Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2. Ngaio Marsh

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, 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.’ 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!’ said 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, ‘has 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 heart-beat 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