Death in Ecstasy

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

  “In that niche over there on our right of the sanctuarah.”

  “And what is the procedure with the methylated tablet?”

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

  “Drops in the tablet and puts the cup away again?”

  “Yes.”

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

  “I—ah—I employ a little capsule,” said Father Garnette.

  “Really? What does it contain?’’

  “I believe the substance is known as zinc—ah—ethyl.”

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

  “That is so.”

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

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

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

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

  “Do,” said Alleyn cordially.

  “My sub-conscious mind, impregnated with the word, will flow to you-wards. In all humilitah I believe I may help you in your task. There are more things in Heaven and earth, Inspector Alleyn—”

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

  “Searched? No—er—no, certainly not. Certainly not.”

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

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

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

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

  “And well you might, my Foxkin, well you might. Hullo, Bathgate.”

  “Hullo,” said Nigel guardedly.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

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

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

  “Yes.”

  “I wish Garnette had. Fox!”

  “Yes, sir?”

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

  “In the porch out there.”

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

  Detective-Sergeant Bailey moved down the sanctuary.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The next, if you please.”

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

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

  “Oh, yes,” said Claude. “Oh, yes, please. Oh, yes.”

  “Sorry you’re upset, Mr. Wheatley,” said Alleyn.

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

  “Do.”

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

  “I feel too ghastly,” he moaned.

  “What upset you?”

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

  “Whom do you mean?”

  “The Candour female.”

  “What did she say to upset you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I do feel shocking.”

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

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

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

  “Certainly.” Curtis and Alleyn exchanged a glance, and the doctor returned.

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

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

  “I might, certainly.”

  “Yes—well there!”

  “Difficult for you,” remarked Alleyn.

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

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

  Claude wriggled.

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

  “To do what, Mr. Wheatley?”

  “To do anything like that, even if I wanted to, and anyways I always thought Cara Quayne was a marvellous person—so piercingly decorative.”

  “What would you hardly be stupid enough to do?” asked Alleyn patiently.

  “To—well—well—to do anything to the wine. Everybody knows it was my week to make preparation.”

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

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

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

  “Any smell!” ejaculated Claude opening his eyes very wide. “Any smell!”

  “Any smell.”

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

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

  “Yes. I drew the cork.”

  “You put nothing else in the flagon?”

  Claude looked profoundly uncomfortable.

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

  “What else did you put?”

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

  “Have you any idea what it is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where is this bottle kept?”

  “In the little cupboard in Father Garnette’s room.”

  “I see. Now as I understand it you took the wine to each of the Initiates i
n turn. Did you at any time notice any unusual smell from the cup?”

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

  “Right. Did you notice Miss Quayne at all when she took the cup?”

  “Did I notice her? My God, yes.”

  “What happened exactly?”

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

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

  “Where’s Lionel?”

  “He’ll join you in a moment. Good night.”

  “Oh,” said Claude rolling a languishing eye at Alleyn, “You are marvellous, Inspector. Oh, I would so very much rather not be sick. Good-bye.”

  “Good night.”

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

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

  “And well you might be,” said Nigel, grinning.

  “What a loathly, what a nauseating, what an unspeakable little dollop.”

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

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

  CHAPTER SIX

  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 Alleyn’s suggestion that she should sit on one of the chairs, she twitched her loose lips, whispered something, and walked towards them with that precarious gait induced by excessive flesh mounted on French heels. She moved in a thick aura of essence of violet. Alleyn waited until she was seated before he gave her the customary information that she was under no obligation to answer any questions. He paused, but she made no comment. She simply stared in front of her with lacklustre eyes.

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

  “Not a great friend.”

  “An acquaintance?”

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

  “Have you got any ideas on the subject of this business?”

  “Oh my God!” moaned Mrs. Candour. “I believe it was a judgment.”

  “A judgment?”

  Mrs. Candour drew a lace handkerchief from her bosom.

  “What had Miss Quayne done,” asked Alleyn, “to merit so terrible a punishment?”

  “She coveted the vow of Odin.”

  “I’m afraid I do not know what that implies.”

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

  “Oh,” said Alleyn.

  “Yes. Of course I know that ecstatic union is blessed, but ecstatic union is one thing and—” Here Mrs. Candour stopped short and looked frightened.

  “Do you mean,” said Alleyn, “that—?”

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

  “Mr. Claude Wheatley tells me—”

  “Don’t you believe anything that little beast says, Mr.—er—Inspector—er—”

  “Inspector Alleyn, Madam.”

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

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

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

  “Miss Quayne was a very beautiful woman, I believe?” said Alleyn casually.

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

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” said Alleyn.

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

  Alleyn turned away.

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

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. No, I don’t think so.”

  “I see. Thank you. That is all, I think.”

  “I may go home?”

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

  “Searched!”

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

  “Oh, yes, please—I’d rather—much rather.”

  “Thank you. You will be given notice of the inquest.”

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

  “Good-bye, Inspector Alleyn.”

  “Good evening, madam,” said Alleyn.

  She wobbled away on her French heels.

  “This is a very unsavory case,” said Nigel.

  “It’s murder,” said Inspector Fox mildly.

  “Most foul,” added Alleyn, “as at the best it is. But this most foul—yes, I agree with you, Bathgate. Bailey!”

  “Here,” said that worthy, rising up from behind the lectern.

  “Next, please.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “What did you make of Mrs. Candour?” asked Alleyn.

  “A perfectly appalling old girl,” said Nigel fervently.

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

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

  “Exactly.”

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

  “Don’t show off,” said Alleyn abstractedly.

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

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

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

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

  “Do I, Mr. Ogden, do I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Can you remember at what precise moment you thought this?”

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