more questions, Inspector?"
"No. Not now. We'll take a statement later, sir.” His mouth smiled again. “Normally I would ask you to keep yourself available, but I don't expect you'll be going anywhere for a day or two."
19
A BLEAK DAWN WAS BREAKING, BUT EVEN THE BEGGARS were still asleep, huddled in doorways and corners under their dusting of snow. Somewhere back in the temple precincts doomed cockerels screamed defiance at the coming day. The troupe had assembled as instructed, and they were the day's first business for the temple.
Inside the long hall, night had not yet ended. Even the many candles glittering upon the altar before Ois could not brighten that big, cold place. Off to the sides, in the shadows, a few fainter glows showed where lamps burned under some of the innumerable arches. Those few bright alcoves amid so much dark somehow reminded Eleal of Sister Ahn's scattered teeth.
Shivering with cold and apprehension, she knelt between Trong and Ambria, seeking comfort from their huge solidity—although even Ambria seemed cowed today. The floor was cold and hard on the knees. They knelt in a circle, all of them except the missing Gartol Costumer; twelve counting Eleal. She had been placed with her back to the door, facing almost straight at the goddess. She clutched a gold coin, the first real gold she had ever held. The cold of the floor was seeping into her bones.
In the center of the circle stood a silver bowl, containing a feather, two eggs, and a white pebble. The priests had placed them there with great ceremony to begin the ritual.
The image of the Lady was the largest Eleal had ever seen, but it was a picture, not a statue. It filled the end wall, the full height of the temple, crafted from shiny white tiles, but her nipples gleamed scarlet, like rubies. Darker tones shadowed her belly and the undersides of her great breasts; her face was barely visible in the high darkness. At her feet an old man warbled holy writ in continuous monotone. In time he would be relieved by another, and another, until the entire Red Scripture had been pronounced. Then they would begin at the beginning again. So it had always been. He was not always audible, but he never stopped.
A half dozen or so priests had chanted a service to the Lady. Now a drummer began a low, menacing rhythm while a new group executed a strange, posturing dance. They were all young, obviously, and their shaven heads showed that they were priests, despite their curious close-fitting garments, which left arms and shins bare. In the candlelight the cloth seemed almost black, but it was red, in honor of the Lady. Eleal was fascinated by their ritual, very measured and deliberate, more like stylized gymnastics than any dance she had ever seen.
One of the illuminated alcoves blinked in the corner of her eye. Then a second. She leaned back slightly to see. A man was walking along the wall, followed by a priestess. He obscured another lamp, and stopped. A woman rose beyond him, apparently from a seat inside the alcove. She opened her robe. He walked on and she sat down again—unwanted, rejected. Eleal shuddered, tasting a sourness rising in her throat. Ambria hissed angrily and she turned her face back to the ceremony.
In a moment, though, the man progressed to where she could see him without moving her head. Her eyes insisted on straying in his direction. She watched how he found a woman he fancied and paid the priestess. The priestess walked away, he entered the alcove and began to undress.
The acrobatics ended in a flurry of drum strokes. Again Eleal returned her attention to where it belonged. A priest approached and gestured; the actors scrambled to their feet. There was a pause. She felt even smaller now, standing between talk Ambria and taller Trong. She studied the goddess to keep her mind off what was happening in that alcove. The Lady was emerging from darkness as daylight began to seep in through the high windows. The stone face bore a curious expression eyes almost closed, scarlet lips parted, a hint of tongue showing. It was not a merciful face. It gave no clue why a mighty goddess should be so wroth at little Eleal Singer.
Drums thundered, making her jump. They sank into an irregular, disturbing beat.
"State your age first...."
A priest and a priestess had entered the circle and placed themselves in front of Golfren. The voice, however, came from outside, from an older man standing behind him, muttering instructions. Then Golfren spoke, his voice higher-pitched than usuaclass="underline"