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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 (#ulink_432e25fa-e8fd-5bcd-a04f-f093716bd84a)
At first Nigel, though greatly startled, imagined that this performance was merely the climax of the ceremony. He found the whole business extremely unpleasant but was nevertheless interested. Perhaps a minute passed before he realized that the 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