Mrs. Lambdon clucked in support of that sentiment. Holt and James Armstrong looked, not unreasonably, nauseated. Curtis wondered how da Silva got away with it, since anyone who’d read his poetry would know he didn’t go in for anything like that sort of claptrap, but of course no one present would have done anything of the sort. One more of da Silva’s private jokes.
Miss Carruth begged Curtis to retell his uncle’s story of the Kukuana Place of Death from that blasted book, and as other voices joined in, he felt it would support his character as a good fellow to oblige. He described first the chamber of which he had heard so much, with the great stone table, and at its head a statue of a colossal skeleton, fifteen feet in height. It rose from its seat, spear held above its head, ready to strike. And round the menacing thing’s table, guests at Death’s feast, sat the kings of the Kukuanas.
“All twenty-seven of them,” he said. “Each seated under a drip of water, running down onto their heads, turning them to stone drop by drop. Shrouded in white spar. One could see their features still through the veil of stone. Twala, the king that my uncle killed, sat in his chair with his head in his lap—”
There was a general shriek from the women, followed by cries of pleasurable protest. “So horrible,” said Miss Carruth with a wriggle.
“So exotic and—and heroic,” exclaimed Mrs. Grayling.
“So disgusting,” said da Silva, and Curtis saw with surprise that he looked rather sick. “To spend one’s eternal rest seated underground—”
“We all end up underground,” Lambdon pointed out bluffly.
“But to sit under the earth, round the devil’s dining table, with water dripping on one’s head. What a revolting practice.” He shuddered. Curtis made a mental note to tell him about the Tibetan tradition of sky burial, which was even less appropriate for the dinner table than the Kukuana rituals, and realised that of course he’d never have the chance.
He attempted to be companionable that evening, proposing a game of whist to the younger men. Grayling was enthusiastic; Holt and Armstrong exchanged a flicker of a glance and made excuses.
That gave Curtis pause. James Armstrong was going to gaol. His antipathy didn’t matter a jot. But Holt was not involved in the Armstrongs’ crimes. He was a sportsman, a good mixer, he seemed to have entry to wide social circles. Suppose he had complained to his friend of the earlier disagreement, and Armstrong, the bumptious oaf, had dropped a hint? I say, Curtis and that dago are rather tight, aren’t they? — Tight? You don’t know the half of it.
If Armstrong talked, and Holt chose to play the rumour-monger, Curtis could be in for unpleasantness.
He felt sweat prickle along his hairline. He had no idea how da Silva could live with such poise, threatened by exposure at every corner. He felt he would go grey within a week.
The night’s sleep, unbroken by burglary, was welcome, but Curtis rather regretted his healthy look in the mirror the next morning, since he had to make a fuss about his knee. He limped into the breakfast room, from which da Silva was absent yet again, and fielded an array of sympathetic queries.
“It’s my own fault,” he insisted to Lady Armstrong’s apologies. “I overdid it. But I’m a little worried, to be honest. I may have thrown the kneecap out on the rough ground.”
“Shall I call the doctor?”
“I think I should see my specialist in London, I’m afraid.” Curtis adjusted his features to a look of regret. “It’s something of a tricky case.”
Lady Armstrong gave cries of distress and vexation and sent a heavy-eyed James Armstrong for a Bradshaw’s railway guide, which was when Curtis realised it was a Sunday.
“There’s only one passenger train to London the whole day. You could make it, just, but it’s a cursed bad one,” Sir Hubert said, frowning. “Stops everywhere.”
“And that will do your knee no good,” Lady Armstrong put in solicitously. “I fear you must wait until Monday, Mr. Curtis. Do telephone for an appointment, won’t you?”
Curtis allowed himself to be persuaded. He had no desire to spend nine hours on a stopping train to London. And, a voice at the back of his mind pointed out, he might have a chance for a talk with da Silva.
With that as a prospect, and his character as an invalid to support, Curtis declined to attend church. Everyone else was packed off in a procession of motorcars, except for Holt and Armstrong, who announced they would go for a tramp. They both looked tired, but pleased with themselves. Likely they’d made a private night of it and were off to find a pub.
With the house to himself, Curtis set off to the library.
Da Silva wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the breakfast room, and he didn’t appear to be in any of the drawing rooms. He surely couldn’t be sleeping in past ten, Curtis thought with disapproval and, feeling just a little sensation of heart in mouth, went to knock on his bedroom door.
There was no answer.
Curtis hesitated. But he did need to speak to the fellow. He turned the handle experimentally, and the door opened.
Da Silva’s room was empty.
Curtis looked around, bewildered. No unguents or studs on the dresser, no sign of occupancy. He opened the wardrobe, then the drawers. They were all empty.