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Death in Ecstasy
Ngaio Marsh


Another classic Ngaio Marsh novel.Who slipped cyanide into the ceremonial wine of ecstasy at the House of the Sacred Flame? The other initiates and the High Priest claim to be above earthly passions. But Roderick Alleyn discovers that the victim had provoked lust and jealousy, and he suspects that more evil still lurks behind the Sign of the Sacred Flame…















Dedication (#ua30344b7-641f-5204-9489-bea9250cb6ca)


For the family in Kent




Contents


Dedication (#u7c6da817-5807-54d6-ab7b-5c9e08cd7dbf)

The Characters in the Case (#u79d35db5-0ff0-513e-8ce1-58b3183376b6)

Foreword (#u88f87797-4c3d-52ec-a827-03efbcb42105)

PART ONE (#ucb77de49-e85b-521c-bcea-8ef85f1d91c0)

1 Entrance to a Cul-de-sac (#u62089432-2f77-54e7-a468-a5426c3d12fb)

2 The House of the Sacred Flame (#u21d1dcf9-15b2-59d6-b745-18abd04ff20f)

3 Death of an Ecstatic Spinster (#uf39c5136-7804-5984-866c-abb40cd0b2f2)

4 The Yard (#u68a9860d-0a82-51fc-9666-7e4274e80980)

5 A Priest and Two Acolytes (#ue1fedb3e-b021-543f-ae20-5a85547eacdc)

6 Mrs Candour and Mr Ogden (#uac60d73a-bdab-58c2-98ca-26b555156230)

7 Janey and Maurice (#litres_trial_promo)

8 The Temperament of M. de Ravigne (#litres_trial_promo)

9 Miss Wade (#litres_trial_promo)

10 A Piece of Paper and a Bottle (#litres_trial_promo)

11 Contents of a Desk, a Safe, and a Bookcase (#litres_trial_promo)

12 Alleyn Takes Stock (#litres_trial_promo)

PART TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

13 Nannie (#litres_trial_promo)

14 Nigel Takes Stock (#litres_trial_promo)

15 Father Garnette Explores the Contents of a Mare’s Nest (#litres_trial_promo)

16 Mr Ogden Puts his Trust in Policemen (#litres_trial_promo)

17 Mr Ogden Grows Less Trustful (#litres_trial_promo)

18 Contribution from Miss Wade (#litres_trial_promo)

19 Alleyn Looks for a Flat (#litres_trial_promo)

20 Fools Step In (#litres_trial_promo)

21 Janey Breaks a Promise (#litres_trial_promo)

22 Sidelight on Mrs Candour (#litres_trial_promo)

23 Mr Ogden at Home (#litres_trial_promo)

24 Maurice Speaks (#litres_trial_promo)

25 Alleyn Snuffs the Flame (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




The Characters in the Case (#ulink_bb9fbfad-2c9f-5d52-8521-1046e53fa7e1)














Foreword (#ulink_86a59118-02b6-5674-a051-bec07ef6d8da)


In case the House of the Sacred Flame might be thought to bear a superficial resemblance to any existing church or institution, I hasten to say that if any similarity exists it is purely fortuitous. The House of the Sacred Flame, its officials, and its congregation are all imaginative and exist only in Knocklatchers Row. None, as far as I am aware, has any prototype in any part of the world.

My grateful thanks are due to Robin Page for his advice in the matter of sodium cyanide; to Guy Cotterill for the plan of the House of the Sacred Flame, and to Robin Adamson for his fiendish ingenuity in the matter of home-brewed poisons.

NGAIO MARSH

Christchurch, New Zealand








Part One (#ulink_ff891c05-1abe-52cd-8748-a88573f4e581)




CHAPTER 1 Entrance to a Cul-de-sac (#ulink_825cf5c5-7852-5bb1-aae4-861c826e42a5)


On a pouring wet Sunday night in December of last year a special meeting was held at the House of the Sacred Flame in Knocklatchers Row.

There are many strange places of worship in London, and many remarkable sects. The blank face of a Cockney Sunday masks a kind of activity, intermittent but intense. All sorts of queer little religions squeak, like mice in the wainscoting, behind its tedious façade.

Perhaps these devotional side-shows satisfy in some measure the need for colour, self-expression and excitement in the otherwise drab lives of their devotees. They may supply a mild substitute for the orgies of a more robust age. No other explanation quite accounts for the extraordinary assortment of persons that may be found in their congregations.

Why, for instance, should old Miss Wade beat her way down the King’s Road against a vicious lash of rain and in the teeth of a gale that set the shop signs creaking and threatened to drive her umbrella back into her face? She would have been better off in her bed-sitting-room with a gas-fire and her library book.

Why had Mr Samuel J. Ogden dressed himself in uncomfortable clothes and left his apartment in York Square for the smelly discomfort of a taxi and the prospect of two hours without a cigar?

What induced Cara Quayne to exchange the amenities of her little house in Shepherd Market for a dismal perspective of wet pavements and a deserted Piccadilly?

What more insistent pleasure drew M. de Ravigne away from his Van Goghs, and the satisfying austerity of his flat in Lowndes Square?

If this question had been put to these persons, each of them, in his or her fashion, would have answered untruthfully. All of them would have suggested that they went to the House of the Sacred Flame because it was the right thing to do. M. de Ravigne would not have replied that he went because he was madly in love with Cara Quayne; Cara Quayne would not have admitted that she found in the services an outlet for an intolerable urge towards exhibitionism. Miss Wade would have died rather than confess that she worshipped, not God, but the Reverend Jasper Garnette. As for Mr Ogden, he would have broken out immediately into a long discourse in which the words ‘uplift,’ ‘renooal,’ and ‘spiritual regeneration’ would have sounded again and again, for Mr Ogden was so like an American as to be quite fabulous.

Cara Quayne’s car, Mr Ogden’s taxi, and Miss Wade’s goloshes all turned into Knocklatchers Row at about the same time.

Knocklatchers Row is a cul-de-sac leading off Chester Terrace and not far from Graham Street. Like Graham Street it is distinguished by its church. In December of last year the House of the Sacred Flame was obscure. Only members of the congregation and a few of their friends knew of its existence. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn had never heard of it. Nigel Bathgate, looking disconsolately out of his window in Chester Terrace, noticed its sign for the first time. It was a small hanging sign made of red glass and shaped to represent a flame rising from a cup. Its facets caught the light as a gust of wind blew the sign back. Nigel saw the red gleam and at the same time noticed Miss Wade hurry into the doorway. Then Miss Quayne’s car and Mr Ogden’s taxi drew up and the occupants got out. Three more figures with bent heads and shining mackintoshes turned into Knocklatchers Row. Nigel was bored. He had the exasperated curiosity of a journalist. On a sudden impulse he seized his hat and umbrella, ran downstairs and out into the rain. At that moment Detective-Inspector Alleyn in his flat in St James’s looked up from his book and remarked to his servant: ‘It’s blowing a gale out there. I shall be staying in tonight.’




CHAPTER 2 The House of the Sacred Flame (#ulink_2380456c-d908-5c12-b3b6-bec26e4b3ce8)


In Chester Terrace the wind caught Nigel broadside-on, causing him to prance and curvet like a charger. The rain pelted down on his umbrella and the street lamps shone on the wet pavement. He felt adventurous and pleased that he had followed his impulse to go abroad on such a night. Knocklatchers Row seemed an exciting street. Its name sounded like a password to romance. Who knows, he thought hopefully, into what strange meeting-place I may venture? It should be exotic and warm and there should be incense and curious rites. With these pleasant anticipations he crossed Chester Street and, lowering his umbrella to meet the veering wind, made for the House of the Sacred Flame.

Two or three other figures preceded him, but by the time he reached the swinging sign they had all disappeared into a side entry. As he drew nearer Nigel was aware of a bell ringing, not clearly, insistently, like the bell of St Mary’s, Graham Street, but with a smothered and inward sound as though it was deep inside a building. He turned left under the sign into shelter, and at that moment the bell stopped ringing. He found himself in a long covered passage, lit at the far end by a single lamp, or rather by a single light, for as he approached he saw that a naked flame rose from a bronze torch held in an iron sconce. Doubtless in deference to some by-law this unusual contrivance was encased in a sort of cage. Beyond the torch he saw double doors. A man came through, closed the doors, locked them, and seated himself on a stool under the torch. Nigel furled his umbrella and approached this doorkeeper. He was a thinnish young man, pale and spectacled, with an air of gentility.

‘I’m afraid you are too late,’ he said.

‘Too late?’ Nigel felt ridiculously exasperated and disappointed.

‘Yes. The bell has stopped. I have just locked the doors.’

‘But only this second. I saw you do it as I lowered my umbrella. Couldn’t you open them again?’

‘The bell has stopped.’

‘I can hear that very well. That, too, has only just occurred. Could not you let me in?’

‘I see you do not know our rules,’ said the young man, and pointed to a framed notice which hung beside the doors. Nigel turned peevishly and read the sentence indicated by the young man: ‘The bell ceases ringing as the Priest enters the temple. The doors are then locked and will not be reopened until the ceremony is ended.’

‘There, you see,’ said the young man complacently.

‘Yes, I see. But if you will allow me to say so, I consider that you make a mistake in so stringently enforcing this rule. As you have noticed I am a new-comer. Something prompted me to come – an impulse. Who knows but what I might have proved an enthusiastic convert to whatever doctrine is taught behind your locked doors?’

‘There is a Neophytes’ Class at six-fifteen on Wednesdays.’

‘I shall not attend it,’ cried Nigel in a rage.

‘That is as you please.’

Nigel perceived very clearly that he had made a fool of himself. He could not understand why he felt so disproportionately put out at being refused entrance to a ceremony of which he knew nothing and, he told himself, cared less. However he was already a little ashamed of his churlish behaviour and with the idea of appeasing the doorkeeper he turned once again to the notice.

At the top was a neat red torch set in a circle of other symbols, with most of which he was unfamiliar. Outside these again were the signs of the Zodiac. With a returning sense of chagrin he reflected that this was precisely the sort of thing his mood had demanded. Undoubtedly the service would be strange and full of an exotic mumbo-jumbo. He might even have got a story from it. A muffled sound of chanting beyond the doors increased his vexation. However he read on:

In the Light of the Sacred Flame all mysteries are but different facets of the One Mystery, all Gods but different aspects of one Godhead. Time is but an aspect of Eternity, and the doorway to Eternity is Spiritual Ecstasy.

JASPER GARNETTE

‘Tell me,’ said Nigel, turning to the doorkeeper, ‘who is Jasper Garnette?’

‘Our Founder,’ answered the young man stiffly, ‘and our Priest.’

‘You mean that not only does he write about eternity but he actually provides the doorway which he mentions in this notice?’

‘You may say,’ said the young man with a glint of genuine fervour in his eye, ‘that this is The Doorway.’

‘And are you fated to stay for ever on the threshold, shutting out yourself and all later arrivals?’ inquired Nigel, who was beginning to enjoy himself.

‘We take it in turns.’

‘I see. I can hear a voice raised in something that sounds like a lament. Is that the voice of Mr Jasper Garnette?’

‘Yes. It is not a lament. It is an Invocation.’

‘What is he invoking?’

‘You really should attend the Neophytes’ Class at six-fifteen on Wednesdays. It is against our Rule for me to gossip while I am On Guard,’ pronounced the doorkeeper, who seemed to speak in capitals.

‘I should hardly call this gossip,’ Nigel objected. Suddenly he jumped violently. A loud knock had sounded on the inside of the door. It was twice repeated.

‘Please get out of the way,’ cried the young man. He removed the wire guard in front of the torch. Then he took a key from his pocket and with this he opened the double doors.

Nigel drew to one side hurriedly. There was a small recess by the doors. He backed into it.

Over the threshold came two youths dressed in long vermilion robes and short overgarments of embroidered purple. They had long fuzzy hair brushed straight back. One of them was red-headed with a pointed nose and prominent teeth. The other was dark with languorous eyes and full lips. They carried censers and advanced one to each side of the torch making obeisances. They were followed by an extremely tall man clad in embroidered white robes of a Druidical cut and flavour. He was of a remarkable appearance, having a great mane of silver hair, large sunken eyes and black brows. The bone of his face was much emphasized, the flesh heavily grooved. His mouth was abnormally wide with a heavy underlip. It might have been the head of an actor, a saint, or a Middle-West American purveyor of patent medicines. Nigel had ample opportunity to observe him, for he stood in front of the torch with his short hands folded over an unlighted taper. He whispered and muttered for some time, genuflected thrice, and then advanced his taper to the flame. When it was lit he held it aloft. The doorkeeper and the two acolytes went down on their knees, the priest closed his eyes, and Nigel walked into the hall.

He found himself in a darkness that at first seemed to be absolute. In a few seconds, however, he could make out certain large shapes and masses. In the distance, perhaps on an altar, a tiny red light shone. His feet sank into a thick carpet and made no sound. He smelt incense. He felt the presence of a large number of people all close to him, all quite silent. A little reflected light came in through the doors. Nigel moved cautiously away from it towards his right and, since he met with no obstruction, thought that he must be in a cross-aisle. His eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw veils of moving smoke, lighter shapes that suggested vast nudities, then rows of bent heads with blurred outlines. He discovered that he was moving across the back of the church behind the last row of pews. There seemed to be an empty seat in the far corner. He made for this and had slid into it when a flicker of light, the merest paling of gloom, announced the return of the priest – surely Jasper Garnette himself – with his taper. He appeared in the centre aisle, his face and the rich embroidery of his robe lit from beneath by the taper. The face seemed to float slowly up the church until it changed into the back of a head with a yellow nimbus. The taper was held aloft. Then, with a formidable plop, an enormous flame sprang up out of the dark. The congregation burst into an alarming uproar. An organ uttered two or three of those nerve-racking groans that are characteristic of this instrument and red lamps came to life at intervals along the walls.

For several minutes the noise was intolerable, but gradually it revealed itself as a sort of a chant. Next to Nigel was a large lady with a shrill voice. He listened attentively but could make nothing of her utterances, which seemed to be in no known language.

‘Ee-ai-ee-yah-ee,’ chanted this lady.

Presently the organ and the congregation together unexpectedly roared out a recognisable Amen. Everyone slid back from their knees into their seats and there was silence.

Nigel looked about him.

The House of the Sacred Flame resembled, in plan, any Anglican or Roman church. Nave, transept, sanctuary and altar – all were there. On the left was a rostrum, on the right a reading-desk. With these few specious gestures, however, any appearance of orthodoxy ended. Indeed the hall looked like nothing so much as an ultramodern art exhibition gone completely demented. From above the altar projected a long sconce holding the bronze torch from which the sanctuary flame rose in all its naptha-like theatricality. On the altar itself was a feathered serpent, a figure carved in wood with protruding tongue and eyes made of pawa shell, a Wagnerian sort of god, a miniature totem-pole and various other bits of heathen bric-a-brac, as ill-assorted as a bunch of plenipotentiaries at Geneva. The signs of the Zodiac decorated the walls, and along the aisles were stationed at intervals some remarkable examples of modern sculpture. The treatment was abstract, but from the slithering curves and tortured angles emerged the forms of animals and birds – a lion, a bull, a serpent, a cat and a phoenix. Cheek by jowl with these, in gloomy astonishment, were ranged a number of figures whom Nigel supposed must represent the more robust gods and goddesses of Nordic legend. The gods wore helmets and beards, the goddesses helmets and boots. They all looked as though they had been begun by Epstein and finished by a frantic bricklayer. In the nearest of these figures Nigel fancied he recognized Odin. The god was draped in an angular cloak from the folds of which glared two disconsolate quadrupeds who might conceivably represent Geri and Freki, while from behind a pair of legs suggestive of an advanced condition of elephantiasis peered a brace of disconsolate fowls, possibly Huginn and Muninn. Incense burned all over the place. Everything was very expensive and lavish.

Having seen this much, Nigel’s attention was arrested by a solitary voice of great beauty. The Rev. Jasper Garnette had mounted the pulpit.

Afterwards, when he tried to describe this part of the service to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, Nigel found himself quite unable to give even the most general resumé of the sermon. Yet at the time he was much impressed. It seemed to him that these were the utterances of an intellectual. He had an extraordinary sense of rightness as though, in a series of intoxicating flashes, all mental and spiritual problems were reduced to a lovely simplicity. Everything seemed to fit with exquisite precision. He had a vivid impression of being personally put right. At first it appeared that the eyes of the preacher were on him alone. They looked into each other’s eyes, he thought, and he was conscious of making a complete surrender. Later the preacher told him to look at the torch and he did so. It wavered and swelled with the voice. He no longer felt the weight of his body on the seat. Nigel, in short, had his first experience of partial hypnotism and was well under way when the large lady gave utterance to a stentorian sneeze and an apologetic gasp: ‘Oh, dear me!’

That, he told Alleyn, tore it. Back to earth he came just as Father Garnette spoke his final period, and that was the one utterance Nigel did retain:

‘Now the door is open, now burns the flame of ecstasy. Come with me into the Oneness of the Spirit. You are floating away from your bodies. You are entering into a new life. There is no evil. Let go your hold on the earth. Ecstasy – it is yours. Come, drink of the flaming cup!

From all round the hall came a murmur. It swelled and was broken by isolated cries. The large lady was whimpering, further along a man’s voice cried out incoherently. The priest had gone to the altar and from a monstrance he drew out a silver flagon and a jewelled cup. He handed the flagon to the dark acolyte and passed his hand across the cup. A flame shot up from within, burned blue and went out. In the front rank a woman leapt to her feet. The rest of the congregation knelt. The woman ran up the chancel steps and with a shrill ‘Heil!’ fell prostrate under the torch. The priest stood over her, the cup held above his head. She was followed by some half-a-dozen others who ranged themselves in a circle about her, knelt and raised their hands towards the cup. They, too, cried out incoherently. There was something indecent about these performances and Nigel, suddenly sane, felt ashamed and most uncomfortable. Now the priest gave the cup to one of the kneeling circle, a large florid woman. She, with the exclamation of ‘Y’mir,’ pronounced with shrill emphasis, took the silver flagon from the attendant acolyte, poured something into the cup and passed it to her neighbour. He was a dark and well-groomed man who repeated the ritual uttering a different word. So the cup went round the circle. Each Initiate took it from his neighbour, was handed the flagon by the acolyte, poured wine from the flagon into the cup, passed the cup to the next Initiate, and returned the flagon to the acolyte. Each uttered a single word. Nigel thought he detected the names of ‘Thor,’ of ‘Ar’riman’ and ‘Vidur’ among others so outlandish as to be incomprehensible. The circle completed, the priest again received the cup. The prostrate woman sprang to her feet. Her arms twitched and she mouthed and gibbered like an idiot, turning her head from side to side. It was a nauseating, a detestable performance, doubly so since she was a beautiful creature; tall, not old, but white-haired. She was well and fashionably dressed, but her clothes were disarranged by her antics, her hat had slipped grotesquely sideways and one of her sleeves was twisted and dragged upwards. She began to speak, a long stream of incoherences in which were jumbled the names of antique gods with those of present-day beliefs. ‘I am one and I am all.’ The kneeling circle kept up an obbligato of ‘Heils’ in which, at the last, she joined, clapping her hands together and rocking to and fro.

Suddenly, perhaps at some signal from the priest, they were all silent. The woman stretched both her hands out and the priest gave her the cup.

‘The wine of ecstasy give you joy in your body and soul!’

‘Tur-aie!’

‘The holy madness of the flame possess you!’

‘Heil! Tur-aie! Tur-aie!’

She raised the cup to her lips. Her head tipped back and back until the last drop must have been drained. Suddenly she gasped violently. She slewed half round as if to question the priest. Her hands shot outwards as though she offered him the cup. Then they parted inconsequently. The cup flashed as it dropped to the floor. Her face twisted into an appalling grimace. Her body twitched violently. She pitched forward like an enormous doll, jerked twice and then was still.




CHAPTER 3 Death of an Ecstatic Spinster (#ulink_432e25fa-e8fd-5bcd-a04f-f093716bd84a)


At first Nigel, though greatly startled, imagined that this performance was merely the climax of the ceremony. He found the whole business extremely unpleasant but was nevertheless interested. Perhaps a minute passed before he realized that the woman’s collapse was not anticipated by the congregation or by Father Garnette himself. A young man in the group of Initiates gave the first indication. He rose from his knees and stood looking from the woman to the priest. He spoke, but so quietly that Nigel could not hear what he said. The rest of the circle remained kneeling, but rather as though they had forgotten to rise or were stricken into immobility. The ecstatic fervour of the ceremony had quite vanished and something infinitely more disquieting had taken its place. The priest spoke. Perhaps because he had heard the words so often that evening, Nigel heard them then.

‘Spiritual ecstasy …’ He pronounced this word ‘ecstasah.’ ‘Manifestation …’

The Initiate hesitated and looked fixedly at the prostrate figure.

‘My friends,’ said the priest loudly, with an air of decision. ‘My friends, our beloved sister has been vouchsafed the greatest boon of all. She is in ecstasy. Let us leave her to her tremendous experience. Let us sing our hymn to Pan, the God-in-all.’

He stopped. The organ uttered a tentative growl. The congregation, murmuring and uneasy, got to its feet.

‘Let us sing,’ repeated Jasper Garnette with determination, ‘the hymn –’

A scream rang out. The dowdy woman had broken away from the circle and stood with her head thrust forward and her mouth wide open.

‘It’s not. It’s not. She’s dead. I touched her. She’s dead!’

‘Miss Wade, quiet!’

‘I won’t be quiet! She’s dead.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said a placid voice near Nigel. An elderly solid-looking man was working his way out of the row of pews. He pushed himself carefully past the large lady. Nigel moved out to make way for him and then, on a journalistic impulse, followed him up the aisle.

‘I think I had better have a look at this lady,’ said the man placidly.

‘But, Dr Kasbek –’

‘I think I had better have a look at her, Father Garnette.’

Nigel unobserved, came up with the group under the torch. He had the sensation of walking on to a stage and joining in the action of a play. They appeared a strange enough crew, white-faced and cadaverous looking in the uneven glare of the single flame. This made a kind of labial bubbling. It was the only sound. The doctor knelt by the prostrate figure.

She had fallen half on her face, and head downwards across the chancel steps. The doctor touched her wrist and then, with a brusque movement, pulled away the cap that hid her face. The eyes, wide open and protuberant, stared straight up at him. At the corners of the mouth were traces of a rimy spume. The mouth itself was set, with the teeth clenched and the lips drawn back, in a rigid circle. The cheeks were cherry-red, but the rest of the face was livid. She may have been in a state of ecstasy but she was undoubtedly dead.

On seeing this dreadful face, the Initiates who had gathered round drew back quickly, some with exclamations, some silently. The elderly drab lady, Miss Wade, uttered a stifled yelp in which there was both terror and, oddly enough, a kind of triumph.

‘Dead! I told you she was dead! Oh! Father Garnette!’

‘Cover it up for God’s sake,’ said the tall young man.

The doctor knelt down. He sniffed twice at the rigid lips and then opened the front of the dress. Nigel could see his hand pressed firmly against the white skin. He held it there for some time, seconds that seemed like minutes. Still bent down, he seemed to be scrutinising the woman’s face. He pulled the hat forward again.

‘This is turrible, turrible. This certainly is turrible,’ murmured the commercial-looking gentleman, and revealed himself an American.

‘You’d better get rid of your congregation,’ said the doctor abruptly. He spoke directly to the priest.

Father Garnette had said nothing. He had not moved. He still looked a striking enough figure, but the virtue had gone out of him. He did not answer.

‘Will you tell them to go?’ asked Dr Kasbek.

‘Wait a moment.’

Nigel heard his own voice with a sensation of panic. They all turned to him, not in surprise, but with an air of bewilderment. He was conscious of a background of suppressed murmurs in the hall. He felt as though his vocal apparatus had decided to function independently.

‘Has this lady died naturally?’ he asked the doctor.

‘As you see, I have only glanced at her.’

‘Is there any doubt?’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the priest suddenly, and then: ‘Who are you?’

‘I was in the congregation. I am sorry to interfere, but if there is any suspicion of unnatural death I believe no one should –’

‘Unnatural death? Say, where d’you get that idea?’ said the American.

‘It’s the mouth and eyes, and – and the smell. I may be wrong.’ Nigel still looked at the doctor. ‘But if there’s a doubt I don’t think anybody should leave.’

The doctor returned his look calmly.

‘I think you are right,’ he said at last.

They had none of them raised their voices, but something of what they said must have communicated itself to the congregation. A number of people had moved out into the centre aisle. The murmur had swelled. Several voices rang out loudly and suddenly a woman screamed. There was a movement, confused and indeterminate, towards the chancel.

‘Tell them to sit down,’ said the Doctor.

The priest seemed to pull himself together. He turned and walked quickly up the steps into the pulpit. Nigel felt that he was making a deliberate effort to collect and control the congregation and to bend the full weight of his personality upon it.

‘My friends’ – the magnificent voice rang out firmly – ‘Will you all return to your seats and remain quiet? I believe, I firmly believe that the great rushing powers of endless space have chosen this moment to manifest themselves. Their choice has fallen upon our beloved sister in ecstasy, Cara Quayne.’ The voice wavered a little, then dropped a tone. ‘We must strengthen our souls with the power of the Word. I call upon you to meditate upon the word “Unity.” Let there be silence among you.’

He was at once obeyed. A stillness fell upon the hall. The rustle of his vestments sounded loudly as he came down the steps from the pulpit. To Nigel he seemed a fabulous, a monstrous creature.

He turned to the two acolytes, who stood, the one mechanically swinging his censer, the other holding the jug of wine.

‘Draw the chancel curtains,’ whispered Father Garnette.

‘Yes, Father,’ lisped the red-headed acolyte.

‘Yes, Father,’ minced the dark acolyte.

A rattle of brass, the sweep of heavy fabric, and they were swiftly shut away from the congregation by a wall of thick brocade. The chancel became a room, torch-lit and rather horribly cosy.

‘If we speak low,’ said Father Garnette, ‘they cannot hear. The curtains are interlined and very thick.’

‘For Gard’s sake!’ said the American. ‘This is surely a turrible affair. Doctor, are you quite certain she’s gone?’

‘Quite,’ answered the doctor, who had again knelt down by the body.

‘Yes, but there’s more in it than that,’ began the young man. ‘What’s this about no one leaving? What does it mean?’ He swung round to Nigel. ‘Why do you talk about unnatural death, and who the hell are you?’

‘Maurice,’ said Father Garnette. ‘Maurice, my dear fellow!’

‘This woman,’ the boy went on doggedly, ‘has no business here. She had no right to the Cup. She was evil. I know you – Father Garnette, I know.’

‘Maurice, be quiet.’

‘Can it, Pringle,’ said the American.

‘I tell you I know –’ The boy broke off and stared at the priest with a sort of frantic devotion. Father Garnette looked fixedly at him. If there was some sort of conflict between them the priest won, for the boy suddenly turned aside and walked away from them.

‘What is it?’ Nigel asked the doctor. ‘Is it poison?’

‘It looks like it, certainly. Death was instantaneous. We must inform the police.’

‘Is there a telephone anywhere near?’

‘I believe there’s one in Father Garnette’s rooms.’

‘His rooms?’

‘Behind the altar,’ said the doctor.

‘Then – may I use it?’

‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ asked the priest.

‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Kasbek. He looked at Nigel. ‘Will you do it?’

‘I will if you like. I know a man at the Yard.’

‘Do. What about the nearest relative? Anybody know who it is?’

‘She lives alone,’ said a girl who had not spoken before. ‘She told me once that she had no relations in England.’

‘I see,’ said Dr Kasbek. ‘Well, then, perhaps you’ – he looked at Nigel – ‘will get straight through to the police. Father Garnette, will you show this young man the way?’

‘I had better return to my people, I think,’ replied Father Garnette. ‘They will need me. Claude, show the way to the telephone.’

‘Yes, Father.’

In a kind of trance Nigel followed the dark acolyte up the sanctuary steps to the altar. The willowy Claude drew aside a brocaded curtain to the left of the altar and revealed a door which he opened and went through, casting a melting glance upon Nigel as he did so.

‘Nasty little bit of work,’ thought Nigel, and followed him.

Evidently Father Garnette lived behind the altar. They had entered a small flat. The room directly behind was furnished as a sort of mythological study. This much he took in as Claude glided across the room and snatched up something that looked like a sacramental tea-cosy. A telephone stood revealed.

‘Thank you,’ said Nigel, and hoped Claude would go away. He remained, gazing trustfully at Nigel.

Sunday evening. Unless he had an important case on hand, Alleyn ought to be at home. Nigel dialled the number and waited, conscious of his own heart-beat and of his dry mouth.

‘Hullo!’

‘Hullo – May I speak to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn? Oh, it’s you. You are in, then. It’s Nigel Bathgate here.’

‘Good evening, Bathgate. What’s the matter?’

‘I’m ringing from a hall, the – the House of the Sacred Flame in Knocklatchers Row off Chester Terrace, just opposite my flat.’

‘I know Knocklatchers Row. It’s in my division.’

‘A woman died here ten minutes ago. I think you’d better come.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘No.’

‘You wretched young man, what’s the matter with you? Is the lady murdered?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Why the devil didn’t you ring the Yard? I suppose I’d better do it.’

‘I think you ought to come. I’m holding the congregation. At least,’ added Nigel confusedly, ‘they are.’

‘You are quite unintelligible. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

Nigel hung up the receiver.

‘Fancy you knowing Alleyn of Scotland Yard,’ fluted Claude. ‘How perfectly marvellous! You are lucky.’

‘I think we had better go back,’ said Nigel.

‘I’d much rather stay here. I’m afraid. Did you ever see anything so perfectly dreadful as Miss Quayne’s face? Please do tell me – do you think it’s suicide?’

‘I don’t know. Are you coming?’

‘Very well. You seem to be a terrifically resolute sort of person. I’ll turn the light out. Isn’t Father Garnette marvellous? You’re new, aren’t you?’

Nigel dived out of the door.

He found the Initiates grouped round the American gentleman, who seemed to be addressing them in a whisper. He was a type that is featured heavily in transatlantic publicity, tall, rather fat and inclined to be flabby, but almost incredibly clean, as though he used all the deodorants, mouth washes, soaps and lotions recommended by his prototype who beams pep from the colour pages of American periodicals. The only irregularities in Mr Ogden were his eyes, which were skewbald – one light blue and one brown. This gave him a comic look and made one suspect him of clowning when he was most serious.

To Nigel’s astonishment the organ was playing and from beyond the curtains came a muffled sound of singing. Father Garnette’s voice was clearly distinguishable. Someone, the doctor perhaps, had covered the body with a piece of gorgeously embroidered satin.

When he saw Nigel the American gentleman stepped forward.

‘It appears to me we ought to get acquainted,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You kind of sprang up out of no place and took over the works. That’s OK by me, and I’ll hand it to you. I certainly appreciate prompt action. My name’s Samuel J. Ogden. I guess I’ve got a card somewhere.’ The amazing Mr Ogden actually thrust his hand into his breast pocket.

‘Please don’t bother,’ said Nigel. ‘My name is Bathgate.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bathgate,’ said Mr Ogden, instantly shaking hands. ‘Allow me to introduce these ladies and gentlemen. Mrs Candour, meet Mr Bathgate. Miss Wade, meet Mr Bathgate. Mr Bathgate, Miss Janey Jenkins. Monsieur de Ravigne, Mr Bathgate. Dr Kasbek, Mr Bathgate. Mr Maurice Pringle, Mr Bathgate. And these two young gentlemen are our acolytes. Mr Claude Wheatley and Mr Lionel Smith, meet Mr Bathgate.’

The seven inarticulate Britishers exchanged helpless glances with Nigel. M de Ravigne, a sleek Frenchman, gave him a scornful bow.

‘Well now –’ began Mr Ogden with a comfortable smile.

‘I think, if you don’t mind,’ said Nigel hurriedly, ‘that someone should go down to the front door. Inspector Alleyn is on his way here, and as things are at the moment he won’t be able to get in.’

‘That’s so,’ agreed Mr Ogden. ‘Maybe one of these boys –’

‘Oh, do let me go,’ begged Claude.

‘Fine,’ said Mr Ogden.

‘I’ll come with you, Claude,’ said the red-headed acolyte.

‘There’s no need for two, honestly, is there Mr Ogden?’

‘Oh, get to it, Fauntleroy, and take little Eric along!’ said Mr Ogden brutally. Nigel suddenly felt that he liked Mr Ogden.

The acolytes, flouncing, disappeared through the curtain. The sound of organ and voices was momentarily louder.

‘Do acolytes have to be that way?’ inquired Mr Ogden of nobody in particular.

Somebody laughed attractively. It was Miss Janey Jenkins. She was young and short and looked intelligent.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to laugh, only Claude and Lionel are rather awful, aren’t they?’

‘I agree,’ said Nigel quickly.

She turned, not to him, but to Maurice Pringle, the young man who had spoken so strangely to the priest. He now stood apart from the others and looked acutely miserable. Miss Jenkins went and spoke to him, but in so low a voice that Nigel could not hear what she said.

‘Dr Kasbek,’ said the little spinster whom Mr Ogden had called Miss Wade, ‘Dr Kasbek, I am afraid I am very foolish, but I do not understand. Has Cara Quayne been murdered?’

This suggestion, voiced for the first time, was received as though it was a gross indecency. Mrs Candour a peony of a woman, with ugly hands, uttered a scandalized yelp; M de Ravigne hissed like a steam-boiler; Mr Ogden said: ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute’; Pringle seemed to shrink into himself, and Janey Jenkins took his hand.

‘Surely not, Miss Wade,’ said Dr Kasbek. ‘Let us not anticipate such a thing.’

‘I only inquired,’ said Miss Wade. ‘She wasn’t very happy, poor thing, and she wasn’t very popular.’

‘Miss Wade – please!’ M de Ravigne looked angrily at the little figure. ‘I must protest – this is a – a preposterous suggestion. It is ridiculous.’ He gesticulated eloquently. ‘Is it not enough that this tragedy should have arrived? My poor Cara, is it not enough!’

The voice of Father Garnette could be heard, muffled but sonorous, beyond the curtains.

‘Listen to him!’ said Pringle. ‘Listen! He’s keeping them quiet. He’s kept us all quiet. What are we to believe of him?’

‘What are you talking about?’ whispered Mrs Candour savagely.

‘You know well enough. You’d have taken her place if you could. It’s not his fault – it’s yours. It’s all so – so beastly –’

‘Maurice,’ said Miss Jenkins softly.

‘Be quiet, Janey. I will say it. Whatever it is, it’s retribution. The whole thing’s a farce. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to tell them –’

He broke away from her and ran towards the curtains. Before he reached them they parted and a tall man came through.

‘Oh, there you are, Bathgate,’ said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. ‘What’s the trouble?’




CHAPTER 4 The Yard (#ulink_7d080db7-c282-50cc-90b1-9f5ef9ae900a)


The entrance of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn had a curious effect upon the scene and upon the actors. It was an effect which might be likened to that achieved by the cinema when the camera is shifted and the whole scene presented from a different viewpoint. Nigel had felt himself to be involved in a nightmare, but it now seemed to be someone else’s nightmare of which he was merely the narrator. He wondered wildly whether he should follow Mr Ogden’s example and embark on an elaborate series of introductions. However, he avoided this complication and in as few words as possible told Alleyn what had happened. The others remained silent, eyeing the inspector. Janey Jenkins held Pringle’s hand between her two hands; Miss Wade kept a handkerchief pressed against her lips; M.de Ravigne stood scornfully apart; Mrs Candour had collapsed into a grand-opera throne on the left of the altar; Mr Ogden looked capable and perturbed and the two acolytes gazed rapturously at the inspector. Alleyn listened with his curious air of detachment that always reminded Nigel of a polite faun. When Nigel came to the ecstatic frenzy, Alleyn made a slantwise grimace. Speaking so quietly that the others could not overhear him, Nigel repeated as closely as he could remember them the exclamations made by Pringle, Miss Wade and de Ravigne. Alleyn asked for the names of persons who should be informed. Beyond Miss Quayne’s servants there seemed to be nobody. Miss Jenkins, appealed to, said she had overheard Miss Quayne saying that her staff were all out on Sunday evening. She volunteered to ring up and find out and retired to Father Garnette’s room to do so. She returned to say there was no answer. Alleyn took the number and said he would see the house was informed later. As soon as he had learnt the facts of the case, Alleyn lifted the satin drapery and looked at the distorted face beneath it, spoke a few words aside to Dr Kasbek, and then addressed them all quietly. At this moment Father Garnette, having set his congregation going on another hymn, returned to the group. Nigel alone noticed him. He stood just inside the curtains and never took his eyes off the inspector.

Alleyn said: ‘There is, I think, no reason why you should not know what has happened here. This woman has probably died of poisoning. Until we know more of the circumstances and the nature of her death I shall have to take over the case on behalf of the police. From what I have heard I believe that there is nothing to be gained in keeping the rest of the congregation here.’ He turned slightly and saw the priest.

‘You are Mr Garnette? Will you be good enough to ask your congregation to go home – when they have quite finished singing, of course. I have stationed a constable inside the door. He will take their names. Just tell them that, will you?’

‘Certainly,’ said Father Garnette and disappeared through the curtains.

They heard him pronounce a benediction of sorts. Beyond the curtains there was a sort of stirring and movement. One or two people coughed. It all died away at last. A door slammed with a desolate air of finality and there was complete silence in the building, save for the slobbering of the torch. Father Garnette returned.

‘Phew!’ said Alleyn. ‘Let’s have the curtains drawn back, may we?’

Father Garnette inclined his head. Claude and Lionel flew to the sides of the chancel and in a moment the curtains rattled apart, revealing the solitary figure of the doorkeeper, agape on the lowest step.

‘Is there anything I can do, Father?’ asked the doorkeeper.

‘Lock the front door and go home,’ said Father Garnette.

‘Yes, Father,’ whispered the doorkeeper. He departed hurriedly pulling the double doors to with an apologetic slam. For a moment there was silence. Then Alleyn turned to Nigel.

‘Is there a telephone handy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get through to the Yard, will you, Bathgate, and tell them what has happened. Fox is on duty. Ask them to send him along with the usual support. We’ll want the divisional surgeon and a wardress.’

Nigel went into the room behind the altar and delivered this message. When he returned he found Alleyn, with his notebook in his hand, taking down the names and addresses of the Initiates.

‘It’s got to be done, you see,’ he explained. ‘There will, of course, be an inquest and I’m afraid you will all be called as witnesses.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Pringle with a snort of disgust.

‘I’d better start with the deceased,’ Alleyn suggested. ‘What is her name, please?’

‘She was a Miss Cara Quayne, Inspector,’ said Mr Ogden. ‘She owned a very, very distinctive residence in Shepherd Market, No.101. I have had the honour of dining at the Quayne home, and believe me it surely was an aesthetic experience. She was a very lovely-natured woman with a great appreciation of the beautiful –’

‘No. 101 Shepherd Market,’ said Alleyn. ‘Thank you.’ He wrote it down and then glanced round his audience.

‘I will take yours first if I may, Doctor Kasbek.’

‘Certainly. Nicholas Kasbek, 189a Wigmore Street.’

‘Right.’ He turned to Miss Wade.

‘My name is Ernestine Wade,’ she said very clearly and in a high voice, as though Alleyn was deaf. ‘I live at Primrose Court, King’s Road, Chelsea. Spinster.’

‘Thank you.’

Miss Jenkins came forward.

‘I’m Janey Jenkins. I live in a studio flat in Yeomans Row, No.99d. I’m a spinster too, if you want to know.’

‘Well,’ said Alleyn, ‘just for “Miss” or “Mrs,” you know.’

‘Now you, Maurice,’ said Miss Jenkins.

‘Pringle,’ said that gentleman as though the name was an offence. ‘Maurice. I’m staying at 11 Harrow Mansions, Sloane Square.’

‘Is that your permanent address?’

‘No. Haven’t got one unless you count my people’s place. I never go there if I can help it.’

‘The Phoenix Club will always find you, won’t it?’ murmured Miss Jenkins.

‘Oh, God, yes,’ replied Mr Pringle distastefully.

‘Next please,’ said Alleyn cheerfully. Mrs Candour spoke suddenly from the ecclesiastical throne. She had the air of uttering an appalling indecency.

‘My name is Dagmar Candour. Mrs. Queen Charlotte Flats, Kensington Square. No.12.’

‘C.a.n. – ?’ queried Alleyn.

‘d.o.u.r.’

‘Thank you.’

Mr Ogden, who had several times taken a step forward and as often politely retreated, now spoke up firmly.

‘Samuel J. Ogden, Chief. I guess you’re not interested in my home address. I come from the States – New York. In London I have a permanent apartment in York Square. No.93, Achurch Court. I just can’t locate my card-case, but – well, those are the works.’

‘Thank you so much, Mr Ogden. And now you, if you please, sir.’

Father Garnette hesitated a moment, oddly. Then he cleared his throat and answered in his usual richly inflected voice:

‘Father Jasper Garnette.’ He spelt it. ‘I am officiating priest of this temple. I live here.’

‘Here?’

‘I have a little dwelling beyond the altar.’

‘Extremely convenient,’ murmured Alleyn. ‘And now, these two’ – he looked a little doubtfully at Claude and Lionel – ‘these two young men.’

Claude and Lionel answered together in a rapturous gush.

‘What?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Do be quiet, Lionel,’ said Claude. ‘We share a flat in Ebury Street; “Ebury Mews.” Well, it isn’t actually a flat, is it, Lionel? Oh dear, I always forget the number – it’s too stupid of me.’

‘You are hopeless, Claude,’ said Lionel. ‘It’s 17 Ebury Mews, Ebury Street, Inspector Alleyn, only we aren’t very often there because I’m in the show at the Palladium and Claude is at Madame Karen’s in Sloane Street and –’

‘I do not yet know your names.’

‘Lionel, you are perfectly maddening,’ said Claude. ‘I’m Claude Wheatley, Inspector Alleyn, and this is Lionel Smith.’

Alleyn wrote these names down with the address, and added in brackets: ‘Gemini, possibly heavenly.’

M. de Ravigne came forward and bowed.

‘Raoul Honoré Christophe Jérôme de Ravigne, monsieur. I live at Branscombe Chambers, Lowndes Square. My card.’

‘Thank you. M. de Ravigne. And now will you all please show me exactly how you were placed while the cup was passed round the circle. I understand the ceremony took place in the centre of this area.’

After a moment’s silence the priest came forward.

‘I stood here,’ he said, ‘with the chalice in my hands. Mr Ogden knelt on my right, and Mrs Candour on my left.’

‘That is correct, sir,’ agreed Ogden and moved into place. ‘Miss Jenkins was on my right, I guess.’

‘Yes,’ said that lady, ‘and Maurice on mine.’

Mrs Candour came forward reluctantly and stood on Garnette’s left.

‘M. de Ravigne was beside me,’ she whispered.

‘Certainly.’ M. de Ravigne took up his position and Miss Wade slipped in beside him.

‘I was here,’ she said, ‘between Mr de Ravigne and Mr Pringle.’

‘That completes the circle,’ said Alleyn. ‘What were the movements of the acolytes.’

‘Well you see,’ began Claude eagerly, ‘I came here – just here on Father Garnette’s right hand. I was the Ganymede you see, so I had the jug of wine. As soon as Father Garnette gave Mrs Candour the cup, I gave her the wine. She holds the cup in her left hand and the wine in her right hand. She pours in a little wine and speaks the first god-name. You are Hagring, aren’t you Mrs Candour?’

‘I was,’ sobbed Mrs Candour.

‘Yes. And then I take the jug and hand it to the next person and –’

‘And so on,’ said Alleyn. Thank you.’

‘And I was censing over here,’ struck in Lionel with passionate determination. ‘I was censing all the time.’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn; ‘and now, I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you all a little longer. Perhaps, Mr Garnette, you will allow them to wait in your rooms. I am sure you would all like to get away from the scene of this tragedy. I think I hear my colleagues outside.’

There was a resounding knock on the front door.

‘Oh, may I let them in?’ asked Claude.

‘Please do,’ said Alleyn.

Claude hurried away down the aisle and opened the double doors. Seven men, three of them constables, came in, in single file, headed by a tall thick-set individual in plain clothes who removed his hat, glanced in mild surprise at the nude statues, and walked stolidly up the aisle.

‘Hullo, Fox,’ said Alleyn.

‘Evening, sir,’ said Inspector Fox.

‘There’s been some trouble here. One of you men go with these ladies and gentlemen into the room at the back there. Mr Garnette will show you the way. Will you, Mr Garnette? I’ll keep you no longer than I can possibly help. Dr Kasbek, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here –’

‘Look here,’ said Maurice Pringle suddenly, ‘I’m damned if I can see why we should be herded about like a mob of sheep. What has happened? Is she murdered?’

‘Very probably,’ said Alleyn coolly. ‘Nobody is going to herd you, Pringle. You are going to wait quietly and reasonably while we make the necessary investigations. Off you go.’

‘But –’

‘I knew,’ cried Mrs Candour suddenly. ‘I knew something dreadful would happen. M. de Ravigne, didn’t I tell you?’

‘If you please, madame!’ said de Ravigne with great firmness.

‘All that sort of thing should have been kept out,’ said little Miss Wade. ‘It should never –’

‘I think we had better follow instructions,’ interrupted Father Garnette loudly. ‘Will you all follow me?’

They trooped away, escorted by the largest of the constables.

‘Lumme!’ ejaculated Alleyn when the altar door had shut. ‘As you yourself would say, Fox, “quelle galère.”’

‘A rum crowd,’ agreed Fox, ‘and a very rum place too, seemingly. What’s happened, sir?’

‘A lady has just died of a dose of cyanide. There’s the body. Your old friend Mr Bathgate will tell you about it.’

‘Good evening, Mr Bathgate,’ said Fox mildly. ‘You’ve found something else in our line, have you?’

‘It was at the climax of the ceremony,’ began Nigel. ‘A cup was passed round a circle of people, these people whom you have just seen. This woman stood in the middle. The others knelt. A silver jug holding the wine was handed in turn to each of them and each poured a little into the cup. Then the priest, Father Garnette, gave her the cup. She drank it and – and fell down. I think she died at once, didn’t she?’

He turned to Dr Kasbek.

‘Within twenty seconds I should say.’ The doctor looked at the divisional surgeon.

‘I would have tried artificial respiration, sent for ferrous sulphate and a stomach tube and all the rest of it but’ – he grimaced – ‘there wasn’t a dog’s chance. She was dead before I got to her.’

‘I know,’ said the divisional surgeon. He lifted the drapery and bent over the body.

‘I noticed the characteristic odour at once,’ added Kasbek, ‘and so I think did Mr Bathgate.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nigel, ‘that’s why I butted in.’

Alleyn knelt by the fallen cup and sniffed.

‘Stinks of it,’ he said. ‘Bailey, you’ll have to look at this for prints. Not much help if they all handled it. We’ll have photographs first.’

The man with the camera had already begun to set up his paraphernalia. He took three flashlight shots, from different viewpoints, of the body and surrounding area. Alleyn opened the black bag, put on a pair of rubber gloves and took out a small bottle and a tiny funnel. He drained off one or two drops of wine from the cup. While he did this Nigel took the opportunity to relate as much of the conversation of the Initiates as he could remember. Alleyn listened, grunted, and muttered to himself as he restored the little bottle to his bag. Detective-Sergeant Bailey got to work with an insufflator and white chalk.

‘Where’s the original vessel that was handed round by one of these two hothouse flowers?’ asked Alleyn. ‘Is this it?’ He pointed to a silver jug standing in a sort of velvet-lined niche on the right side of the chancel.

‘That’s it,’ said Nigel. ‘Claude must have kept his head and put it there when – after it happened.’

‘Is Claude the black orchid or the red lily?’

‘The black orchid.’

Alleyn sniffed at the silver jug and filled another bottle from it.

‘Nothing there though, I fancy,’ he murmured. ‘Let me get a picture of the routine. Miss Quayne stood in the centre here and the others knelt round her. Mr Garnette – I really cannot bring myself to allude to the gentleman as “Father” – Mr Garnette produced the cup and the – what does one call it? Decanter is scarcely the word. The flagon, perhaps. He gave the flagon to Master Ganymede Claude, passed his hand over the cup and up jumped a flame. A drop of methylated spirits perhaps.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Kasbek, looking amused.

‘Well. And then the cup was passed from hand to hand by the kneeling circle and each took the flagon from Claude and poured in a libation.’

‘Each of them uttered a single word,’ interrupted Nigel. ‘I really have no idea what some of them were.’

‘The name of a diety, I understand,’ volunteered Kasbek. ‘I am not a member of the cult, but I’ve been here before. They pronounce the names of six deities. “Hagring,” “Haco,” “Frigga,” and so on. Garnette is Odin and the Chosen Vessel is always Frigga. The idea is that all the godheads are embodied in one godhead and that the essence of each is mingled in the cup. It’s a kind of popular pantheism.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said Alleyn. ‘Now then. The cup went round the circle. When it got to the last man, what happened?’

‘He handed it to the acolyte, who passed it on to the priest, who gave it to Miss Quayne.’

‘Who drank it,’

‘Yes,’ said Dr Kasbek, ‘who drank it, poor thing.’

They were silent for a moment.

‘I said “when it got to the last man” – it was a man you said? Yes, I know we’ve been over this before, but I want to be positive.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ said Nigel. ‘I remember that Mr Ogden knelt at the top of the circle, as it were, and I seem to remember him giving the cup to the acolyte.’

‘I believe you’re right,’ agreed the doctor.

‘That agrees with the positions they took up just now.’

‘Was there any chance of Miss Quayne herself dropping anything into the cup?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Nigel said slowly. ‘It so happens that I remember distinctly she took it in both hands, holding it by the stem. I’ve got a very clear mental picture of her, standing there, lit by the torch. She had rings on both hands and I remember I noticed that they reflected the light in the same way as the jewels on the cup. I feel quite certain she held it like that until she drank.’

‘I have no such recollection,’ declared the doctor.

‘Quite sure, Bathgate?’

‘Yes, quite sure. I – I’d swear to it.’

‘You may have to,’ said Alleyn. ‘Dr Kasbek, you say you are not one of the elect. Perhaps, in that case, you would not object to telling me a little more about this place. It is an extremely unusual sort of church.’ He glanced round apologetically. ‘All this intellectual sculpture. Who is the lowering gentleman with the battle-axe? He makes one feel quite shy.’

‘I fancy he is Wotan, which is the same as Odin. Perhaps Thor. I really don’t know. I imagine the general idea owes something to some cult in Germany, and is based partly on Scandinavian mythology, though as you see it does not limit itself to one, or even a dozen, doctrines. It’s a veritable olla podrida with Garnette to stir the pot. The statues were commissioned by a very rich old lady in the congregation.’

‘An old lady!’ murmured Alleyn. ‘Fancy!’

‘It is rather overwhelming,’ agreed Kasbek. ‘Shall we move into the hall? I should like to sit down.’

‘Certainly,’ said Alleyn. ‘Fox, will you make a sketch-plan of the chancel? I won’t be more than two minutes and then we’ll start on the others. Run a line of chalk round the body and get the bluebottle in there to ring for the mortuary-van. Come along with us, won’t you, Bathgate?’

Nigel and Dr Kasbek followed the inspector down to the front row of chairs. These were sumptuously upholstered in red embossed velvet.

‘Front stalls,’ said Alleyn, sitting down.

‘There are seven of them, as you see. They are for the six Initiates and the Chosen Vessel. These are selected from a sort of inner circle among the congregation, or so I understand.’

Dr Kasbek settled himself comfortably in his velvet pew. He was a solid shortish man of about fifty-five with dark hair worn en brosse, a rather fleshy and pale face, and small, intelligent eyes.

‘It was founded by Garnette two years ago. I first heard of it from an old patient of mine who lives nearby. She was always raving about the ceremonies and begging me to go. I was called in to see her one Sunday evening just before the service began and she made me promise I’d attend it. I’ve been several times since. I am attracted by curious places and interested in – how shall I put it? – in the incalculable vagaries of human faith. Garnette’s doctrine of dramatized pantheism, if that’s what it is, amused and intrigued me. So did the man himself. Where he got the money to buy the place – it was originally a nonconformist club-room, I think – and furnish it and keep it going, I’ve no idea. Probably it was done by subscription. Ogden is Grand Warden or something. He’ll be able to tell you. It’s all very expensive, as you see. Garnette is the only priest and literally the “onlie begetter,” the whole show in fact. He undoubtedly practises hypnotism and that, too, interests me. The service you saw tonight, Mr Bathgate, is only held once a month and is their star turn. The Chosen Vessel – Miss Quayne on this occasion – has to do a month’s preparation, which means, I think, intensive instruction and private meditation with Garnette.’

‘Odin and Frigga,’ said Alleyn. ‘I begin to understand. Are you personally acquainted with any of the Initiates?’

‘Ogden introduced himself to me some weeks ago and Garnette came and spoke to me the first evening I was here. On the look-out for new material, I suppose.’

‘None of the others?’

‘No. Ogden suggested I should “get acquainted,” but’ – he smiled – ‘I enjoy being an onlooker and I evaded it. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.’

‘It’s all extremely suggestive and most useful. Thank you very much, Dr Kasbek. I won’t keep you any longer. Dr Curtis may want a word with you before you go. I’ll send him down here. You’ll be subpoenaed for the inquest of course.’

‘Of course. Are you Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn?’

‘Yes.’

‘I remembered your face. I saw you at the Theodore Roberts trial.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘The case interested me. You see I’m an alienist.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Alleyn again with his air of polite detachment.

‘I was glad they brought in a verdict of insanity. Poor Roberts. I suppose in a case of that sort the police do not push for the – the other thing.’

‘The police force is merely a machine. I must fly I’m afraid. Goodnight. Bathgate, will you let Dr Kasbek out when he has spoken to Curtis?’

Alleyn returned to the top of the hall. The divisional surgeon joined Kasbek and the two doctors walked down the aisle with that consultation manner, heads together, faces very solemn, like small boys in conference. Nigel followed sheepishly at a tactful distance. The word cyanide floated at intervals down the aisle. At last Dr Curtis said: ‘Yes. All right. Goodnight.’ They shook hands. Nigel hurried up to wrestle with the elaborate bolts and lock that secured the double doors.

‘Oh, thank you very much,’ said Kasbek. ‘You’ve made yourself quite invaluable this evening, Mr Bathgate.’

To tell you the truth, sir,’ said Nigel, ‘I am surprised at my own initiative. It was the smell that did it.’

‘Oh, quite. I was just going to say no one must leave when you spoke up. Very glad of your support. Can you manage? Ah – that’s done it. I see there’s a constable outside. I hope he lets me out! Goodnight, Mr Bathgate.’




CHAPTER 5 A Priest and Two Acolytes (#ulink_d39b2cb4-87fc-5e50-a443-c3d06d62d0e3)


The constable had arrived with the mortuary-van. A stretcher was brought in. Nigel, not wishing to see again that terrible figure, hung back at the entrance, but after all, try as he would, he could not help watching. The group up in the chancel looked curiously theatrical. Alleyn had turned on all the side lamps but they were dull red and insignificant. The torch flickered confusedly. At one moment it threw down a strong glare, and at the next almost failed, so that the figures of the men continually started to life and seemed to move when actually they were still. Alleyn drew the brocaded satin away from the body and stood contemplating it. The body, still in its same contracted, headlong posture, looked as though some force had thrown it down with a sudden violence. Dr Curtis said something. His voice sounded small and melancholy in the empty building. Nigel caught the words ‘rigor mortis – rapid.’ Alleyn nodded and his shadow, starting up on the wall as the torch flared again, made a monstrous exaggeration of the gesture. They bent down and lifted the body on to the whitish strip of the stretcher. One of the men pulled a sheet up. Curtis spoke to them. They lifted the stretcher and came slowly down the aisle, black silhouettes now against the lighted chancel. They passed Nigel heavily and went out of the open door. The constable stayed in the entrance, so Nigel did not relock the doors. He returned to the chancel.

‘I’m glad that part is over,’ he said to Alleyn.

‘What? Oh, the body.’

‘You appear to be lost in the folds of your professional abstraction,’ remarked Nigel tartly. ‘Pray, what are you going to do next?’

‘Your style is an unconvincing mixture of George Moore and Lewis Carroll, my dear Bathgate. I am about to interview the ladies and gentlemen. I dislike this affair. I dislike it very much. This is a beastly place. Why did you come to it?’

‘I really can’t tell you. I was bored and I saw the sign swinging in the rain. I came in search of adventure.’

‘And I suppose, with your habitual naîveté, you consider that you have found it. Fox, have you made your plan?’

‘Not quite finished, sir, but I’ll carry on quietly.’

‘Well, give an ear to the conversation. When we get to M. de Ravigne, you may like to conduct the examination in French.’

Fox smiled blandly. He had taken a course of gramophone lessons in French and now followed closely an intermediate course on the radio.

‘I’m not quite up to it as yet, sir,’ he said, ‘but I’d be glad to listen if you feel like doing it yourself.’

‘Bless you, Fox, I should make a complete ass of myself. Got your prints, Bailey?’

‘I’ve been over the ground,’ said Detective-Sergeant Bailey guardedly.

‘Then call in the first witness. Find out if any of them are particularly anxious to get away, and I’ll take them in order of urgency.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Bailey, with an air of mulish indifference, disappeared through the altar door. In a moment he came back.

‘Gentleman just fainted,’ he grumbled.

‘Oh, Lord!’ apostrophized Alleyn. ‘Have a look, will you, Curtis? Which is it, Bailey?’

‘One of those affairs in purple shirts, the dark one.’

‘My oath,’ said Alleyn.

Dr Curtis uttered a brief ‘Tsss!’ and disappeared. Bailey emerged with Father Garnette.

‘I’m extremely sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,’ said Alleyn, ‘but you will understand that there were several matters to deal with. Shall we go down into the chairs there?’

Garnette inclined his head and led the way. He seated himself unhurriedly and hid his hands in his wide sleeves. Fox, all bland detachment, strolled to a nearby pew and seemed to be absorbed in his sketch-plan of the chancel and sanctuary. Nigel, at a glance from Alleyn, joined Inspector Fox and took out his notebook. A shorthand report of the interviews would do no harm. Father Garnette did not so much as glance at Nigel and Fox. Alleyn pulled forward a large fald-stool and sat on it with his back to the flickering torch. The priest and the policeman regarded each other steadily.

‘I am appalled,’ said Father Garnette loudly. His voice was mellifluous and impossibly sorrowful. ‘Ap-PALL-ed.’

‘Unpleasant business, isn’t it?’ remarked Alleyn.

‘I am bewildered. I do not understand, as yet, what has happened. What unseen power has struck down this dear soul in the very moment of spiritual ecstasah?’

‘Cyanide of potassium I think,’ said Alleyn coolly, ‘but of course that’s not official.’

The embroidery on the white sleeves quivered slightly.

‘But that is a poison,’ said Father Garnette.

‘One of the deadliest,’ said Alleyn.

‘I am appalled,’ said Father Garnette.

‘The possibility of suicide will have to be explored, of course.’

‘Suicide!’

‘It does not seem likely, certainly. Accident is even more improbable, I should say.’

‘You mean, then, that she – that she – that murder has been done!’

‘That will be for a jury to decide. There will be an inquest, of course. In the meantime there are one or two questions I should like to ask you, Mr Garnette. I need not remind you that you are not obliged to answer them.’

‘I know nothing of such matters. I simply wish to do my duty.’

‘That’s excellent, sir,’ said Alleyn politely. ‘Now as regards the deceased. I’ve got her name and address, but I should like to learn a little more about her. You knew her personally as well as officially, I expect?’

‘All my children are my friends. Cara Quayne was a very dear friend. Hers was a rare soul, Inspector – ah?’

‘Alleyn, sir.’

‘Inspector Alleyn. Hers was a rare soul, singularly fitted for the tremendous spiritual discoverahs to which it was granted I should point the way.’

‘Oh, yes. For how long has she been a member of your congregation?’

‘Let me think. I can well remember the first evening I was aware of her. I felt the presence of something vital, a kind of intensitah, a – how can I put it? – an increased receptivitah. We have our own words for expressing these experiences.’

‘I hardly think I should understand them,’ remarked Alleyn dryly. ‘Can you give me the date of her first visit?’

‘I believe I can. It was on the festival of Aeger. December the fifteenth of last year.’

‘Since then she has been a regular attendant?’

‘Yes. She had attained to the highest rank.’

‘By that you mean she was a Chosen Vessel?’

Father Garnette bent his extraordinary eyes on the inspector.

‘Then you know something of our ritual, Inspector Alleyn?’

‘Very little, I am afraid.’

‘Do you know that you yourself are exceedingly receptive?’

‘I receive facts,’ said Alleyn, ‘as a spider does flies.’

‘Ah.’ Father Garnette nodded his head slowly. ‘This is not the time. But I think it will come. Well, ask what you will, Inspector.’

‘I gather that you knew Miss Quayne intimately – that in the course of her preparation for tonight’s ceremony you saw a great deal of her.’

‘A great deal.’

‘I understand she took the name of Frigga in your ceremony?’

‘That is so,’ said Father Garnette uneasily.

‘The wife of Odin, I seem to remember.’

‘In our ritual the relationship is one of the spirit.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘Had you any reason to believe she suffered from depression or was troubled about anything?’

‘I am certain of the contrarah. She was in a state of tranquilitah and joy.’

‘I see. No worries over money?’

‘Money? No. She was what the world calls rich.’

‘What do you call it, sir?’

Father Garnette gave a frank and dreadfully boyish laugh.

‘Why, I should call her rich too, Inspector,’ he cried gaily.

‘Any unhappy love affair, do you know?’ pursued Alleyn.

Father Garnette did not answer for a moment. Then he said sadly:

‘Ah, Inspector Alleyn, we speak in different languages.’

‘I didn’t realize that,’ said Alleyn. ‘Can you translate my question into your own language, or would you rather not answer it?’

‘You misunderstand me. Cara Quayne was not concerned with earthly love; she was on the threshold of a new spiritual life.’

‘And apparently she has crossed it.’

‘You speak more faithfully than you realize. I earnestly believe she has crossed it.’

‘No love affair,’ said Alleyn, and wrote it down in his notebook. ‘Was she on friendly terms with the other Initiates?’

‘There is perfect loving kindness among them. Nay, that does not express my meaning. The Initiates have attained to the third plane where all human relationships merge in an ecstatic indifference. They cannot hate for there is no hatred. They realize that hatred is maya – illusion.’

‘And love?’

‘If you mean earthlah love, that too is illusion.’

‘Then,’ said Alleyn, ‘if you follow the idea to a logical conclusion, what one does cannot matter as long as one’s actions spring from one’s emotions for if these are illusion – or am I wrong?’

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Father Garnette, ‘I knew I was right. We must have a long talk some day, my dear fellow.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Alleyn. ‘What did Miss Wade mean when she said: “All that sort of thing should have been kept out”?’

‘Did Miss Wade say that?’

‘Yes.’

‘I cannot imagine what she meant. The poor soul was very distressed no doubt.’

‘What do you think Mrs Candour meant when she said she knew something dreadful would happen and that she had said so to M. de Ravigne?’

‘I did not hear her,’ answered Father Garnette. His manner suggested that Alleyn as well as Mrs Candour had committed a gross error in taste.

‘Another question, Mr Garnette. In the course of your interviews with Miss Quayne can you remember any incident or remark that would throw any light on this matter?’

‘None.’

‘This is a very well-appointed hall.’

‘We think it beautiful,’ said Father Garnette complacently.

‘Please do not think me impertinent. I am obliged to ask these questions. Is it supported and kept up by subscription?’

‘My people welcome as a privilege the right to share in the hospitalitah of the Sacred Flame.’

‘You mean they pay the running expenses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Miss Quayne a generous supporter?’

‘Dear soul, yes, indeed she was.’

‘Do you purchase the wine for the ceremony?’

‘I do.’

‘Would you mind giving me the name of this wine and the address of the shop?’

‘It comes from Harrods. I think the name is – let me see – “Le Comte’s Invalid Port”.’

Alleyn repressed a shudder and wrote it down.

‘You decant it yourself? I mean you pour it into the silver flagon?’

‘On this occasion, no. I believe Claude Wheatley made all the preparations this evening.’

‘Would you mind telling me exactly what he would have done?’

‘Certainly. He would take an unopened bottle of wine from a cupboard in my room, draw the cork and pour the contents into the vessel. He would then make ready the goblet.’

‘Make ready – ?’

Father Garnette’s expression changed a little. He looked at once mulish and haughty. ‘A certain preparation is necessarah,’ he said grandly.

‘Oh, yes, of course. You mean the flame that appeared. How was that done? Methylated spirit?’

‘In tabloid form,’ confessed Father Garnette.

‘I know,’ cried Alleyn cheerfully. ‘The things women use for heating curling-tongs.’

‘Possiblah,’ said Father Garnette stiffly. ‘In our ritual, Inspector Alleyn, the goblet itself is holy and blessed. By the very act of pouring in the wine, this too becomes sacred – sacred by contact with the Cup. Our ceremony of the Cup, though it embraces the virtues of various communions in Christian churches, is actually entirely different in essentials and in intention.’

‘I was not,’ said Alleyn, coldly, ‘so mistaken as to suspect any affinity. Having filled the flagon Mr Wheatley would then put it – where?’

‘In that niche over there on our right of the sanctuarah.’

‘And what is the procedure with the methylated tablet?’

‘Prior to the service Claude comes before the altar and after prostrating himself three times, draws the Sacred Cup from its Monstrance. As he does this he repeats a little prayer in Norse. He genuflects thrice and then rising to his feet he – ah – he –’

‘Drops in the tablet and puts the cup away again?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. Mr Bathgate tells me the flame appeared after you laid your hands over the cup. How is this done?’

‘I – ah – I employ a little capsule,’ said Father Garnette.

‘Really? What does it contain?’

‘I believe the substance is known as zinc – ah – ethyl.’

‘Oh, yes. Very ingenious. You turn away for a moment as you use it perhaps?’

‘That is so.’

‘It all seems quite clear now. One more question. Has there, to your knowledge, ever been any form of poison kept on the premises of this building?’

Father Garnette turned as white as his robes and said no, definitely not.

‘Thank you very much. I greatly appreciate your courtesy in answering so readily. I hope you will not mind very much if I ask you to wait in the – is that a vestry over there? It is! – in the vestry, while I see these other people. No doubt you will be glad to change into less ceremonial dress.’

‘I shall avail myself of the opportunitah to regain in meditation my tranquilitah and spiritual at-oneness.’

‘Do,’ said Alleyn cordially.

‘My subconscious mind, impregnated with the word, will flow to you-wards. In all humilitah I believe I may help you in your task. There are more things in Heaven and earth, Inspector Alleyn –’

‘There are indeed, sir,’ agreed the inspector dryly. ‘Have you any objection to being searched before you go?’

‘Searched? No – er – no, certainly not. Certainly not.’

‘That’s very sensible. Pure routine you know. I’ll send a man in.’

Father Garnette withdrew to the vestry accompanied by a plain-clothes man.

‘Damn’, sickly, pseudo, bogus, mumbo-jumbo,’ said Alleyn with great violence. ‘What do you think of him, Fox?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Fox placidly, ‘I must say I wondered if the gentleman knew much more about what he seemed to be talking about than I did.’

‘And well you might, my Foxkin, well you might. Hullo, Bathgate.’

‘Hullo,’ said Nigel guardedly.

‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘I’m taking shorthand notes. I seem to remember that you have a passion for shorthand notes.’

‘Ain’t dat de truff, Lawd! Have you read “Ole Man Adam”?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wish Garnette had. Fox!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Send someone else into the vestry with Mr Garnette, will you, and get them to look him over. And any of the others I send in. Where’s the wardress?’

‘In the porch out there.’

‘She can deal with the ladies. Tell them to look for a small piece of crumpled paper or anything that could have held powder. I don’t think they’ll find it. Bailey!’

Detective-Sergeant Bailey moved down from the sanctuary.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘The next, if you please.’

Bailey went through the little door and reappeared with Claude Wheatley and a general air of having taken an unlucky dip in a bran-tub. Fox returned with another plain-clothes man who went into the vestry.

‘This gentleman isn’t feeling too good, sir. He wants to go home,’ said Bailey.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Claude. ‘Oh, yes, please. Oh, yes.’

‘Sorry you’re upset, Mr Wheatley,’ said Alleyn.

‘Upset! I’m fearfully ill, Inspector. You can’t think. Oh, please may I sit down.’

‘Do.’

Claude sank into one of the Initiates’ chairs and gazed wide-eyed at the inspector.

‘I feel too ghastly,’ he moaned.

‘What upset you?’

‘That appalling old woman. She said such frightful things. I do think old women are awful.’

‘Whom do you mean?’

‘The Candour female.’

‘What did she say to upset you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I do feel shocking.’

Dr Curtis came out of Garnette’s room and strolled down.

‘Mr Wheatley felt a bit squeamish,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but he’ll be all right. He’s had a peg of some really excellent brandy. Father Garnette’s a lucky man.’

‘Splendid,’ rejoined Alleyn. ‘Would you be a good fellow and go back to them, Curtis? Some of the others may need attention.’

‘Certainly.’ Curtis and Alleyn exchanged a glance and the doctor returned.

‘Now, Mr Wheatley,’ Alleyn began. ‘I think you look much better. I’ve a few questions I’d like to put to you. You can refuse to answer if you think it advisable.’

‘Yes, but that’s all very well. Suppose I do refuse, then you’ll start thinking things.’

‘I might, certainly.’

‘Yes – well – there!’

‘Difficult for you,’ remarked Alleyn.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Claude very peevishly, ‘you can ask them. I may as well know what they are.’

‘I have already asked the first. What did Mrs Candour say to upset you?’

Claude wriggled.

‘Jealous old cat. The whole thing is she loathes Father Garnette taking the slightest notice of anybody else. She’s always too loathsomely spiteful for words – especially to Lionel and me. How she dared! And anyway everybody knows all about it. I’d hardly be stupid enough to –’ Here Claude stopped short.

‘To do what, Mr Wheatley?’

‘To do anything like that, even if I wanted to, and anyway I always thought Cara Quayne was a marvellous person – so piercingly decorative.’

‘What would you hardly be stupid enough to do?’ asked Alleyn patiently.

‘To – well – well – to do anything to the wine. Everybody knows it was my week to make preparation.’

‘You mean you poured the wine into the silver flagon and put the methylated tablet into the cup. What did Mrs Candour suggest?’

‘She didn’t actually suggest anything. She simply said I did it. She kept on saying so. Old cat.’

‘I shouldn’t let it worry you. Now, Mr Wheatley, will you think carefully. Did you notice any peculiar, any unusual smell when you poured out the wine?’

‘Any smell!’ ejaculated Claude opening his eyes very wide. ‘Any smell!’

‘Any smell.’

‘Well, of course I’d just lit all the censers you know. Don’t you think our incense is rather divine, Inspector? Father Garnette gets it from India. It’s sweet-almond blossom. There’s the oil too. We burn a dish of the oil in front of the altar. I lit it just before I got the wine. It’s a gorgeous perfume.’

‘Evidently. You got the bottle of wine from Mr Garnette’s room. Was it unopened?’

‘Yes. I drew the cork.’

‘You put nothing else in the flagon?’

Claude looked profoundly uncomfortable.

‘Well – well, anyway I didn’t put any poison in, if that’s what you’re hinting.’

‘What else did you put?’

‘If you must know it’s something from a little bottle that Father Garnette keeps. It has a ceremonial significance. It’s always done.’

‘Have you any idea what it is?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where is this bottle kept?’

‘In the little cupboard in Father Garnette’s room.’

‘I see. Now as I understand it you took the wine to each of the Initiates in turn. Did you at any time notice an unusual smell from the cup?’

‘I never touched the cup, Inspector. I never touched it. They all handed it round from one to the other. I didn’t notice any smell except the incense. Not ever.’

‘Right. Did you notice Miss Quayne at all when she took the cup?’

‘Did I notice her? My God, yes.’

‘What happened exactly?’

‘It was simply appalling. You see I thought she was in Blessed Ecstasy. Well, I mean she was, up to the time she took the cup. She had spoken in ecstasy and everything. And then she drank. And then oh, it was frightful! She gave a sort of gasp. A fearfully deep gasp and sort of sharp. She made a face. And then she kind of slewed round and she dropped the cup. Her eyes looked like a doll’s eyes. Glistening. And then she twitched all over – jerked – ugh! She fell down in a sort of jerk. Oh, I’m going to be sick, I think.’

‘No, you’re not,’ said the inspector very firmly. ‘You are going home. Go into the vestry and change your clothes.’

‘Where’s Lionel?’

‘He’ll join you in a moment. Goodnight.’

‘Oh,’ said Claude rolling a languishing eye at Alleyn, ‘you are marvellous, Inspector. Oh, I would so very much rather not be sick. Goodbye.’

‘Goodnight.’

Claude, under escort, walked with small steps into the vestry where they could hear him talking in a sort of feeble scream to the officer who searched him.

‘Oh,’ cried Inspector Fox suddenly in a falsetto voice, ‘oh, Inspector, I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘And well you might be,’ said Nigel, grinning. ‘What a loathly, what a nauseating, what an unspeakable little dollop.’

‘Horrid, wasn’t it?’ agreed Alleyn absently. ‘Damn that incense,’ he added crossly. ‘Sweet almond too, just the very thing –’ he paused and stared thoughtfully at Fox. ‘Let’s have Lionel,’ he said.

Lionel was produced. His manner was a faithful reproduction of Claude’s and he added nothing that was material to the evidence. He was sent into the vestry, whence he and Claude presently emerged wearing, the one, a saxe-blue and the other, a pinkish-brown suit. They fussed off down the aisle and disappeared. Alleyn sent for Mrs Candour.




CHAPTER 6 Mrs Candour and Mr Ogden (#ulink_11022a8b-5aab-534f-b8d9-9e33e077d48c)


Mrs Candour had wept and her tears had blotted her make-up. She had dried them and in doing so had blotted her make-up again. Her face was an unlovely mess of mascara, powder and rouge. It hung in flabby pockets from the bone of her skull. She looked bewildered, frightened and vindictive. Her hands were tremulous. She was a large woman born to be embarrassingly ineffectual. In answer to Alleyn’s suggestion that she should sit on one of the chairs, she twitched her loose lips, whispered something and walked towards them with that precarious gait induced by excessive flesh mounted on French heels. She moved in a thick aura of essence of violet. Alleyn waited until she was seated before he gave her the customary information that she was under no obligation to answer any questions. He paused, but she made no comment. She simply stared in front of her with lacklustre eyes.

‘I take it,’ said Alleyn, ‘that you have no objection. Was Miss Cara Quayne a personal friend of yours?’

‘Not a great friend.’

‘An acquaintance?’

‘Yes. We – we – only met here.’ Her voice was thin and faintly common. ‘At least, well, I did go to see her once or twice.’

‘Have you got any ideas on the subject of this business?’

‘Oh my God!’ moaned Mrs Candour. ‘I believe it was a judgment.’

‘A judgment?’

Mrs Candour drew a lace handkerchief from her bosom.

‘What had Miss Quayne done,’ asked Alleyn, ‘to merit so terrible a punishment?’

‘She coveted the vow of Odin.’

‘I’m afraid I do not know what that implies.’

‘That is how I feel about it,’ said Mrs Candour, exactly as if she had just finished a lucid and explicit statement. ‘Father Garnette is above all that sort of thing. He is not of this world. He had told us so, often and often. But Cara was a very passionate sort of woman.’ She dropped her voice and added with an air of illicit relish: ‘Cara was dreadfully over-sexed. Pardon me.’

‘Oh,’ said Alleyn.

‘Yes. Of course I know that ecstatic union is blessed, but ecstatic union is one thing and –’ Here Mrs Candour stopped short and looked frightened.

‘Do you mean,’ said Alleyn, ‘that – ?’

‘I don’t mean anything definite,’ interrupted Mrs Candour in a hurry. ‘Please, please don’t attach any importance to what I’ve just said. It was only my idea. I’m so dreadully upset. Poor Cara. Poor, poor Cara.’

‘Mr Claude Wheatley tells me –’

‘Don’t you believe anything that little beast says, Mr – er – Inspector – er –’

‘Inspector Alleyn, madam.’

‘Oh – Inspector Alleyn. Claude’s a little pig. Always prying into other people’s affairs. I’ve told Father, but he’s so good he doesn’t see.’

‘I gather you rather upset Mr Wheatley by referring to his preparations for the service.’

‘Serves him right if I did. He kept on saying it was murder, he knew it was murder, and that Cara was such a lovely woman and everyone was jealous of her. I just said: “Well,” I said, “if she was murdered,” I said, “who prepared the goblet and the flagon?” And then he fainted. I thought it looked very queer.’

‘Miss Quayne was a very beautiful woman, I believe?’ said Alleyn casually.

‘I never could see it. Of course, if you admire that type. But just because that M. de Ravigne went silly over her – I mean everyone knows what foreigners are like. If you give them any encouragement, that is. Well, I myself – I suppose Claude told you that – about her looks, I mean. Or was it Father Garnette? Was it?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t remember,’ said Alleyn.

Mrs Candour jerked her chin up. For a second her face was horrible. ‘Cara doesn’t look very pretty now,’ she said softly.

Alleyn turned away.

‘I mustn’t keep you any longer,’ he said. ‘There’s only one other point. You were the first, after Mr Garnette, to take the cup. Did you notice any peculiar smell?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. No, I don’t think so.’

‘I see. Thank you. That is all, I think.’

‘I may go home?’

‘Certainly. There is a wardress in the lobby. Would you object to being examined?’

‘Searched!’

‘Just looked over, you know. It’s the usual thing.’

‘Oh, yes, please – I’d rather – much rather.’

‘Thank you. You will be given notice of the inquest.’

‘The inquest! Oh, how dreadful. I don’t know how I’m to get over this – I’m so shockingly sensitive. Inspector Alleyn, you’ve been marvellously kind. I always thought that police methods were brutal.’ She looked up at him with a general air of feminine helplessness somewhat negatived by a glint of appraisal in her eye. It was a ghastly combination. She held out her hand.

‘Goodbye, Inspector Alleyn.’

‘Good evening, madam,’ said Alleyn.

She wobbled away on her French heels.

‘This is a very unsavoury case,’ said Nigel.

‘It’s murder,’ said Inspector Fox mildly.

‘Most foul,’ added Alleyn, ‘as at the best it is. But this most foul – Yes, I agree with you, Bathgate. Bailey!’

‘Here,’ said that worthy, rising up from behind the lectern.

‘Next please.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘What did you make of Mrs Candour?’ asked Alleyn.

‘A perfectly appalling old girl,’ said Nigel fervently.

‘Oh, yes. All that. Almost a pathological case, one might imagine. Still, the exhibition of jealousy was interesting, didn’t you think, Fox?’

‘Yes, I did,’ agreed Fox. ‘This Father Garnette seems to be a peculiar sort of man for the ministry.’

‘Exactly.’

‘When she made that appalling remark about Cara not looking very pretty now,’ said Nigel, ‘she was positively evil. Without a shadow of doubt she loathed the poor woman. I am surprised at your allowing her to escape. She should have been handcuffed immediately, I consider.’

‘Don’t show off,’ said Alleyn abstractedly.

‘I’ll be right there, Ahfficer. Where’s the Chief?’ cried Mr Ogden from afar. He appeared with Bailey by the altar, saw Alleyn, and made straight for him.

‘Well, well, well. Look what’s here!’ exclaimed Mr Ogden.

‘Yes, look,’ said Alleyn. ‘It’s a pathetic sight, Mr Ogden. Here we go grubbing along – however.’

‘Say, Inspector, what’s the big idea? You look kind of world-weary.’

‘Do I, Mr Ogden, do I?’

‘And just when I was congratulating myself on sitting right next the works for an inside survey of British criminal investigation.’

‘And now you’ll never talk again about our wonderful police.’

‘Is that so? Well, I’m not saying anything.’

‘You won’t mind if I ask you a few dreary questions, perhaps? We have to do our stuff, you know.’

‘Go right ahead. My, my!’ said Mr Ogden contemplating Alleyn with an air of the liveliest satisfaction. ‘You certainly are the goods. I guess you’ve got British Manufacture stamped some place where it won’t wear off. All this quiet deprecation – it’s direct from a sure-fire British best-seller. I can’t hardly believe it’s true.’

Nigel, from his unobtrusive seat by Fox, allowed himself an irritating grin. Alleyn saw it and looked furious.

‘That sounds a very damning description, Mr Ogden,’ he said, and hurried on. He asked Ogden if he had noticed a peculiar smell and got the now customary reply that the reek of incense was so strong that it would drown any other smell.

‘Though, now I get to thinking about it,’ added Mr Ogden, ‘I do seem to remember it was uncommon powerful tonight. Yes, sir, I believe I thought those two he-he boys were certainly hitting up the atmosphere.’

‘Can you remember at what precise moment you thought this?’

Mr Ogden’s face became very pink. For the first time since Alleyn met him he hesitated.

‘Well, Mr Ogden?’

‘Well now, Inspector, I can’t remember. Isn’t that just too bad?’

‘Miss Jenkins was next to you in the circle, wasn’t she?’

‘That is correct,’ said Mr Ogden tonelessly.

‘Yes. Now look here, sir. You’re a business man I take it?’

‘Surely.’

‘Thank God for that. I don’t know how much this organisation means to you, and I don’t want to say anything that will be offensive, but I’m longing for a sensible man’s view of the whole situation. An intelligent and knowledgeable view.’

‘Inside dope,’ said Mr Ogden.

‘Exactly.’

‘Go right ahead. Maybe I’ll talk and maybe not. Maybe I don’t know anything.’

‘I gather you are an officer of the executive?’

‘That’s so. A Warden.’

‘You know all these people quite well, I suppose?’

‘Why, yes. We are all enthusiastic about uplift. The spirit of comradeship pervades our relationship. You Britishers are weaned on starch, I guess, but I hand myself out a whole lot of roses for the way I’ve got this bunch started. Right at the commencement of the movement they used to sit round looking at each other like they all suffered from frostbite. Now they’ve got together like regular fellows. They’re a great little crowd.’

‘You’ve been interested in the organisation since its foundation?’

‘That’s so. That was way back in – why, it must be two years ago. I met up with Father Garnette coming across to England. I move about some, Inspector. That’s my job. That trip it was the Brightwater Creek Gold Mining Company. Yes, that’s what it would be. I recollect I had Father Garnette accept a small nugget as a souvenir. That would be May two years ago. I was very, very much impressed with Father Garnette’s personality.’

‘Really,’ said Alleyn.

‘Yes, sir. I’m a self-made man, Chief. I was raised in a ten-cent fish joint, and my education simply forgot to occur, but when I meet culture I respect it. I like it handed out good and peppy, and that’s the way Father Garnette let me have it. By the time we hit Southampton we’d doped out a scheme for this church, and before six months had passed we were drawing congregations of three hundred.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Alleyn.

‘It was swell.’

‘Where did the money come from?’

‘Why, from the flock. Father Garnette had a small hall ‘way down Great Holland Road. Compared with this it was a bum show, but say, did we work it? The Father had a service every night for a month. He got right down to it. A small bunch of very influential people came along. Just one or two, but they roped in more. When he’d got them all enthusiastic he had an appeal week and loosed a line of high-voltage oratory. Sob-stuff. I gave five grand and I’m proud to spill the beans.’

‘Who were the other subscribers?’

‘Why, Dagmar Candour was in on the plush seats with a thousand pounds and poor Cara checked in at the same level. Each of those ladies seemed ambitious to carry off the generosity stakes. Then there was M. de Ravigne and – and all the bunch of Initiates. I guess I’d hold up operations some if I recited all the subscribers.’

‘Miss Quayne must have been a very wealthy woman?’

‘She was very, very wealthy, and she had a lovely nature. Why, only last month she deposited five thousand in bearer bonds in the safe back there beyond the altar. They are waiting there until another five is raised among the rest of us and then it’s to form a building fund for a new church. That’s how generous she was.’

Nigel had paused, pen in air, to gape at Mr Ogden’s enthusiastic countenance, and to reflect a little childishly on the gullibility of average men and women. None of these people was particularly stupid, he would say, except perhaps Mrs Candour. Miss Quayne had looked interesting. Mr Ogden was obviously an intelligent business man. Janey Jenkins, Maurice Pringle, M. de Ravigne were none of them idiots. He forgot all about Miss Wade. Yet all these apparently sensible individuals had been duped by Garnette into parting with sums of money. Extraordinary! At this moment he remembered his own reaction to Father Garnett’s oratory and felt less superior.




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