It was starting to feel as though some monstrous joke was being played on me: to have the benefit of a wealthy benefactor, but to find that benefactor seemingly a step away from the madhouse. What good was a guardian who was so deranged? What crazy purpose did he have for me at that house and how long must I wait to discover it? I breakfasted alone the following morning. Clarence waited for me in the hall now, expecting to be patted before I went into the dining room. I was happy to oblige. I returned to my room and spent the next few hours leafing through some books I had brought there from the library. I was particularly taken with a book by the famous artist and travel writer Arthur Weybridge, about his adventures in Asia Minor. It was dedicated to his son, Francis, who had died in tragic circumstances on the expedition. But Francis’s fate notwithstanding, I was enchanted with the wonderful drawings of those exotic locations and the descriptions of what he found there.
