been indispensable, being the sole confidant of the old custodian of the law, he was lying here inert, helpless, useless. This must be offset, this derangement of his plans, by quick and authoritative action. His body could do little but his brains were active and resourceful.
But there was a difference. His mind was as acute as ever, it is true, but, unknown to himself, there was something that had been added to his temperament, or perhaps it was that something had left him.
His poise had been so shattered that a change had come about - a change that he knew nothing of, for his logical mind was able to reassure him that whatever the magnitude of his blunder in Barquentine's room, yet the shame was his alone, the mortification was private - he had only lost face to himself for no one had seen the old man's quickness.
To have been so burned was too high a price to pay for glory. But glory would assuredly be his. The graver his condition the rarer his bravery in attempting to save the old man's life from the flames. His prestige had suffered nothing, for Barquentine's mouth was filled with the mud of the moat and could bear no witness.
But there was a 'change' all the same, and when he was woken an hour later by a sound in the room, and when on opening his eyes he saw a flame in the fireplace, he started upright with a cry, the sweat pouring down his face, and his bandaged hands trembled at his sides.
For a long while he lay shuddering. A sensation such as he had never experienced before, a kind of fear was near him, if not on him. He fought it away with all his reserves of undoubted courage. At last he fell again into a fitful sleep, and when some while later he awoke he knew before he opened his eyes that he was not alone.
Dr Prunesquallor was standing at the end of his bed. His back was to Steerpike, his head was tilted up and he was staring through the window at the tower that was now mottled with sunlight and the shadows of flying clouds. The morning had come.
Steerpike opened his eyes and on seeing the Doctor, closed them again. In a moment or two he had decided what to do and turning his head to and fro slowly on the pillow, as though in restless sleep - 'I tried to save you,' he whispered, 'O Master. I tried to save you,' and then he moaned.
Prunesquallor turned around on his heel. His bizarre and chiselled face was without that drollery of expression which was so typical of him. His lips were set.
'You tried to save 'who?'' said Prunesquallor very sharply as though to elicit some involuntary reply from the sleeping figure.
But Steerpike made a confused sound in his throat, and then in a stronger voice...
'I tried... I tried.'
He turned again on the pillow and then as though this had awakened him he opened his eyes.
For a few moments he stared quite blankly and then – 'Doctor.' he said, 'I couldn't hold him.'
Prunesquallor made no immediate reply but took the swathed creature's pulse - listened to the heart and then after a while - 'You will tell me about it tomorrow,' he said.
'Doctor,' said Steerpike, 'I would rather tell you now. I am weak and I can only whisper, but I know where Barquentine is. He lies dead in the mud outside the window of his room: • And how did he get there, Master Steerpike?'
'I will tell you,' Steerpike lifted his eyes, loathing the bland physician - loathing him with an irrational intensity. It was as though his power of hatred had drawn fresh fuel from the death of Barquentine. But his voice was meek enough.
'I will tell you, Doctor,' he whispered. 'I will tell you all I know.' His head fell back on the pillow and he closed his eyes.
'Yesterday, or last week, or a month ago, for I do not know how long 1 have been lying here insensible - I entered Barquentine's room about eight o'clock, which was my habit every evening. It was at that hour that he would give me my orders for the next day. He was sitting on his high chair and as I entered he was lighting a candlestick. I do not know why but he started at my entrance, as though I had surprised him, but when he turned his head back again, after cursing me - but he meant no harm to me for all his irritability - he misjudged his distance from the flame, his beard swept across it and a moment later was alight. I rushed to him but his hair and clothing had already caught. There were no rugs or curtains in the room with which to smother the fire. There was no water. But I beat the flames with my hands. But the fire grew fiercer and in his pain and panic he caught hold of me and I began to burn.'
The pupils of the young man's dark eyes dilated as he recounted the partial fabrication, for Barquentine's grip upon him had been no dream, and his brow began to sweat again, and a terrible authenticity appeared to give weight to his words.
'I could not escape, Doctor; I was caught and held against his burning body. Every moment the fire grew fiercer - and my burns more terrible. There was only one thing I could do to get away. I knew I must reach the water that lay below his window. And so I ran. I ran with his arm gripping me. I ran to the window and jumped into the moat - and there in the cold black water, his hands at last gave way. I could not hold him up. It was all I could do to reach the side of the moat, and there, I think I fainted - and when I came round, I found I was naked and I came to your door... but the moat must be dragged and the old man must be found... in the name of decency he must be found and given a true burial. It is for me to carry on his work. I... I... cannot tell... you more... I am... not...'
He turned his head on the pillow, and in spite of his pains fell asleep. He had played his card and could afford to rest.
FORTY-THREE
'My dear,' said Bellgrove, 'it is surely not for your betrothed to be kept waiting 'quite' so long even though he is only the Headmaster of Gormenghast. Why on earth must you always be so late? Good grief, Irma, it isn't as though I'm a green youth who finds it romantic to be drizzled on by the stinking sky. Where have you been for pity's sake?'
'I am inclined not to 'answer' you!' cried Irma. 'The humiliation of it! Is it nothing to you that I should take a pride in my appearance - that I should make myself beautiful for you? You 'man', you. It breaks one's heart.'
'I do not complain lightly, my love,' replied Bellgrove. 'As I say, I cannot stand bad weather like a younger man. This was your idea of a place of rendezvous. It could hardly have been worse chosen, with not so much as a shrub to squat under. Rheumatism is on its way. My feet are soaked. And why? Because my fiancee, Irma Prunesquallor, a lady of quite exceptional talents in other directions - they always 'are' in 'other' directions -
