Even in the lantern light he could see Holt’s cheeks darken. “There’s more than one way for a man to serve his country.”
Curtis thought of da Silva’s secret, thankless work doing exactly that, serving his country while others talked about it, and felt his mutilated hand curl to a half-fist. “That’s right, there is. And there’s more than one way for a man to serve his God too.”
Holt’s nostrils flared with anger. “Well. Armstrong said you were getting tight with the fellow. If you prefer to mix with Yids and dagos, I suppose that’s your privilege.”
Curtis turned on his heel and walked off. The light bobbed along the cave walls, illuminating the lumps and bulges of slick stone, strange shapes springing from shadows. The beauty of it passed him by. There was a man’s low murmur and a feminine giggle from another passage, running off the mouth of the white gallery. He didn’t look round.
The fact was, he would rather have had da Silva’s company than Holt’s. He should have liked to see wonder on his face, and to hear what a poet might make of this extraordinary place. He should have liked to explain how the limestone shapes were created, since he felt quite sure that would fall outside da Silva’s area of expertise. He wanted to know how these weird sculptures of time would affect the imagination that had created things moving in the dark water of fishponds. He thought da Silva would enjoy it, and he thought his enjoyment would be real and interesting.
Miss Merton and Miss Carruth were perched on a rock in the main cave when he returned, marvelling at the ceiling. He headed for them rather than Mrs. Lambdon and Mr. Grayling, who stood together without conversation, examining the walls in a disconsolate fashion. Miss Merton gave her companion a frown as Curtis approached.
“No, Fen,” she said firmly.
“Oh, Pat, don’t be strict.” Miss Carruth pouted. “Mr. Curtis, I’m desperate to know. The account of the caves in that wonderful book—is it true? Was it like this?”
One of his uncle’s travelling companions had written a colourful account of the trip to the diamond mines that had made Sir Henry Curtis rich and famous twenty-five years ago. Curtis was used to being asked to verify some of the less plausible details. “It was true, yes. The natives used a cave very like this to entomb their dead kings around a table under drips of limestone. Turning them into human stalagmites.”
Miss Carruth shuddered pleasurably. Miss Merton gave him a look. “Are you quite sure that’s true? It seems very impractical and rather dramatic.”
“Mr. Quatermain did have a flair for the dramatic,” Curtis admitted. “Hence the success of the book. But my uncle is a very truthful man.”
Lambdon returned from a side passage, escorting Mrs. Grayling, who looked a little flushed. Miss Merton made a clicking noise with her tongue, very quietly. James and Lady Armstrong followed from the direction of the white gallery, with Holt behind them, and the party set off back down the hill and over the moors towards Peakholme and tea.
Curtis was dressing for dinner when there was a rap on the door. If that was that bloody encroaching servant Wesley come to offer his services… He called, “Yes?” in a less than welcoming tone.
“Good evening,” murmured da Silva, slipping in.
“Oh,” Curtis said. “Hello.”
“Nominally, and in the unlikely event of watchers through the mirror, I’d like to borrow a collar stud.”
Curtis fished one out. “Here you are. Any progress?”
“I have plans for this evening.” Da Silva pocketed the stud. “Rub your leg a bit tonight, as if the knee hurts, will you? I thought we might send you back tomorrow needing to see your specialist. Overexertion with that unwise trip to the caves.”
“That’s a jolly good idea, but—tomorrow?”
“The quicker you get to Vaizey, the better.”
“Of course.” Curtis swallowed. Naturally he wanted to leave this hellish house of intrigue and its good chaps and charming ladies. Naturally, he knew that crucial information had to be carried and he was the man to do it. It was just…
Da Silva was speaking. “If you ask him to wire me warning of the relief’s arrival, he’ll know what to say.”
“Right. Will do.”
“You look like a Viking who’s been hit on the head without the benefit of a helmet. Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Da Silva gave him a slight frown. Curtis managed a smile. “Fine. A little annoyed, that’s all. I had a rather unpleasant talk with Holt earlier.”
Da Silva’s eyebrow flicked up. “Is he capable of any other kind?”
“Not to you, I should think. How do you tolerate that sort of thing?”
“I’m terribly rude, in situations where people can’t hit me. What did he say to annoy you so?”