War in Heaven

  “Tomtit!” Mornington cried. “If it could be true, he wouldn’t be a tomtit. He’d be a vulture.”

  “Well, never mind,” the priest said. “The question is, can I do anything at once? I’ve half a mind to go and take it.”

  “Look here,” said Mornington, “let me go and see him first. Stephen thought it would look well if I called, being down here. And let me talk to Lionel Rackstraw.” He spoke almost crossly. “Once a silly idea like this gets into one’s mind, one can’t see anything else. I think you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t see, then, what good you’re going to do,” the Archdeacon said. “If I’m mad——”

  “Wrong, I said,” Kenneth put in.

  “Wrong because being hit on the head has affected my mind and my eyes—which is almost the same thing as being mad. If I’m demented, anyhow—you won’t be any more clear about it after a chat with Mr. Persimmons on whatever he does chat about. Nor with Mr. Rackstraw, whoever he may be.”

  Kenneth explained briefly. “So, you see, he’s really been a very decent fellow over the cottage,” he concluded.

  “My dear man,” the Archdeacon said, “if you had tea with him and he gave you the last crumpet, it wouldn’t prove anything unless he badly wanted the crumpet, and not much even then. He might want something else more.”

  This, however, was a point of view to which Kenneth, when that evening he walked over to the cottage, found Lionel not very willing to agree. Gregory, so far as the Rackstraws were concerned, had been nothing but an advantage. He had lent them the cottage; he had sent a maid down from Cully to save Barbara trouble; he had occupied Adrian for hours together with the motor and other amusements, until the child was very willing for his parents to go off on more or less extensive walks while he played with his new friend. And Lionel saw no reason to associate himself actively—even in sympathy—with the archidiaconal crusade; more especially since Mornington himself was torn between scepticism and sympathy.

  “In any case,” he said, “I don’t know what you want me to do. Anyone that will take Adrian off my hands for a little while can knock all the Archdeacons in the country on the head so far as I am concerned.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything,” Kenneth answered, “except discuss it.”

  “Well, we’re going up to tea at Cully to-morrow,” Lionel said. “I can talk about it there, if you like.”

  Kenneth arrived at Cully on the Sunday afternoon, after having heard the Archdeacon preach a sermon in the morning on “Thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s house,” in which, having identified “thy neighbour” with God and touched lightly on the text “Mine are the cattle upon a thousand hills,” he went off into a fantastic exhortation upon the thesis that the only thing left to covet was “thy neighbour” Himself. “Not His creation, not His manifestations, not even His qualities, but Him,” the Archdeacon ended. “This should be our covetousness and our desire; for this only no greed is too great, as this only can satisfy the greatest greed. The whole universe is His house, the soul of thy mortal neighbour is His wife, thou thyself art His servant and thy body His maid—a myriad oxen, a myriad asses, subsist in the high inorganic creation. Him only thou shalt covet with all thy heart, with all thy mind, with all thy soul, and with all thy strength. And now to God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be ascribed, as is most justly due, all honour …” The congregation searched for sixpences.

  Lionel, Barbara, and Adrian were with Persimmons and Sir Giles on the terrace behind the house when Kenneth arrived, and had already spoken of his probable visit. Gregory welcomed him pleasantly enough, as one of the staff who had originally worked under him. But Kenneth’s mind was already in a slight daze, for, as he had been conducted by the maid through the hall, he had seen on a bracket about the height of his head from the ground, in a corner near the garden door, an antique cup which struck him forcibly as being very like the one the Archdeacon had described to him. It seemed impossible that, if the priest’s absurd suspicions were right, Persimmons should so flaunt the theft before the world—unless, indeed, it were done merely to create the impression of impossibility. “There is no possible idea,” Kenneth thought as he came on to the terrace, “to which the mind of man can’t supply some damned alternative or other. Yet one must act. How are you, Mr. Persimmons? You’ll excuse this call, I know.”

  The conversation rippled gently round the spring publishing season and books in general, with backwaters of attention in which Adrian immersed himself.

  It approached, gently and unobserved by the two young men, the question of corrections in proof, and it was then that Sir Giles, who had until then preserved a sardonic and almost complete silence, said suddenly: “What I want to know is, whether proofs are or are not private?”

  “I suppose they are, technically,” Lionel said lazily, watching Adrian. “Subject to the discretion of the publisher.”

  “Subject to the discretion of the devil,” Sir Giles said. “What do you say, Persimmons?”

  “I should say yes,” Gregory answered. “At least till they are passed for press.”

  “I ask,” Sir Giles said pointedly, “because my last proofs were shown to an outsider before the book was published. And if one of these gentlemen was responsible I want to know why.”

  “My dear Tumulty, it doesn’t matter,” Gregory in a quiet, soothing tone put in. “I asked you not to mention it, you know.”

  “I know you did,” Sir Giles answered, “and I said—that I felt I ought to. After all, a man has a right to know why a mad clergyman is allowed to read paragraphs of his book which he afterwards cancels. I tell you, Persimmons, we haven’t seen the last of your … Archdeacon yet.”

  It was evident that Barbara’s presence was causing Sir Giles acute difficulty in the expression of his feelings. But this was unknown to Kenneth, who, realizing suddenly what the other was talking about, said, leaning forward in his chair, “I’m afraid that’s my fault, Sir Giles. It was I showed the Archdeacon your proofs. I’m extremely sorry if it’s inconvenienced you, but I don’t think I agree that proofs are so entirely private as you suggest. Something must be allowed to a publisher’s need for publicity, and perhaps something for the mere accidents of a publishing house. There was no special stipulation about privacy for your book.”

  “I made no stipulation,” Sir Giles answered, staring hostilely at Kenneth, “because I didn’t for an instant suppose I should find it being read in convocation before my final corrections were made.”

  “Really, really, Tumulty,” Gregory said. “It’s unfortunate, as it’s turned out, but I’m sure Mornington would be the first to deplore a slight excess of zeal, a slight error of judgement, shall we say?”

  “Error of judgement?” Sir Giles snarled. “It’s more like a breach of common honesty.”

  Kenneth came to his feet. “I admit no error in judgement,” he said haughtily. “I was entirely within my rights. What is the misfortune you complain of, Mr. Persimmons?” He moved so as to turn his back on Sir Giles.

  “I don’t complain,” Gregory answered hastily. “It’s just one of those things that happen. But the Archdeacon, owing to your zeal, my dear Mornington, has been trying to saddle me with the responsibility for the loss of this chalice Sir Giles was writing about. I do wish he’d never seen the proofs. I think you must admit they ought to be treated as private.”

  “It’s exactly like reading out a private letter from the steps of St. Paul’s,” Sir Giles added. “A man who does it ought to be flung into the gutter to starve.”

  “Now, now, Tumulty,” Gregory put in, as the enraged Kenneth wheeled round, and Barbara and Lionel hastily stood up, “it’s not as bad as that. I think perhaps strict commercial morality would mean strict privacy, but perhaps we take a rather austere view. The younger generation is looser, you know—less tied—less dogmatic, shall we say?”

  “Less honest, you mean,” Sir Giles said. “However, it’s your affair more than mine, after all.”


  “Let’s say no more about it,” Gregory said handsomely.

  “But I will say more about it,” Kenneth cried out. “Do you expect me to be called a thief and a liar and I don’t know what, because I did a perfectly right thing, and then be forgiven for it? I beg your pardon, Barbara, but I can’t stand it, and I won’t.”

  “You can’t help it,” Sir Giles said, grinning. “What will you do? We’ve both forgiven you, my fine fellow, and there it stops.”

  Kenneth stamped his foot in anger. “I’ll have an apology,” he said. “Sir Giles, what is the importance of this beastly book of yours?”

  Barbara moved forward and slipped her arm in his. “Kenneth dear,” she murmured; and then to Gregory, “Mr. Persimmons, I don’t quite know what all this is about, but couldn’t we do without forgiving one another?” She smiled at Sir Giles. “Sir Giles has had to forgive so many people, I expect, in different parts of the world, that he might spare us this time.”

  Lionel came to her help. “It’s my fault more than Mornington’s,” he said. “I was supposed to be looking after the proofs, and I let an uncorrected set out of my keeping. It’s me you must slang, Sir Giles.”

  “In the firm is one thing,” Sir Giles said obstinately, “one risks that. But an outsider, and a clergyman, and a mad clergyman—no.”

  “Mad clergyman be——” Kenneth began, and was silenced by Barbara’s appealing, “But what is it all about? Can you tell me, Mr. Persimmons?”

  “I can even show you,” Gregory said pleasantly. “As a matter of fact, Adrian’s seen it already. We had a game with it this morning. It’s a question of identifying an old chalice.” He led the way into the hall, and paused before the bracket. “There you are,” he said, “that’s mine. I got it from a Greek, who got it from one of his countrymen who fled before the Turkish recovery in Asia Minor. It comes, through Smyrna, from Ephesus. Old enough and interesting, but as for being the Graal——Unfortunately, after the Archdeacon had read this paragraph about which we’ve all been behaving so badly, three things happened. I did ask him if he had a chalice to spare for a friend of mine who has a very poor parish; thieves made an attempt on the church over there; and the Archdeacon was knocked on the head by a tramp. He seems to think that this proves conclusively that I was the tramp and that this is his missing chalice. At least, he says it’s missing.”

  “How do you mean, sir—says it’s missing?” Lionel asked.

  “Well, honestly—I dare say it’s mere pique—but we none of us really know the Archdeacon, do we?” Gregory asked. “And some of the clergy aren’t above turning an honest penny by supplying American millionaires with curios. But it looks bad if it does happen to come out—so if the thing can disappear by means of a tramp or an unknown neighbour …”

  There was a moment’s pause, then Kenneth said, “Really, sir, if you knew the Archdeacon …”

  “Quite right,” Gregory answered. “Oh, my dear fellow, I’m being unjust to him, no doubt. But a man doesn’t expect his parish priest practically to accuse him of highway robbery. I shouldn’t be surprised if I heard from the police next. Probably the best thing would be to offer him this one to replace the one he says he’s—I mean the one he’s lost. But I don’t think I’m quite Christian enough for that.”

  “And how did you play with it this morning?” Barbara asked, smiling at Adrian.

  “Ah, that is a secret game, isn’t it, Adrian?” Gregory answered merrily. “Our secret game. Isn’t it, Adrian?”

  “It’s hidden,” Adrian said seriously. “It’s hidden pictures. But you mustn’t know what, Mummie, must she?” He appealed to Gregory.

  “Certainly not,” Gregory said.

  “Certainly not,” Adrian repeated. “They’re my hidden pictures.”

  “So they shall be, darling,” Barbara said. “Please forgive me. Well, Mr. Persimmons, I suppose we ought to be going. Thank you for a charming afternoon. You’re making this a very pleasant holiday.”

  Sir Giles had dropped away when they had entered the hall, and the farewells were thus robbed of their awkwardness; although Gregory detained Kenneth in order to say, “I think I can put it right with Tumulty, although he was very angry at first. Talked of appealing to my son and getting you dismissed, you know.”

  “Getting me what?” Kenneth cried.

  “Well, you know what my son is,” Gregory said confidentially. “Efficient and all that—but you’ve known him in business, Mornington, and you know what he is. Rather easily influenced, I’m afraid. And Sir Giles is a good name for his list.”

  “A very good name,” Kenneth admitted, feeling less heated and more chilly than he had done. It was true—Stephen Persimmons was weak, and would be terrified of losing Sir Giles. And he had before now been guilty of dismissing people in a fit of hysterical anger.

  “But I’ve no doubt it’s all right,” Gregory went on, watching the other closely, “no doubt at all. Let me know if anything goes wrong. I’ve a great regard for you, Mornington, and a word, perhaps … And, keep the Archdeacon quiet, if you can. It would be worth your while.”

  He waved his hand and turned back into the house, and Kenneth, considerably more disturbed than before, walked slowly back to the Rectory.

  Chapter Nine

  THE FLIGHT OF THE DUKE OF THE NORTH RIDINGS

  When the Duke’s car arrived outside the Rectory about twelve on the Monday, its driver saw at the gates another car, at the wheel of which sat a policeman whom he recognized.

  “Hallo, Puttenham,” he said. “Is the Chief Constable here then?”

  “Inside, your Grace,” Constable Puttenham answered, saluting. “Making inquiries about the outrage, I believe.”

  The Duke, rather annoyed, looked at the Rectory. He disliked the Chief Constable, who had taken up the business of protecting people, developed it into a hobby, and was rapidly making it a mania and a nuisance—at least, so it appeared to the Duke. He remembered now that at a dinner at his own house some few days before the Chief Constable had held forth at great length on a lack of readiness in the public to assist the police, as exemplified by the failure of the Archdeacon of Fardles to report to them one case of sacrilege and one of personal assault. It had been objected that the Archdeacon had been confined to his bed for some time, but now that he had preached again the Chief Constable had obviously determined to see what his personal investigation and exhortation could do. The Duke hesitated for a moment, but it occurred to him that Mornington might welcome the opportunity of escaping, and he strolled slowly up to the door. Introduced into the study, he found the Chief Constable in a high state of argumentative irritation, Mornington irrationally scornful of everything, and the Archdeacon—for all he could see—much as usual.

  “How do, Ridings,” the Chief Constable said, after the priest had greeted his visitor. “Perhaps you may help me to talk sense. The Archdeacon here says he’s lost a chalice, and won’t help the proper authorities to look for it.”

  “But I don’t want them to look for it,” the Archdeacon said, “if you mean the police. You asked me if I knew what the hypothetical tramp or tramps were looking for, and I said yes—the old chalice that used to be here. You asked me if it had disappeared, and I said yes. But I don’t want you to look for it.”

  The Duke began to feel that there might be something satisfying about even an Anglican priest. There were few things he himself would like less than to have the Chief Constable looking for anything he had lost. But robbery was robbery, and though, of course, a priest who wasn’t a priest could have no real use for a chalice, still, a chalice was a chalice, and, anyhow, the Chief Constable was sure to go on looking for it, so why not let him? But he didn’t say this; he merely nodded and glanced at Mornington.

  “I suppose you want to find it?” the Chief Constable said laboriously.

  “I don’t—you must excuse me, but you drive me to it,” the Archdeacon answered. “I don’t want the police to find it. First, because I don’t care fo
r the Church to make use of the secular arm; secondly, because it would make the whole thing undesirably public; thirdly, because I know where it is; and fourthly, because they couldn’t prove it was there.”

  “Well, sir,” Kenneth said sharply, “then, if it can’t be proved, we oughtn’t to throw accusations about.”

  “Precisely what I am not doing,” the Archdeacon answered, crossing his legs. “I don’t accuse anyone. I only say I know where it is.”

  “And where is it?” the Chief Constable asked. “And how do you know it is there?”

  “First,” the Archdeacon said, “in the possession of Mr. Persimmons of Cully—probably on a bracket in his hall, but I’m not certain of that. Secondly, by a combination of directions arising out of the education of children, books of black magic, a cancelled paragraph in some proofs, an attempt to cheat me, the place where the Cup was kept, a motor-car, a reported threat, and a few other things.”

  The Chief Constable was still blinking over the sudden introduction of Mr. Persimmons of Cully, and it was the Duke who asked, “But if you have all these clues, what’s the uncertainty—in your own mind?” he added suddenly, as he also became aware of the improbability of a country householder knocking an Archdeacon on the head in order to steal his chalice.

  “There is no uncertainty in my own mind,” the priest answered. “But the police would not be able to find a motive.”

  “We of course can,” Kenneth said scornfully.

  “We—if you say we—can,” the Archdeacon said, “for we know what it was, and we know that many kinds of religion are possible to men.”

  “You are sure now that it was—it?” Kenneth answered.

  “No,” the priest answered, “but I have decided in my own mind that I will believe that. No-one can possibly do more than decide what to believe.”