He was hardly more than a boy, not nearly large enough to be T'lin Dragontrader, but Eleal was not about to look gift dragons in the mouth now. She scrambled into the saddle in front of him. It was a very uncomfortable position, for her robe pulled up to expose her legs and she was squeezed between the rider and the bony pommel plate. Two leather-clothed arms closed around her.
A light came on in the nearest window.
"Oops!” said that young voice in her ear. “Hang on for all you're worth! Wondo! Zomph!"
Telling Starlight to zomph turned out to be a miscalculation. Varch would have been more prudent. He was up and off across the courtyard like an arrow in flight. He sprang to the top of the wall and over, and an instant later was racing through shrubbery and trees. Branches cracked and whipped. Eleal choked down a scream and doubled over, clinging for her life to the pommel plate. Fortunately Starlight had folded his frills back tightly out of harm's way, and she managed to tuck her head underneath one. Leaning on her back, her companion cursed shrilly.
A tooth-jarring leap almost unseated her as the dragon bounded to the top of another wall. Coping stones fell loose and they all descended into the road beyond with a crash in the night. Having been given no further instructions, the dragon might well have crossed the road and proceeded to scramble up the house opposite, but fortunately he wheeled to the right and began to gather speed.
"Five gods!” yelled the youth. “What's the word for slow down?"
"Varch!” Eleal shouted, straightening up.
Starlight reluctantly slowed to a breathtaking run. The night streamed past in a rush of cold air and a clattering of claws. Luckily the street was deserted.
"Phew! Thanks. I'm Gim Sculptor."
"Eleal Singer."
"Glad to hear it. Would be bad manners to rescue the wrong damsel. Which is left and which is right? I've forgotten already."
"Whilth and chaiz. You mean you don't know how to do this?"
"Chaiz!” Gim ordered. “No. I've never been on a dragon in my life before. The god will preserve us! He sent me."
29
ESWARD SPENT THE HOURS AFTER INSPECTOR LEATHERdale's departure stewing in misery, going over and over the ghastly interrogation and wishing he could call back a lot of his answers. His bragging about the accuracy of his bowling had been the worst sort of side—it might not justify a hanging, but it seemed likely to provoke one now. From what he recalled of the Grange kitchen, the feat the bobbies were suggesting was absolutely impossible. Far more likely, that key was an unneeded duplicate that had been lying in the pot for years, but if there was no other explanation for the locked room, then a jury would accept the police version. The only alternative was magic, and English juries were notoriously disinclined to believe in magic.
So was he.
The mystery of his father's age was maddening, although it seemed completely irrelevant to the murder. His knowledge of his family was the knowledge of a twelve-year-old, for he had never discussed such things with Holy Roly. He knew that the brothers had not met since Cameron had emigrated to New Zealand; he thought he could recall the guv'nor saying once that Roland had been in divinity college then. The old bigot had probably been ordained sometime in the late sixties, judging by his present age. Edward's parents had been married in New Zealand and had then returned to England, briefly, before going out to Africa. There had been no family reunion, because by then the Prescotts had been in India and Roland still in Fiji or Tonga or somewhere. That was as much as Edward knew.
On the face of it, though, Leatherdale had a case. If Cameron Exeter had been a clerk in government service in New Zealand in the sixties, how could he have been forty years old in Kenya, forty years later?
But if District Officer Exeter had been an impostor, then why had that fact not emerged at the board of inquiry? Edward had read the hateful report a hundred times and there was no hint of any such mystery in it. It did not mention his father's background at all. In his present state of dejection that curious omission suddenly seemed ominous, like a potential embarrassment swept under a rug.
Obviously Holy Roly must know more than he had ever revealed, and Edward might yet have to grovel to him for enlightenment. Had he shown his uncle that photograph when he arrived in England? He could not remember, but it would have been odd if he had not. Assume he had. The old bigot must have seen right away that the fortyish man in it could not be his brother. So why had he not said so at once? Why had he not said so four years later, after the massacre, when he was landed with custody of the impostor's son?
In order to lay his hands on the rest of the family money?
The Crown proposes that when Grandfather Exeter died and left the remains of the ill-gotten family fortune to his three children, the genuine Cameron Exeter was already dead and buried at the far side of the world. Somehow a much younger man assumed his identity, was accepted in his stead, pocketed the loot, and promptly left New Zealand, where he was known by his real name. Thereafter he could never be unmasked as long as he stayed away from the dead man's brother and sister. My Lud, the prosecution rests its case.
Learned counsel for the defense expresses disbelief. Why would such a rogue then go and bury himself in the African bush?
Because, counters the prosecution, the Reverend Roland Exeter had retired from active missionary service and was on his way Home. The impostor would be exposed.
But why Africa? Why not Paris, or Vienna, or even America?
Edward tried to consider the question as judge and ended as a hung jury. He could not deny the evidence of the photograph; he could not believe that the father whose memory he cherished had been such a villain. When Mildred Prescott died, the guv'nor had become Alice's guardian and therefore custodian of her share of the dwindling family fortune. He had taken the child in and treated her as his own daughter; he had not rushed off to Europe to spend her money. He had remained to serve the people of Nyagatha until his death.
What if, four years before that death, Roland Exeter had seen the photograph? That made nonsense of the hypothesis! Holy Roly would have blown the gaff, denounced the impostor, reclaimed the money, and thrown Edward out in the gutter. Wouldn't he?
So Edward could not have shown the guv'nor's picture to Roland. He would certainly give odds that it was presently on its way to London so the reverend gentleman might view it now. The mystery could have nothing to do with the murder at Greyfriars Grange, but surely no copper would resist a chance to solve a twenty-year-old fraud case so easily.
Edward barely touched the leathery slab of haddock that came at teatime.
By nine o'clock the nurses were making their rounds—giving the patients back rubs, bedding them down for the night, removing the flowers because it was not healthy to sleep with flowers in the room. Germany had invaded Belgium, Britain had declared war. Men were enlisting by the thousands. Even that stirring news failed to penetrate Edward's black mood. He was out of it for at least three months, until his leg mended, and death on the gallows now seemed much more likely than glory in battle.
He noticed a change in the nurses’ attitude. They passed on the latest news, but they did not seem to want to talk with him. Even when he roused himself to be cheerful and chatty, they failed to respond. Now they knew he was a murderer.
He tried to read the last chapter of The Lost World, and the words were a blur. All he could take in was the awful relevance of the title.