Dedication

For the family in Kent

Contents

Dedication

The Characters in the Case

Foreword

PART ONE

1 Entrance to a Cul-de-sac

2 The House of the Sacred Flame

3 Death of an Ecstatic Spinster

4 The Yard

5 A Priest and Two Acolytes

6 Mrs Candour and Mr Ogden

7 Janey and Maurice

8 The Temperament of M. de Ravigne

9 Miss Wade

10 A Piece of Paper and a Bottle

11 Contents of a Desk, a Safe, and a Bookcase

12 Alleyn Takes Stock

PART TWO

13 Nannie

14 Nigel Takes Stock

15 Father Garnette Explores the Contents of a Mareâs Nest

16 Mr Ogden Puts his Trust in Policemen

17 Mr Ogden Grows Less Trustful

18 Contribution from Miss Wade

19 Alleyn Looks for a Flat

20 Fools Step In

21 Janey Breaks a Promise

22 Sidelight on Mrs Candour

23 Mr Ogden at Home

24 Maurice Speaks

25 Alleyn Snuffs the Flame

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Characters in the Case

Jasper Garnette
Officiating priest of the House of the Sacred Flame

The Seven Initiates

Samuel J. Ogden Raoul de Ravigne Cara Quayne Maurice Pringle Janey Jenkins Ernestine Wade Dagmar Candour
Warden of the House. A commercial gentleman Warden of the House. A dilettante The Chosen Vessel Engaged to Janey Jenkins The youngest initiate Probably the oldest initiate Widow

Claude Wheatley | An acolyte
Lionel Smith | An acolyte
Dr Nicholas Kasbek | An onlooker
The Doorkeeper of the House |
Edith Laura Hebborn | Cara Quayneâs old nurse
Wilson | Her parlourmaid
Mr Rattisbon | Her solicitor
Elsie | Mr Ogdenâs housemaid
Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn | Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard
Detective-Inspector Fox | His assistant
Detective-Sergeant Bailey | His fingerprint expert
Dr Curtis | His Divisional Surgeon
Nigel Bathgate | His Watson

Foreword

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

CHAPTER 1 Entrance to a Cul-de-sac

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 faÃ§ade.

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 Kingâs 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 âuplift,â ârenooal,â and âspiritual regenerationâ would have sounded again and again, for Mr Ogden was so like an American as to be quite fabulous.

Cara Quayneâs car, Mr Ogdenâs taxi, and Miss Wadeâs 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 Quayneâs car and Mr Ogdenâs 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 Jamesâs looked up from his book and remarked to his servant: âItâs blowing a gale out there. I shall be staying in tonight.â

CHAPTER 2 The House of the Sacred Flame

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 Maryâs, 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.

âIâm afraid you are too late,â he said.

âToo late?â Nigel felt ridiculously exasperated and disappointed.

âYes. The bell has stopped. I have just locked the doors.â

âBut only this second. I saw you do it as I lowered my umbrella. Couldnât you open them again?â

âThe bell has stopped.â

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

âI see you do not know our rules,â 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: âThe bell ceases ringing as the Priest enters the temple. The doors are then locked and will not be reopened until the ceremony is ended.â

âThere, you see,â said the young man complacently.

âYes, 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 â an impulse. Who knows but what I might have proved an enthusiastic convert to whatever doctrine is taught behind your locked doors?â

âThere is a Neophytesâ Class at six-fifteen on Wednesdays.â

âI shall not attend it,â cried Nigel in a rage.

âThat is as you please.â

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

âTell me,â said Nigel, turning to the doorkeeper, âwho is Jasper Garnette?â

âOur Founder,â answered the young man stiffly, âand our Priest.â

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

âYou may say,â said the young man with a glint of genuine fervour in his eye, âthat this is The Doorway.â

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

âWe take it in turns.â

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

âYes. It is not a lament. It is an Invocation.â

âWhat is he invoking?â

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

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

âPlease get out of the way,â 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 â surely Jasper Garnette himself â 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.

âEe-ai-ee-yah-ee,â 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 â 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 â 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, Nigelâs 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 resumÃ© 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 otherâs 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: âOh, dear me!â

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:

âNow 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 â 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 manâs 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 âHeil!â 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 âYâmir,â 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 âThor,â of âArârimanâ and âVidurâ 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. âI am one and I am all.â The kneeling circle kept up an obbligato of âHeilsâ 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.

âThe wine of ecstasy give you joy in your body and soul!â

âTur-aie!â

âThe holy madness of the flame possess you!â

âHeil! Tur-aie! Tur-aie!â

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

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 womanâs 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.

âSpiritual ecstasy â¦â He pronounced this word âecstasah.â âManifestation â¦â

The Initiate hesitated and looked fixedly at the prostrate figure.

âMy friends,â said the priest loudly, with an air of decision. âMy 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.â

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

âLet us sing,â repeated Jasper Garnette with determination, âthe hymn ââ

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.

âItâs not. Itâs not. Sheâs dead. I touched her. Sheâs dead!â

âMiss Wade, quiet!â

âI wonât be quiet! Sheâs dead.â

âWait a moment,â 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.

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

âBut, Dr Kasbek ââ

âI think I had better have a look at her, Father Garnette.â

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.

âDead! I told you she was dead! Oh! Father Garnette!â

âCover it up for Godâs sake,â 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 womanâs face. He pulled the hat forward again.

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

âYouâd better get rid of your congregation,â 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.

âWill you tell them to go?â asked Dr Kasbek.

âWait a moment.â

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.

âHas this lady died naturally?â he asked the doctor.

âAs you see, I have only glanced at her.â

âIs there any doubt?â

âWhat do you mean?â demanded the priest suddenly, and then: âWho are you?â

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

âUnnatural death? Say, where dâyou get that idea?â said the American.

âItâs the mouth and eyes, and â and the smell. I may be wrong.â Nigel still looked at the doctor. âBut if thereâs a doubt I donât think anybody should leave.â

The doctor returned his look calmly.

âI think you are right,â 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.

âTell them to sit down,â 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.

âMy friendsâ â the magnificent voice rang out firmly â âWill 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.â The voice wavered a little, then dropped a tone. âWe must strengthen our souls with the power of the Word. I call upon you to meditate upon the word âUnity.â Let there be silence among you.â

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.

âDraw the chancel curtains,â whispered Father Garnette.

âYes, Father,â lisped the red-headed acolyte.

âYes, Father,â 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.

âIf we speak low,â said Father Garnette, âthey cannot hear. The curtains are interlined and very thick.â

âFor Gardâs sake!â said the American. âThis is surely a turrible affair. Doctor, are you quite certain sheâs gone?â

âQuite,â answered the doctor, who had again knelt down by the body.

âYes, but thereâs more in it than that,â began the young man. âWhatâs this about no one leaving? What does it mean?â He swung round to Nigel. âWhy do you talk about unnatural death, and who the hell are you?â

âMaurice,â said Father Garnette. âMaurice, my dear fellow!â

âThis woman,â the boy went on doggedly, âhas no business here. She had no right to the Cup. She was evil. I know you â Father Garnette, I know.â

âMaurice, be quiet.â

âCan it, Pringle,â said the American.

âI tell you I know ââ 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.

âWhat is it?â Nigel asked the doctor. âIs it poison?â

âIt looks like it, certainly. Death was instantaneous. We must inform the police.â

âIs there a telephone anywhere near?â

âI believe thereâs one in Father Garnetteâs rooms.â

âHis rooms?â

âBehind the altar,â said the doctor.

âThen â may I use it?â

âIs that absolutely necessary?â asked the priest.

âAbsolutely,â said Dr Kasbek. He looked at Nigel. âWill you do it?â

âI will if you like. I know a man at the Yard.â

âDo. What about the nearest relative? Anybody know who it is?â

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

âI see,â said Dr Kasbek. âWell, then, perhaps youâ â he looked at Nigel â âwill get straight through to the police. Father Garnette, will you show this young man the way?â

âI had better return to my people, I think,â replied Father Garnette. âThey will need me. Claude, show the way to the telephone.â

âYes, Father.â

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.

âNasty little bit of work,â 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.

âThank you,â 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.

âHullo!â

âHullo â May I speak to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn? Oh, itâs you. You are in, then. Itâs Nigel Bathgate here.â

âGood evening, Bathgate. Whatâs the matter?â

âIâm ringing from a hall, the â the House of the Sacred Flame in Knocklatchers Row off Chester Terrace, just opposite my flat.â

âI know Knocklatchers Row. Itâs in my division.â

âA woman died here ten minutes ago. I think youâd better come.â

âAre you alone?â

âNo.â

âYou wretched young man, whatâs the matter with you? Is the lady murdered?â

âHow should I know?â

âWhy the devil didnât you ring the Yard? I suppose Iâd better do it.â

âI think you ought to come. Iâm holding the congregation. At least,â added Nigel confusedly, âthey are.â

âYou are quite unintelligible. Iâll be there in ten minutes.â

âThank you.â

Nigel hung up the receiver.

âFancy you knowing Alleyn of Scotland Yard,â fluted Claude. âHow perfectly marvellous! You are lucky.â

âI think we had better go back,â said Nigel.

âIâd much rather stay here. Iâm afraid. Did you ever see anything so perfectly dreadful as Miss Quayneâs face? Please do tell me â do you think itâs suicide?â

âI donât know. Are you coming?â

âVery well. You seem to be a terrifically resolute sort of person. Iâll turn the light out. Isnât Father Garnette marvellous? Youâre new, arenât you?â

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 â 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 Nigelâs astonishment the organ was playing and from beyond the curtains came a muffled sound of singing. Father Garnetteâs 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.

âIt appears to me we ought to get acquainted,â he said pleasantly. âYou kind of sprang up out of no place and took over the works. Thatâs OK by me, and Iâll hand it to you. I certainly appreciate prompt action. My nameâs Samuel J. Ogden. I guess Iâve got a card somewhere.â The amazing Mr Ogden actually thrust his hand into his breast pocket.

âPlease donât bother,â said Nigel. âMy name is Bathgate.â

âPleased to meet you, Mr Bathgate,â said Mr Ogden, instantly shaking hands. âAllow 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.â

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

âWell now ââ began Mr Ogden with a comfortable smile.

âI think, if you donât mind,â said Nigel hurriedly, âthat someone should go down to the front door. Inspector Alleyn is on his way here, and as things are at the moment he wonât be able to get in.â

âThatâs so,â agreed Mr Ogden. âMaybe one of these boys ââ

âOh, do let me go,â begged Claude.

âFine,â said Mr Ogden.

âIâll come with you, Claude,â said the red-headed acolyte.

âThereâs no need for two, honestly, is there Mr Ogden?â

âOh, get to it, Fauntleroy, and take little Eric along!â 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.

âDo acolytes have to be that way?â inquired Mr Ogden of nobody in particular.

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

âIâm sorry,â she said immediately. âI didnât mean to laugh, only Claude and Lionel are rather awful, arenât they?â

âI agree,â 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.

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

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: âWait a minute, wait a minuteâ; Pringle seemed to shrink into himself, and Janey Jenkins took his hand.

âSurely not, Miss Wade,â said Dr Kasbek. âLet us not anticipate such a thing.â

âI only inquired,â said Miss Wade. âShe wasnât very happy, poor thing, and she wasnât very popular.â

âMiss Wade â please!â M de Ravigne looked angrily at the little figure. âI must protest â this is a â a preposterous suggestion. It is ridiculous.â He gesticulated eloquently. âIs it not enough that this tragedy should have arrived? My poor Cara, is it not enough!â

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

âListen to him!â said Pringle. âListen! Heâs keeping them quiet. Heâs kept us all quiet. What are we to believe of him?â

âWhat are you talking about?â whispered Mrs Candour savagely.

âYou know well enough. Youâd have taken her place if you could. Itâs not his fault â itâs yours. Itâs all so â so beastly ââ

âMaurice,â said Miss Jenkins softly.

âBe quiet, Janey. I will say it. Whatever it is, itâs retribution. The whole thingâs a farce. I canât stand it any longer. Iâm going to tell them ââ

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

âOh, there you are, Bathgate,â said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. âWhatâs the trouble?â

CHAPTER 4 The Yard

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 elseâs nightmare of which he was merely the narrator. He wondered wildly whether he should follow Mr Ogdenâs 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 Pringleâs 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 Quayneâs 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 Garnetteâs 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: âThere 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.â He turned slightly and saw the priest.

âYou are Mr Garnette? Will you be good enough to ask your congregation to go home â 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?â

âCertainly,â 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.

âPhew!â said Alleyn. âLetâs have the curtains drawn back, may we?â

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.

âIs there anything I can do, Father?â asked the doorkeeper.

âLock the front door and go home,â said Father Garnette.

âYes, Father,â 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.

âIs there a telephone handy?â

âYes.â

âGet 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. Weâll want the divisional surgeon and a wardress.â

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.

âItâs got to be done, you see,â he explained. âThere will, of course, be an inquest and Iâm afraid you will all be called as witnesses.â

âOh, God,â said Pringle with a snort of disgust.

âIâd better start with the deceased,â Alleyn suggested. âWhat is her name, please?â

âShe was a Miss Cara Quayne, Inspector,â said Mr Ogden. âShe 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 ââ

âNo. 101 Shepherd Market,â said Alleyn. âThank you.â He wrote it down and then glanced round his audience.

âI will take yours first if I may, Doctor Kasbek.â

âCertainly. Nicholas Kasbek, 189a Wigmore Street.â

âRight.â He turned to Miss Wade.

âMy name is Ernestine Wade,â she said very clearly and in a high voice, as though Alleyn was deaf. âI live at Primrose Court, Kingâs Road, Chelsea. Spinster.â

âThank you.â

Miss Jenkins came forward.

âIâm Janey Jenkins. I live in a studio flat in Yeomans Row, No.99d. Iâm a spinster too, if you want to know.â

âWell,â said Alleyn, âjust for âMissâ or âMrs,â you know.â

âNow you, Maurice,â said Miss Jenkins.

âPringle,â said that gentleman as though the name was an offence. âMaurice. Iâm staying at 11 Harrow Mansions, Sloane Square.â

âIs that your permanent address?â

âNo. Havenât got one unless you count my peopleâs place. I never go there if I can help it.â

âThe Phoenix Club will always find you, wonât it?â murmured Miss Jenkins.

âOh, God, yes,â replied Mr Pringle distastefully.

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

âMy name is Dagmar Candour. Mrs. Queen Charlotte Flats, Kensington Square. No.12.â

âC.a.n. â ?â queried Alleyn.

âd.o.u.r.â

âThank you.â

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

âSamuel J. Ogden, Chief. I guess youâre not interested in my home address. I come from the States â New York. In London I have a permanent apartment in York Square. No.93, Achurch Court. I just canât locate my card-case, but â well, those are the works.â

âThank you so much, Mr Ogden. And now you, if you please, sir.â

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

âFather Jasper Garnette.â He spelt it. âI am officiating priest of this temple. I live here.â

âHere?â

âI have a little dwelling beyond the altar.â

âExtremely convenient,â murmured Alleyn. âAnd now, these twoâ â he looked a little doubtfully at Claude and Lionel â âthese two young men.â

Claude and Lionel answered together in a rapturous gush.

âWhat?â asked Alleyn.

âDo be quiet, Lionel,â said Claude. âWe share a flat in Ebury Street; âEbury Mews.â Well, it isnât actually a flat, is it, Lionel? Oh dear, I always forget the number â itâs too stupid of me.â

âYou are hopeless, Claude,â said Lionel. âItâs 17 Ebury Mews, Ebury Street, Inspector Alleyn, only we arenât very often there because Iâm in the show at the Palladium and Claude is at Madame Karenâs in Sloane Street and ââ

âI do not yet know your names.â

âLionel, you are perfectly maddening,â said Claude. âIâm Claude Wheatley, Inspector Alleyn, and this is Lionel Smith.â

Alleyn wrote these names down with the address, and added in brackets: âGemini, possibly heavenly.â

M. de Ravigne came forward and bowed.

âRaoul HonorÃ© Christophe JÃ©rÃ´me de Ravigne, monsieur. I live at Branscombe Chambers, Lowndes Square. My card.â

âThank 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.â

After a momentâs silence the priest came forward.

âI stood here,â he said, âwith the chalice in my hands. Mr Ogden knelt on my right, and Mrs Candour on my left.â

âThat is correct, sir,â agreed Ogden and moved into place. âMiss Jenkins was on my right, I guess.â

âYes,â said that lady, âand Maurice on mine.â

Mrs Candour came forward reluctantly and stood on Garnetteâs left.

âM. de Ravigne was beside me,â she whispered.

âCertainly.â M. de Ravigne took up his position and Miss Wade slipped in beside him.

âI was here,â she said, âbetween Mr de Ravigne and Mr Pringle.â

âThat completes the circle,â said Alleyn. âWhat were the movements of the acolytes.â

âWell you see,â began Claude eagerly, âI came here â just here on Father Garnetteâs 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, arenât you Mrs Candour?â

âI was,â sobbed Mrs Candour.

âYes. And then I take the jug and hand it to the next person and ââ

âAnd so on,â said Alleyn. Thank you.â

âAnd I was censing over here,â struck in Lionel with passionate determination. âI was censing all the time.â

âYes,â said Alleyn; âand now, Iâm afraid Iâll 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.â

There was a resounding knock on the front door.

âOh, may I let them in?â asked Claude.

âPlease do,â 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.

âHullo, Fox,â said Alleyn.

âEvening, sir,â said Inspector Fox.

âThereâs 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? Iâll keep you no longer than I can possibly help. Dr Kasbek, if you wouldnât mind waiting here ââ

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

âVery probably,â said Alleyn coolly. âNobody is going to herd you, Pringle. You are going to wait quietly and reasonably while we make the necessary investigations. Off you go.â

âBut ââ

âI knew,â cried Mrs Candour suddenly. âI knew something dreadful would happen. M. de Ravigne, didnât I tell you?â

âIf you please, madame!â said de Ravigne with great firmness.

âAll that sort of thing should have been kept out,â said little Miss Wade. âIt should never ââ

âI think we had better follow instructions,â interrupted Father Garnette loudly. âWill you all follow me?â

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

âLumme!â ejaculated Alleyn when the altar door had shut. âAs you yourself would say, Fox, âquelle galÃ¨re.ââ

âA rum crowd,â agreed Fox, âand a very rum place too, seemingly. Whatâs happened, sir?â

âA lady has just died of a dose of cyanide. Thereâs the body. Your old friend Mr Bathgate will tell you about it.â

âGood evening, Mr Bathgate,â said Fox mildly. âYouâve found something else in our line, have you?â

âIt was at the climax of the ceremony,â began Nigel. âA 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 â and fell down. I think she died at once, didnât she?â

He turned to Dr Kasbek.

âWithin twenty seconds I should say.â The doctor looked at the divisional surgeon.

âI would have tried artificial respiration, sent for ferrous sulphate and a stomach tube and all the rest of it butâ â he grimaced â âthere wasnât a dogâs chance. She was dead before I got to her.â

âI know,â said the divisional surgeon. He lifted the drapery and bent over the body.

âI noticed the characteristic odour at once,â added Kasbek, âand so I think did Mr Bathgate.â

âYes,â agreed Nigel, âthatâs why I butted in.â

Alleyn knelt by the fallen cup and sniffed.

âStinks of it,â he said. âBailey, youâll have to look at this for prints. Not much help if they all handled it. Weâll have photographs first.â

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.

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

âThatâs it,â said Nigel. âClaude must have kept his head and put it there when â after it happened.â

âIs Claude the black orchid or the red lily?â

âThe black orchid.â

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

âNothing there though, I fancy,â he murmured. âLet me get a picture of the routine. Miss Quayne stood in the centre here and the others knelt round her. Mr Garnette â I really cannot bring myself to allude to the gentleman as âFatherâ â Mr Garnette produced the cup and the â 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.â

âI suppose so,â said Kasbek, looking amused.

âWell. 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.â

âEach of them uttered a single word,â interrupted Nigel. âI really have no idea what some of them were.â

âThe name of a diety, I understand,â volunteered Kasbek. âI am not a member of the cult, but Iâve been here before. They pronounce the names of six deities. âHagring,â âHaco,â âFrigga,â 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. Itâs a kind of popular pantheism.â

âOh, Lord!â said Alleyn. âNow then. The cup went round the circle. When it got to the last man, what happened?â

âHe handed it to the acolyte, who passed it on to the priest, who gave it to Miss Quayne.â

âWho drank it,â

âYes,â said Dr Kasbek, âwho drank it, poor thing.â

They were silent for a moment.

âI said âwhen it got to the last manâ â it was a man you said? Yes, I know weâve been over this before, but I want to be positive.â

âIâm sure it was,â said Nigel. âI 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.â

âI believe youâre right,â agreed the doctor.

âThat agrees with the positions they took up just now.â

âWas there any chance of Miss Quayne herself dropping anything into the cup?â

âI donât think so,â Nigel said slowly. âIt so happens that I remember distinctly she took it in both hands, holding it by the stem. Iâve 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.â

âI have no such recollection,â declared the doctor.

âQuite sure, Bathgate?â

âYes, quite sure. I â Iâd swear to it.â

âYou may have to,â said Alleyn. âDr 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.â He glanced round apologetically. âAll this intellectual sculpture. Who is the lowering gentleman with the battle-axe? He makes one feel quite shy.â

âI fancy he is Wotan, which is the same as Odin. Perhaps Thor. I really donât 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. Itâs a veritable olla podrida with Garnette to stir the pot. The statues were commissioned by a very rich old lady in the congregation.â

âAn old lady!â murmured Alleyn. âFancy!â

âIt is rather overwhelming,â agreed Kasbek. âShall we move into the hall? I should like to sit down.â

âCertainly,â said Alleyn. âFox, will you make a sketch-plan of the chancel? I wonât be more than two minutes and then weâll 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, wonât you, Bathgate?â

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

âFront stalls,â said Alleyn, sitting down.

âThere 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.â

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.

âIt 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 Iâd attend it. Iâve been several times since. I am attracted by curious places and interested in â how shall I put it? â in the incalculable vagaries of human faith. Garnetteâs doctrine of dramatized pantheism, if thatâs what it is, amused and intrigued me. So did the man himself. Where he got the money to buy the place â it was originally a nonconformist club-room, I think â and furnish it and keep it going, Iâve no idea. Probably it was done by subscription. Ogden is Grand Warden or something. Heâll be able to tell you. Itâs all very expensive, as you see. Garnette is the only priest and literally the âonlie begetter,â 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 â Miss Quayne on this occasion â has to do a monthâs preparation, which means, I think, intensive instruction and private meditation with Garnette.â

âOdin and Frigga,â said Alleyn. âI begin to understand. Are you personally acquainted with any of the Initiates?â

âOgden 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.â

âNone of the others?â

âNo. Ogden suggested I should âget acquainted,â butâ â he smiled â âI enjoy being an onlooker and I evaded it. Iâm afraid thatâs all I can tell you.â

âItâs all extremely suggestive and most useful. Thank you very much, Dr Kasbek. I wonât keep you any longer. Dr Curtis may want a word with you before you go. Iâll send him down here. Youâll be subpoenaed for the inquest of course.â

âOf course. Are you Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn?â

âYes.â

âI remembered your face. I saw you at the Theodore Roberts trial.â

âOh, yes.â

âThe case interested me. You see Iâm an alienist.â

âOh, yes,â said Alleyn again with his air of polite detachment.

âI 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 â the other thing.â

âThe police force is merely a machine. I must fly Iâm afraid. Goodnight. Bathgate, will you let Dr Kasbek out when he has spoken to Curtis?â

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: âYes. All right. Goodnight.â They shook hands. Nigel hurried up to wrestle with the elaborate bolts and lock that secured the double doors.

âOh, thank you very much,â said Kasbek. âYouâve made yourself quite invaluable this evening, Mr Bathgate.â

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

âOh, quite. I was just going to say no one must leave when you spoke up. Very glad of your support. Can you manage? Ah â thatâs done it. I see thereâs a constable outside. I hope he lets me out! Goodnight, Mr Bathgate.â

CHAPTER 5 A Priest and Two Acolytes

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 ârigor mortis â rapid.â 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.

âIâm glad that part is over,â he said to Alleyn.

âWhat? Oh, the body.â

âYou appear to be lost in the folds of your professional abstraction,â remarked Nigel tartly. âPray, what are you going to do next?â

âYour 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?â

âI really canât tell you. I was bored and I saw the sign swinging in the rain. I came in search of adventure.â

âAnd I suppose, with your habitual naÃ®vetÃ©, you consider that you have found it. Fox, have you made your plan?â

âNot quite finished, sir, but Iâll carry on quietly.â

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

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

âIâm not quite up to it as yet, sir,â he said, âbut Iâd be glad to listen if you feel like doing it yourself.â

âBless you, Fox, I should make a complete ass of myself. Got your prints, Bailey?â

âIâve been over the ground,â said Detective-Sergeant Bailey guardedly.

âThen call in the first witness. Find out if any of them are particularly anxious to get away, and Iâll take them in order of urgency.â

âVery good, sir.â

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

âGentleman just fainted,â he grumbled.

âOh, Lord!â apostrophized Alleyn. âHave a look, will you, Curtis? Which is it, Bailey?â

âOne of those affairs in purple shirts, the dark one.â

âMy oath,â said Alleyn.

Dr Curtis uttered a brief âTsss!â and disappeared. Bailey emerged with Father Garnette.

âIâm extremely sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,â said Alleyn, âbut you will understand that there were several matters to deal with. Shall we go down into the chairs there?â

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.

âI am appalled,â said Father Garnette loudly. His voice was mellifluous and impossibly sorrowful. âAp-PALL-ed.â

âUnpleasant business, isnât it?â remarked Alleyn.

âI 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?â

âCyanide of potassium I think,â said Alleyn coolly, âbut of course thatâs not official.â

The embroidery on the white sleeves quivered slightly.

âBut that is a poison,â said Father Garnette.

âOne of the deadliest,â said Alleyn.

âI am appalled,â said Father Garnette.

âThe possibility of suicide will have to be explored, of course.â

âSuicide!â

âIt does not seem likely, certainly. Accident is even more improbable, I should say.â

âYou mean, then, that she â that she â that murder has been done!â

âThat 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.â

âI know nothing of such matters. I simply wish to do my duty.â

âThatâs excellent, sir,â said Alleyn politely. âNow as regards the deceased. Iâve 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?â

âAll my children are my friends. Cara Quayne was a very dear friend. Hers was a rare soul, Inspector â ah?â

âAlleyn, sir.â

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

âOh, yes. For how long has she been a member of your congregation?â

âLet 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 â how can I put it? â an increased receptivitah. We have our own words for expressing these experiences.â

âI hardly think I should understand them,â remarked Alleyn dryly. âCan you give me the date of her first visit?â

âI believe I can. It was on the festival of Aeger. December the fifteenth of last year.â

âSince then she has been a regular attendant?â

âYes. She had attained to the highest rank.â

âBy that you mean she was a Chosen Vessel?â

Father Garnette bent his extraordinary eyes on the inspector.

âThen you know something of our ritual, Inspector Alleyn?â

âVery little, I am afraid.â

âDo you know that you yourself are exceedingly receptive?â

âI receive facts,â said Alleyn, âas a spider does flies.â

âAh.â Father Garnette nodded his head slowly. âThis is not the time. But I think it will come. Well, ask what you will, Inspector.â

âI gather that you knew Miss Quayne intimately â that in the course of her preparation for tonightâs ceremony you saw a great deal of her.â

âA great deal.â

âI understand she took the name of Frigga in your ceremony?â

âThat is so,â said Father Garnette uneasily.

âThe wife of Odin, I seem to remember.â

âIn our ritual the relationship is one of the spirit.â

âAh, yes,â said Alleyn. âHad you any reason to believe she suffered from depression or was troubled about anything?â

âI am certain of the contrarah. She was in a state of tranquilitah and joy.â

âI see. No worries over money?â

âMoney? No. She was what the world calls rich.â

âWhat do you call it, sir?â

Father Garnette gave a frank and dreadfully boyish laugh.

âWhy, I should call her rich too, Inspector,â he cried gaily.

âAny unhappy love affair, do you know?â pursued Alleyn.

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

âAh, Inspector Alleyn, we speak in different languages.â

âI didnât realize that,â said Alleyn. âCan you translate my question into your own language, or would you rather not answer it?â

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

âAnd apparently she has crossed it.â

âYou speak more faithfully than you realize. I earnestly believe she has crossed it.â

âNo love affair,â said Alleyn, and wrote it down in his notebook. âWas she on friendly terms with the other Initiates?â

âThere 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 â illusion.â

âAnd love?â

âIf you mean earthlah love, that too is illusion.â

âThen,â said Alleyn, âif you follow the idea to a logical conclusion, what one does cannot matter as long as oneâs actions spring from oneâs emotions for if these are illusion â or am I wrong?â

âAh,â exclaimed Father Garnette, âI knew I was right. We must have a long talk some day, my dear fellow.â

âYou are very kind,â said Alleyn. âWhat did Miss Wade mean when she said: âAll that sort of thing should have been kept outâ?â

âDid Miss Wade say that?â

âYes.â

âI cannot imagine what she meant. The poor soul was very distressed no doubt.â

âWhat 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?â

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

âAnother 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?â

âNone.â

âThis is a very well-appointed hall.â

âWe think it beautiful,â said Father Garnette complacently.

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

âMy people welcome as a privilege the right to share in the hospitalitah of the Sacred Flame.â

âYou mean they pay the running expenses?â

âYes.â

âWas Miss Quayne a generous supporter?â

âDear soul, yes, indeed she was.â

âDo you purchase the wine for the ceremony?â

âI do.â

âWould you mind giving me the name of this wine and the address of the shop?â

âIt comes from Harrods. I think the name is â let me see â âLe Comteâs Invalid Portâ.â

Alleyn repressed a shudder and wrote it down.

âYou decant it yourself? I mean you pour it into the silver flagon?â

âOn this occasion, no. I believe Claude Wheatley made all the preparations this evening.â

âWould you mind telling me exactly what he would have done?â

âCertainly. 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.â

âMake ready â ?â

Father Garnetteâs expression changed a little. He looked at once mulish and haughty. âA certain preparation is necessarah,â he said grandly.

âOh, yes, of course. You mean the flame that appeared. How was that done? Methylated spirit?â

âIn tabloid form,â confessed Father Garnette.

âI know,â cried Alleyn cheerfully. âThe things women use for heating curling-tongs.â

âPossiblah,â said Father Garnette stiffly. âIn our ritual, Inspector Alleyn, the goblet itself is holy and blessed. By the very act of pouring in the wine, this too becomes sacred â 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.â

âI was not,â said Alleyn, coldly, âso mistaken as to suspect any affinity. Having filled the flagon Mr Wheatley would then put it â where?â

âIn that niche over there on our right of the sanctuarah.â

âAnd what is the procedure with the methylated tablet?â

âPrior 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 â ah â he ââ

âDrops in the tablet and puts the cup away again?â

âYes.â

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

âI â ah â I employ a little capsule,â said Father Garnette.

âReally? What does it contain?â

âI believe the substance is known as zinc â ah â ethyl.â

âOh, yes. Very ingenious. You turn away for a moment as you use it perhaps?â

âThat is so.â

âIt 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?â

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

âThank 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 â is that a vestry over there? It is! â in the vestry, while I see these other people. No doubt you will be glad to change into less ceremonial dress.â

âI shall avail myself of the opportunitah to regain in meditation my tranquilitah and spiritual at-oneness.â

âDo,â said Alleyn cordially.

âMy 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 ââ

âThere are indeed, sir,â agreed the inspector dryly. âHave you any objection to being searched before you go?â

âSearched? No â er â no, certainly not. Certainly not.â

âThatâs very sensible. Pure routine you know. Iâll send a man in.â

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

âDamnâ, sickly, pseudo, bogus, mumbo-jumbo,â said Alleyn with great violence. âWhat do you think of him, Fox?â

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

âAnd well you might, my Foxkin, well you might. Hullo, Bathgate.â

âHullo,â said Nigel guardedly.

âEnjoying yourself?â

âIâm taking shorthand notes. I seem to remember that you have a passion for shorthand notes.â

âAinât dat de truff, Lawd! Have you read âOle Man Adamâ?â

âYes.â

âI wish Garnette had. Fox!â

âYes, sir?â

âSend 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. Whereâs the wardress?â

âIn the porch out there.â

âShe can deal with the ladies. Tell them to look for a small piece of crumpled paper or anything that could have held powder. I donât think theyâll find it. Bailey!â

Detective-Sergeant Bailey moved down from the sanctuary.

âYes, sir?â

âThe next, if you please.â

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.

âThis gentleman isnât feeling too good, sir. He wants to go home,â said Bailey.

âOh, yes,â said Claude. âOh, yes, please. Oh, yes.â

âSorry youâre upset, Mr Wheatley,â said Alleyn.

âUpset! Iâm fearfully ill, Inspector. You canât think. Oh, please may I sit down.â

âDo.â

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

âI feel too ghastly,â he moaned.

âWhat upset you?â

âThat appalling old woman. She said such frightful things. I do think old women are awful.â

âWhom do you mean?â

âThe Candour female.â

âWhat did she say to upset you?â

âOh, I donât know. I do feel shocking.â

Dr Curtis came out of Garnetteâs room and strolled down.

âMr Wheatley felt a bit squeamish,â he said cheerfully, âbut heâll be all right. Heâs had a peg of some really excellent brandy. Father Garnetteâs a lucky man.â

âSplendid,â rejoined Alleyn. âWould you be a good fellow and go back to them, Curtis? Some of the others may need attention.â

âCertainly.â Curtis and Alleyn exchanged a glance and the doctor returned.

âNow, Mr Wheatley,â Alleyn began. âI think you look much better. Iâve a few questions Iâd like to put to you. You can refuse to answer if you think it advisable.â

âYes, but thatâs all very well. Suppose I do refuse, then youâll start thinking things.â

âI might, certainly.â

âYes â well â there!â

âDifficult for you,â remarked Alleyn.

âWell, anyway,â said Claude very peevishly, âyou can ask them. I may as well know what they are.â

âI have already asked the first. What did Mrs Candour say to upset you?â

Claude wriggled.

âJealous old cat. The whole thing is she loathes Father Garnette taking the slightest notice of anybody else. Sheâs always too loathsomely spiteful for words â especially to Lionel and me. How she dared! And anyway everybody knows all about it. Iâd hardly be stupid enough to ââ Here Claude stopped short.

âTo do what, Mr Wheatley?â

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

âWhat would you hardly be stupid enough to do?â asked Alleyn patiently.

âTo â well â well â to do anything to the wine. Everybody knows it was my week to make preparation.â

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

âShe didnât actually suggest anything. She simply said I did it. She kept on saying so. Old cat.â

âI shouldnât 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?â

âAny smell!â ejaculated Claude opening his eyes very wide. âAny smell!â

âAny smell.â

âWell, of course Iâd just lit all the censers you know. Donât you think our incense is rather divine, Inspector? Father Garnette gets it from India. Itâs sweet-almond blossom. Thereâs the oil too. We burn a dish of the oil in front of the altar. I lit it just before I got the wine. Itâs a gorgeous perfume.â

âEvidently. You got the bottle of wine from Mr Garnetteâs room. Was it unopened?â

âYes. I drew the cork.â

âYou put nothing else in the flagon?â

Claude looked profoundly uncomfortable.

âWell â well, anyway I didnât put any poison in, if thatâs what youâre hinting.â

âWhat else did you put?â

âIf you must know itâs something from a little bottle that Father Garnette keeps. It has a ceremonial significance. Itâs always done.â

âHave you any idea what it is?â

âI donât know.â

âWhere is this bottle kept?â

âIn the little cupboard in Father Garnetteâs room.â

âI 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?â

âI never touched the cup, Inspector. I never touched it. They all handed it round from one to the other. I didnât notice any smell except the incense. Not ever.â

âRight. Did you notice Miss Quayne at all when she took the cup?â

âDid I notice her? My God, yes.â

âWhat happened exactly?â

âIt 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 dollâs eyes. Glistening. And then she twitched all over â jerked â ugh! She fell down in a sort of jerk. Oh, Iâm going to be sick, I think.â

âNo, youâre not,â said the inspector very firmly. âYou are going home. Go into the vestry and change your clothes.â

âWhereâs Lionel?â

âHeâll join you in a moment. Goodnight.â

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

âGoodnight.â

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.

âOh,â cried Inspector Fox suddenly in a falsetto voice, âoh, Inspector, I think Iâm going to be sick.â

âAnd well you might be,â said Nigel, grinning. âWhat a loathly, what a nauseating, what an unspeakable little dollop.â

âHorrid, wasnât it?â agreed Alleyn absently. âDamn that incense,â he added crossly. âSweet almond too, just the very thing ââ he paused and stared thoughtfully at Fox. âLetâs have Lionel,â he said.

Lionel was produced. His manner was a faithful reproduction of Claudeâs 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

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 Alleynâs 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.

âI take it,â said Alleyn, âthat you have no objection. Was Miss Cara Quayne a personal friend of yours?â

âNot a great friend.â

âAn acquaintance?â

âYes. We â we â only met here.â Her voice was thin and faintly common. âAt least, well, I did go to see her once or twice.â

âHave you got any ideas on the subject of this business?â

âOh my God!â moaned Mrs Candour. âI believe it was a judgment.â

âA judgment?â

Mrs Candour drew a lace handkerchief from her bosom.

âWhat had Miss Quayne done,â asked Alleyn, âto merit so terrible a punishment?â

âShe coveted the vow of Odin.â

âIâm afraid I do not know what that implies.â

âThat is how I feel about it,â said Mrs Candour, exactly as if she had just finished a lucid and explicit statement. âFather 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.â She dropped her voice and added with an air of illicit relish: âCara was dreadfully over-sexed. Pardon me.â

âOh,â said Alleyn.

âYes. Of course I know that ecstatic union is blessed, but ecstatic union is one thing and ââ Here Mrs Candour stopped short and looked frightened.

âDo you mean,â said Alleyn, âthat â ?â

âI donât mean anything definite,â interrupted Mrs Candour in a hurry. âPlease, please donât attach any importance to what Iâve just said. It was only my idea. Iâm so dreadully upset. Poor Cara. Poor, poor Cara.â

âMr Claude Wheatley tells me ââ

âDonât you believe anything that little beast says, Mr â er â Inspector â er ââ

âInspector Alleyn, madam.â

âOh â Inspector Alleyn. Claudeâs a little pig. Always prying into other peopleâs affairs. Iâve told Father, but heâs so good he doesnât see.â

âI gather you rather upset Mr Wheatley by referring to his preparations for the service.â

âServes 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: âWell,â I said, âif she was murdered,â I said, âwho prepared the goblet and the flagon?â And then he fainted. I thought it looked very queer.â

âMiss Quayne was a very beautiful woman, I believe?â said Alleyn casually.

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

âIâm afraid I donât remember,â said Alleyn.

Mrs Candour jerked her chin up. For a second her face was horrible. âCara doesnât look very pretty now,â she said softly.

Alleyn turned away.

âI mustnât keep you any longer,â he said. âThereâs only one other point. You were the first, after Mr Garnette, to take the cup. Did you notice any peculiar smell?â

âI donât know. I donât remember. No, I donât think so.â

âI see. Thank you. That is all, I think.â

âI may go home?â

âCertainly. There is a wardress in the lobby. Would you object to being examined?â

âSearched!â

âJust looked over, you know. Itâs the usual thing.â

âOh, yes, please â Iâd rather â much rather.â

âThank you. You will be given notice of the inquest.â

âThe inquest! Oh, how dreadful. I donât know how Iâm to get over this â Iâm so shockingly sensitive. Inspector Alleyn, youâve been marvellously kind. I always thought that police methods were brutal.â 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.

âGoodbye, Inspector Alleyn.â

âGood evening, madam,â said Alleyn.

She wobbled away on her French heels.

âThis is a very unsavoury case,â said Nigel.

âItâs murder,â said Inspector Fox mildly.

âMost foul,â added Alleyn, âas at the best it is. But this most foul â Yes, I agree with you, Bathgate. Bailey!â

âHere,â said that worthy, rising up from behind the lectern.

âNext please.â

âRight, sir.â

âWhat did you make of Mrs Candour?â asked Alleyn.

âA perfectly appalling old girl,â said Nigel fervently.

âOh, yes. All that. Almost a pathological case, one might imagine. Still, the exhibition of jealousy was interesting, didnât you think, Fox?â

âYes, I did,â agreed Fox. âThis Father Garnette seems to be a peculiar sort of man for the ministry.â

âExactly.â

âWhen she made that appalling remark about Cara not looking very pretty now,â said Nigel, âshe 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.â

âDonât show off,â said Alleyn abstractedly.

âIâll be right there, Ahfficer. Whereâs the Chief?â cried Mr Ogden from afar. He appeared with Bailey by the altar, saw Alleyn, and made straight for him.

âWell, well, well. Look whatâs here!â exclaimed Mr Ogden.

âYes, look,â said Alleyn. âItâs a pathetic sight, Mr Ogden. Here we go grubbing along â however.â

âSay, Inspector, whatâs the big idea? You look kind of world-weary.â

âDo I, Mr Ogden, do I?â

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

âAnd now youâll never talk again about our wonderful police.â

âIs that so? Well, Iâm not saying anything.â

âYou wonât mind if I ask you a few dreary questions, perhaps? We have to do our stuff, you know.â

âGo right ahead. My, my!â said Mr Ogden contemplating Alleyn with an air of the liveliest satisfaction. âYou certainly are the goods. I guess youâve got British Manufacture stamped some place where it wonât wear off. All this quiet deprecation â itâs direct from a sure-fire British best-seller. I canât hardly believe itâs true.â

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

âThat sounds a very damning description, Mr Ogden,â 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.

âThough, now I get to thinking about it,â added Mr Ogden, âI 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.â

âCan you remember at what precise moment you thought this?â

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

âWell, Mr Ogden?â

âWell now, Inspector, I canât remember. Isnât that just too bad?â

âMiss Jenkins was next to you in the circle, wasnât she?â

âThat is correct,â said Mr Ogden tonelessly.

âYes. Now look here, sir. Youâre a business man I take it?â

âSurely.â

âThank God for that. I donât know how much this organisation means to you, and I donât want to say anything that will be offensive, but Iâm longing for a sensible manâs view of the whole situation. An intelligent and knowledgeable view.â

âInside dope,â said Mr Ogden.

âExactly.â

âGo right ahead. Maybe Iâll talk and maybe not. Maybe I donât know anything.â

âI gather you are an officer of the executive?â

âThatâs so. A Warden.â

âYou know all these people quite well, I suppose?â

âWhy, 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 Iâve 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 theyâve got together like regular fellows. Theyâre a great little crowd.â

âYouâve been interested in the organisation since its foundation?â

âThatâs so. That was way back in â why, it must be two years ago. I met up with Father Garnette coming across to England. I move about some, Inspector. Thatâs my job. That trip it was the Brightwater Creek Gold Mining Company. Yes, thatâs 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 Garnetteâs personality.â

âReally,â said Alleyn.

âYes, sir. Iâm 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 thatâs the way Father Garnette let me have it. By the time we hit Southampton weâd doped out a scheme for this church, and before six months had passed we were drawing congregations of three hundred.â

âRemarkable,â said Alleyn.

âIt was swell.â

âWhere did the money come from?â

âWhy, from the flock. Father Garnette had a small hall âway 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 heâd got them all enthusiastic he had an appeal week and loosed a line of high-voltage oratory. Sob-stuff. I gave five grand and Iâm proud to spill the beans.â

âWho were the other subscribers?â

âWhy, 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 â and all the bunch of Initiates. I guess Iâd hold up operations some if I recited all the subscribers.â

âMiss Quayne must have been a very wealthy woman?â

âShe 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 itâs to form a building fund for a new church. Thatâs how generous she was.â

Nigel had paused, pen in air, to gape at Mr Ogdenâs 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 Garnettâs oratory and felt less superior.

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