As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. Lucy clapped a hand over Michelle’s mouth and struck her neck with a swift blow to the carotid artery. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke.
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