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usual. The air settled at the base of the Abbot’s throat, heavy and irritant, as if it knew it was not of the quality to be safely admitted to the delicate palace of the lung. If he put a finger into the folds of his habit to press the hollow between his collarbones, he could feel the labour of his respiration like a pulse, and the dampness of the hot air made him wheeze like an old door.
    Then he noticed where the dampness was coming from. Along the crevices between the lowest course of stones, knee-high, that supported the wall there trickled a constant ooze of viscous liquid. It glistened on the lower part of the wall and was sticky beneath his sandals.
    He put a finger to it and cautiously touched the finger with his tongue. A dull, stony taste, not saline, but heavy. It was like some liquid that he knew, but he could not think what it was.
    He was concerned for the state of his books but was distracted by a fit of coughing, and left hastily. There was too much to think about: the need for further dissection; the preparation of the senior novice for his forthcoming night of examination; the pacification of Vane; the remainder of his new sermon, and many other duties.
    He did not hear of Mrs Ffedderbompau’s accident until later.

9
    ‘How much further?’ growled Vane to the novice. His donkey stumbled frequently on the stony incline, and the jolting pained him. He had left behind his hat on account of the heat and now wished he were wearing it for the same reason.
    The novice was the same one who had led the party from the boat two days before. He had said nothing then, and said nothing now. Vane watched his cowled figure mounting steadily ahead of him with increased displeasure. The only response he gave to Vane’s question was to raise his arm and point ahead. He hardly seemed to be affected by the heat.
    ‘Whereas I,’ thought Vane to himself, ‘might very well have been poisoned, I feel so ill.’
    Geoffrey, wandering off the path and scrambling among the rocks and bushes, seemed to keep up with them without effort. He stooped every now and again to pick something, and presently came up to Vane with a handful of berries.
    Vane shook his head. He was in no mood to eat anything, having eaten enormously that morning of a plate of meat produced in sly triumph by the Manciple personally. It was dark, sweet meat, three slices of it in a wooden dish, and Vane had wolfed it down as if he had not eaten for a fortnight. Now it lay uneasily on his stomach, like an animal twitching in a nightmare.
    ‘Isn’t the well over in that direction?’ muttered Vane. ‘I thought it was directly above the abbey? The abbey was built just below it, deliberately.’
    ‘We are going to the cemetery first, sir,’ said Geoffrey, with a purple mouth. ‘The Abbot said we should go first to the cemetery.’
    ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Vane.
    The cemetery was situated over the mountain, in the centre of the island, as though to secure the graves as far as possible from the danger of slipping into the sea and floating away. Or perhaps it was to ensure that the final resting-place of the pilgrims was in as elevated a position as possible to give them a dramatic advantage at the blast of the last trumpet call.
    When they arrived, Vane held up his silver cross and blessed the place, which was a grassy mound cleared of bracken and thorn and ringed with a wall of stone. The grass itself was undisturbed, thin, dry and rusty, clustered on the graves. The stones were simple, and their inscriptions economically though neatly carved.
    While Vane moved among the rows, consulting his list, the novice stood by the little gate with his arms folded. Geoffrey took the donkey in search of water, but there was only one stream and that was dry, barely a smudge of darker earth streaking the scorched and crumbling heather.
    The novice had learned, in a short space of time, that Vane was a person whom it was impossible to admire. He did not feel obliged