'But a plague of unknown origin?'
'All plagues are of unknown origin when they first appear.'
'A plague from fish? Is that what you suggest?'
'It wasn't believed for a long time that other plagues were brought by rats.'
'But rats are warm-blooded creatures like ourselves. A plague that kills in a few hours?'
'Some in the past have died in less than a day. Forgive me, papa, but you asked if it was possible and, from what I know, it is.'
'What do you say, Father?'
'I? I have no knowledge and therefore no opinion, master.'
'It would be useful,' said Anthony after a pause, 'to know whether in truth the disease has not spread to —what was it?—the surrounding country.'
Tobias lowered his brows again. 'You doubt the voice of Convocation?'
'No, sir,' lied his son: 'only that of the physicians and inventors who weighed the matter. From what you read to us, the Gazette does no more than record their words.'
'Well said, Anthony—and we know how much trust to put in them. Physicians may be all very well, but what of inventors? Half of them are no better than scientists who daren't give themselves their true name. This affair has every sign of an experiment in science. Recklessness. Disregard for human life. Above all, an inclination to usurp the power of the Qeator. Whether or not these outbreaks were indeed isolated, we must fear a recurrence. We're all in danger. And will remain so until our heads of State look to their duty of protecting Christians.'
'Yes, sir.'
The priest stroked his bluish upper lip to cover traces of a smile: he had wondered a little how his master would reach his preferred theme from such an unfamiliar starting-point.
'The case is no better with our spiritual lords,' continued Tobias. 'Some of them are positively worm-eaten with tolerance. The Holy Office must bestir itself and set out to eradicate the ulcers that afflict us. When was the last scientist examined? I think at the very least a letter to the Editor of the Gazette...'
Before long, Master Anvil had finished with science and scientists for the moment and, after grace and a word with Father Lyall, left the room. Anthony embraced his mother and also departed. The two servants who had attended all this time in total silence came forward and began to clear the table.
Margaret Anvil had likewise said nothing throughout. This was normal and, in a general sense, so regarded by her. What seemed to be exceptional about her relations with her husband was their intimacy in private. He treated her as she imagined he would a valued friend, telling her of his activities, asking about her own, sharing little jokes. In the marriage-bed itself he showed her every consideration: never once had he had his way with her against her will. He was a good man and she was proud to be his wife.
Except in the fullness of her figure, Margaret did not look her forty-two years. She had a fine natural complexion, auburn hair touched no more than lightly with grey, and excellent teeth. A man might have taken her for a countrywoman unless he observed the severe set of her mouth and the diffident glance that went oddly with it. When she rose from her chair her height was noticeable, as was also the richness of her quilted turquoise breakfast-gown against the plain black, white and grey worn by everyone else present.
As usual, Father Lyall was at the door, and as usual he said respectfully that he would attend her in due course in her sitting-room. But, not as usual, she looked up at him as she passed, and found him looking at her in a way that she could have defined only by saying that it was not respectful.
Ten minutes later, by arrangement, the priest came to his master's library on the first floor. It looked like the abode of someone distinguished for both worldliness and piety, being expensively panelled and carpeted, furnished with massive teak and leather, hung with Indian brocades and Siamese silks, and yet profuse in large canvases of scriptural scenes, devotional statuary, brassedged volumes of theology and hagiography. The two interests were most fully combined in the great solid-silver Crucifixion on the east wall and, below it, the plush- upholstered ebony prie-dieu, well placed (it had occurred to Lyall in a refractory mood) for any occupant whose spiritual needs might at any time suddenly become too urgent to allow recourse to the more than adequate chapel at the other end of the house.
Tobias was behind his vast oak desk. 'Sit down, please, Father.'
'Thank you, master,' said Lyall, deciding on an upright chair as the least unconducive to his making some show of sacerdotal austerity. 'May I know a little more about what you require of me this morning?'
'I'll tell you what little more I know myself. I await a visit from the Abbot of St Cecilia's Chapel, whom you've met, and his Chapelmaster, a certain Father Dilke, whom I think you haven't? No-well, they don't reveal their purpose, but it must be something that touches Hubert.'
'Some misdemeanour?'
'The natural inference, but I'm inclined to doubt it. A misdemeanour grave enough to bestir the Abbot would have fetched me there, not him here. Accident or other misfortune he rules out.'
He wants something from you, then, thought Lyall, but said only, 'And you need me here to...'
'To perform your usual function, my dear Father Lyall.' The momentarily heightened intentness of the glance that came from under those heavy brows suggested that some more than superficial understanding of that function might be common to both men.
'Just so, sir.'
'And the Abbot specifically requests your presence... Come.'
A servant appeared, announced the two visitors, and soon brought them in. There were greetings and the necessary introductions. Bowls of chocolate were offered and declined. First inspecting it carefully, the Abbot settled back in one of the deep chairs, and Dilke sat on the edge of another.
'I hope your journey was tolerable, my lord?'
