Not long after noon, Ylla returned, bringing some burly assistance in case it might be needed. She made Eleal strip, and gave her a red robe too large for her, a skimpy blanket, a jug of warm water, and a pungent bucket. She even confiscated Eleal's boots, leaving her a pair of sandals instead. Eleal stooped to pleading over that—walking was much harder for her without her special boots. The priestess seemed pleased by the pleading, but refused to change her mind.
Then she departed, taking everything Eleal had been wearing when she entered the temple, even her Tion locket, and leaving her a sack of chickens to pluck—eviscerated sacrifices, caked with blood and already stiff.
The rest of the day went by in boredom, fear, anger, and despair in various mixtures. The prisoner raged at her split lip, the goddess, the priestess, the fat priest, the chickens and all their feathers, Dolm the reaper, the Filoby Testament—whatever that was—her unknown father, her unknown mother, Trong and Ambria for deserting her and betraying her and lying to her. She refused to open the book of scripture. She seriously considered throwing it out the window, then decided that such an act of open defiance would merely provide an excuse to whip her. By late afternoon she knew that whippings would not be necessary. A few days of this confinement and she would be willing to kiss every shoe in the temple.
A year of it and she would be ready for the naked men in the alcoves.
23
THE DAHLIAS WERE MERELY THE LEADERS OF A PARADE OF flowers that staggered Edward. They came from his old housemaster Ginger Jones on his own behalf, with another on behalf of all the masters, from the president of the Old Boys’ Club, from Alice, and from a dozen separate friends. The word must have spread across all England, and he could not imagine how much money had been spent on trunk calls. The nurses teased him about all the sweethearts he must have. They set vases on the dresser and then ranked them along the wall he could see best, turning the drab brown room into a greenhouse. He could hardly bear to look at them. It was Bagpipe who needed the flowers, wasn't it?
Somewhere in that floral parade, someone smuggled in a copy of the Times. He suspected the plump nurse with the London accent, but he wasn't sure. It was just lying there on his bed when he looked.
Mr. Winston Churchill had ordered the fleet mobilized. Some holiday excursion trains had been canceled. France and Russia were preparing for war with Germany, and there had been shooting at border points. He found his own name, but there was nothing there that he did not already know. In normal times the yellow press would make a sensation out of such a story, a general's son murdered under his own roof by a house-guest, complete with nudge-nudge hints about public school pals. Just now the war news was sensation enough, but the press might be one more reason why there was a policeman outside his door.
The Times made his eyes swim, so he stopped reading for a while. He had just picked up The Lost World when he heard another voice he recognized, and all his muscles tensed. Had he not been tethered he might have rolled under the bed or jumped out the window. As it was, he tucked his book under the covers in case it might be snatched away from him, then waited for a second visitor who would not be restrained until formal visiting hours.
The Reverend Roland Exeter was a cadaverous man, invariably dressed in black ecclesiastical robes. His elongated form was reminiscent of something painted by El Greco in one of his darkest moods, or a tortured saint in some Medieval church carving—a resemblance aided by his natural tonsure of silver hair, a homegrown halo. His face was the face of a melancholy, self-righteous horse, with a raucous, braying voice to match. Celebrated preacher and lecturer, Holy Roly was probably better known than the Archbishop of Canterbury. Alice called him the Black Death.
He strode into the room clutching a Bible to his chest with both arms. He came to a halt and regarded his nephew dolefully.
"Good morning, sir,” Edward said. “Kind of you to come."
"I see it as my Christian duty to call sinners to repentance, however heinous their transgressions."
"Caught the early train from Paddington, did you?"
"Edward, Edward! Even now the Lord will not turn his face from you if you sincerely repent."
"Repent of what, sir, exactly?"
Holy Roly's eyes glittered. He was probably convinced of his ward's guilt, but he was not fool enough to prejudge the criminal matter with a policeman listening outside the door. “Of folly and pride and willful disbelief, of course."
There had been no need for him to come all the way to Greyfriars to deliver the sermon again. He could have written another of his interminable ranting letters.
"I don't feel up to discussing such solemn matters at the moment, sir.” Edward's fists were clenched so hard they hurt, but he had tucked them under the sheet. This was not going to work. The two Exeters had exchanged barely a dozen friendly words in the two years since his parents died. Fortunately, the guv'nor's will had stipulated that Edward be allowed to complete his education at Fallow, or Roly might well have pulled him out. Roly had had no choice there, but his idea of pocket money for a public school senior had been five shillings per term, probably less than any junior in the place received.
Also fortunately, Mr. Oldcastle had provided generously and regularly. Edward was resolved to have his affairs audited as soon as he reached his majority, for he strongly suspected that his parents’ money had long ago vanished into the bottomless pit of the Lighthouse Missionary Society. Meanwhile he must endure his minority for almost another three years.
Holy Roly's wrinkles had twisted into an expression of mawkish pity. “You see that you have thrown it all away, don't you?"
"Thrown all what away, sir?"
"All the advantages you were given. You don't imagine Cambridge will accept you now, do you?"
"I understood that every Englishman was innocent until proven guilty."
"Then you are a fool. Even if you do not get your neck snapped on the scaffold, all doors are closed to you now."
There might be a hint of truth in what the old bigot was saying, but he was obviously enjoying himself, preparing to heap hellfire on an immobilized sinner. His voice descended to an even more melancholy range. “Edward, will you pray with me?"
"No, sir. I have told you before that I will not add hypocrisy to my shortcomings."
His uncle came closer, opening the Bible. “Will you at least hear the Word of God?"
"I should prefer not, sir, if you don't mind.” Edward began to sweat. Normally at this point he excused himself as politely as possible and left the room, but now he was trapped and the bounder knew it. That might be the main reason he had come.
"Consider your sins, Edward! Consider the sad fate of the young friend you led into evil—"
"Sir?” That was too much!
"The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians,” Roly announced, opening the Bible, “beginning at the thirteenth chapter.” His voice began to drone like an organ.
Blackened sepulchre! He had not come to ask after his nephew's health, or to ask what really happened, or what he could do to help, or to display faith in his innocence. He had come to gloat. He had been predicting Edward's perdition since the day they met and now believed it had happened even sooner than expected. He had to come and drool over it.
How could two brothers have been so unalike?
Edward closed his eyes and thought about Africa.