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“I would agree that they are remarkably well crafted. But art is different from
craftsmanship, wouldn’t you say? Different in intent?”
“I am not at all sure,” Emma said thoughtfully as Trevor pulled the muslin back into
place. There were four large panels of it, the wall being somewhere the length of a train car. Emma
had never been good at estimating measurements. She stood back as Trevor worked to cover the
pictures, chewing on her bottom lip. “At least seeing the wall explains why everyone is so upset
about this temple, why God-fearing Englishwomen refuse to even come down this street. But do you
think it also explains why Anthony Weaver did?”
“Possibly,” said Trevor, above the persistent fluttery noise of the bells, for each tug of
the curtain set off a fresh concert. “But the old duffer doesn’t strike me as a connoisseur of
pornography. No, I think it was something else that pulled him toward this temple.”
***
The Weaver House
10:50 AM
Rayley and Davy had finished dusting the Weaver house for prints, paying special
attention to the kitchen and the doorknobs in the occupied bedrooms. They were now taking a small
break in the back garden.
Or rather Rayley was taking a small break and Davy was compulsively watering the
plants.
“Can’t help it, Sir,” said Davy. “Me mum would have my head if I stood by and let a
patch of peas go to ruin.”
Rayley nodded absentmindedly, although the boy’s perpetual industry made him slightly
ashamed of his own need to rest. “That odd tree-like plant in the corner. That’s the one you took
samples of for Tom, I assume?”
“Yes, Sir. Never seen anything like it.”
“Nor have I,” said Rayley. “While everything else in the garden is easily identifiable.
The poor woman certainly tried to recreate her own little patch of England, did she not? Of course,
the very fact that tree stands so nakedly visible seems to exonerate it, for it seems that only a fool
would use a poison from his own garden to murder his wife.”
“Something else, Sir,” said Davy, putting down his ladle. “If you’ll follow me to Sang’s
room…”
The two men moved back into the shade of the house where the bedroom which had held
the manservant seemed the coolest and most inviting of the three they had dusted, partly because of the
cheerful colors and partly, Rayley assumed, because the furnishings were designed to counteract the
challenges of the environment. Davy walked straight up to a brass stand, and pulled off a dropcloth
to reveal a large and ornate birdcage made of rattan. Three onion-shaped domes were perched on top
in a reasonably effective imitation of the local architecture.
“See here, Sir,” he said, replenishing the bird’s level of food and water as he spoke.
“Yesterday when I fed the bird something about the situation niggled at me but I couldn’t think what.”
“How the bird survived two weeks without food?”
“Well, obviously it didn’t, Sir. Someone has been coming in to attend it, most likely the
English woman in the sari. No, something else seemed wrong in the situation, and then last night as I
was going to bed it hit me. There are two water bowls in this cage, two feeding dishes, two of those
little mirrored amusements. Which makes me wonder –“