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 joy to 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 THREE
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 realised that the woman’s collapse was not anticipated by the congregation or by Father Jasper 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 little 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 the 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 murmur 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 center aisle. A 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 to 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, 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!” s
aid 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, “had 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 heartbeat 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 O.K. 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 scandalised yelp; M. de Ravigne hissed like a steamboiler; Mr. Ogden said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute”; Pringle seemed to shrink into himself, and Janey Jenkins took his hand.