Touched by Angels by Alan Watts Page B

as he pretended to look at a wall painting.
    To stay too long would look suspicious, but after a few minutes he saw what he had hoped. A boy of about seventeen joined the older man and the rancour between them was obvious. He looked as though he had been a walking punch bag at school, lanky with rosy cheeks, which were peppered here and there with red spots, and a nervous tic in his left eye.
    He was safely on the other side of the road as he saw the two people he was after emerge. They looked happy and contented, with not a care in the world.
    This left him more mystified and irritated than ever. He quickly reasoned that no bags meant they hadn’t checked out yet, so time to move quickly.
     
    ***
     
    Sir Rupert King had surmised a lot too, as he stood in the Boys Canteen in the workhouse beneath a fading slogan on the wall, informing them that “God loves the meek and the thrifty”.
    There were about two hundred inmates here, ranging in age from six to fifteen; among them the four Inkpen boys, whose heads had been shaved and painted with iodine in varying hues of mauve and brown, to fight a ringworm infection. They sported various dressings too, where boils had been pricked. They stood with everybody else in the long queue for lunch, cold and miserable, as thin Mrs Scantleberry slopped tepid gruel into their outstretched bowls.
    Mr Flint stood by her side, his unblinking eyes missing nothing.
    The silence was absolute, apart from the rumbling of many bellies and Mrs Scantleberry’s continuous coughing.
    When they were all finally seated, heads bowed, Mr Flint prayed.
    Sir Rupert had his mind on other, less virtuous things than paying heed to the Good Lord though. He was sure the woman he had seen had stolen the money to pay for the clothes they wore.
    The fact that Bride was watching the fine lady and her son suggested they had something to do with his nephew and that something untoward, or even perilous, may have happened to him.
    That was the main reason for him being here. He needed the help of Mr Belcher, both to secure the truth from their devious private detective and possibly even locate his thieving nephew, and he didn’t care a jot how he did it.
    He stood next to his brother, scrutinising the proceedings, his other concern being that he was determined to reduce the running costs. He had half an eye on the depth of the thin greasy soup, that was routinely tested with a ruler to be sure it was no more than the inch and a quarter in depth they had agreed upon.
    He was intrigued though, as to why, when Flint bade them all be seated, one boy had the impertinence to remain standing, arms folded, not touching his food, whilst staring pointedly at the ceiling.
    He was aware too of a change in his brother’s breathing as he ogled him.
    Although he found certain of Alistair’s predilections disturbing, to say the least, he had to admit the boy was a fine strapping lad, built up by nearly six months of rock breaking.
    For specimens such as this, Alistair had a little room upstairs, containing a specially adapted desk, with straps for ankles, wrists, elbows and knees, and a gag for the mouth; into which the boy of his choice was bent over, naked and restrained, while he took his time to undress.
    As they stood watching their charges, spoons at the ready, they waited for Mr Flint to utter, “Begin,” before Sir Rupert fixed him with a glare.
    He wandered over, looping his cane over his arm.
    Sir Rupert hissed, “For what reason, Mr Flint, is that boy not sitting or eating?”
    “He has stiffly refused to, Sir. He claims the food is inedible. Utter nonsense of course!”
    “You beat him, I hope?”
    “Indeed, Sir, in my study, with a will, but sadly, still to no avail. Some nuts, I regret to say, are tougher than others to crack.”
    Sir Rupert’s lips thinned, his monocle dropped and swung back and forth across his chest, as he growled, white-faced with rage, “Then thrash him yet again, this time before the