Death In Ecstasy

CHAPTER IV The Yard

The entrance of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn had a curious effect upon the scene and upon the actors. It was an effect which might be likened to that achieved by the cinema when the camera is shifted and the whole scene presented from a different viewpoint. Nigel had felt himself to be involved in a nightmare, but it now seemed to be someone else’s nightmare of which he was merely the narrator. He wondered wildly whether he should follow Mr. Ogden’s example and embark on an elaborate series of introductions. However, he avoided this complication and in as few words as possible, told Alleyn what had happened. The others remained silent, eyeing the inspector. Janey Jenkins held Pringle’s hand between her two hands; Miss Wade kept a handkerchief pressed against her lips; M. de Ravigne stood scornfully apart; Mrs. Candour had collapsed into a grand-opera throne on the left of the altar; Mr. Ogden looked capable and perturbed and the two acolytes gazed rapturously at the inspector. Alleyn listened with his curious air of detachment that always reminded Nigel of a polite faun. When Nigel came to the ecstatic frenzy, Alleyn made a slant-wise grimace. Speaking so quietly that the others could not overhear him, Nigel repeated as closely as he could remember them the exclamations made by Pringle, Miss Wade and de Ravigne. Alleyn asked for the names of persons who should be informed. Beyond Miss Quayne’s servants there seemed to be nobody. Miss Jenkins, appealed to, said she had overheard Miss Quayne saying that her staff were all out on Sunday evening. She volunteered to ring up and find out and retired to Father Garnette’s room to do so. She returned to say there was no answer. Alleyn took the number and said he would see the house was informed later. As soon as he had learnt the facts of the case, Alleyn lifted the satin drapery aside to Dr. Kasbek, and then addressed them all quietly. At this moment Father Garnette, having set his congregation going on another hymn, returned to the group. Nigel alone noticed him. He stood just inside the curtains and never took his eyes off the inspector.

Alleyn said: “There is, I think, no reason why you should not know what has happened here. This woman has probably died of poisoning. Until we know more of the circumstances and the nature of her death I shall have to take over the case on behalf of the police. From what I have heard I believe that there is nothing to be gained in keeping the rest of the congregation here.” He turned slightly and saw the priest.

“You are Mr. Garnette? Will you be good enough to ask your congregation to go home — when they have quite finished singing, of course. I have stationed a constable inside the door. He will take their names. Just tell them that, will you?”

“Certainly,” said Father Garnette and disappeared through the curtains.

They heard him pronounce a benediction of sorts. Beyond the curtains there was a sort of stirring and movement. One or two people coughed. It all died away at last. A door slammed with a desolate air of finality and there was complete silence in the building, save for the slobbering of the torch. Father Garnette returned.

“Phew!” said Alleyn. “Let’s have the curtains drawn back, may we?”

Father Garnette inclined his head. Claude and Lionel flew to the sides of the chancel and in a moment the curtains rattled apart, revealing the solitary figure of the doorkeeper, agape on the lowest step.

“Is there anything I can do, Father?” asked the doorkeeper.

“Lock the front door and go home,” said Father Garnette.

“Yes, Father,” whispered the doorkeeper. He departed, hurriedly pulling the double doors to with an apologetic slam. For a moment there was silence. Then Alleyn turned to Nigel.

“Is there a telephone handy?”

“Yes.”

“Get through to the Yard, will you, Bathgate, and tell them what has happened. Fox is on duty. Ask them to send him along with the usual support. We’ll want the divisional surgeon and a wardress.”

Nigel went into the room behind the altar and delivered this message. When he returned he found Alleyn, with his notebook in his hand, taking down the names and addresses of the Initiates.

“It’s got to be done, you see,” he explained. “There will, of course, be an inquest and I’m afraid you will all be called as witnesses.”

“Oh, God,” said Pringle with a sort of disgust.

“I’d better start with the deceased,” Alleyn suggested. “What is her name, please?”

“She was a Miss Cara Quayne, Inspector,” said Mr. Ogden. “She owned a very, very distinctive residence in Shepherd Market, No. 101. I have had the honour of dining at the Quayne home, and believe me it surely was an aesthetic experience. She was a very lovely-natured woman with a great appreciation of the beautiful—”

“No. 101, Shepherd Market,” said Alleyn. ‘Thank you.“ He wrote it down and then glanced round his audience.

“I will take yours first if I may, Doctor Kasbek.”

“Certainly. Nicholas Kasbek, 189a, Wigmore Street.”

“Right.” He turned to Miss Wade.

“My name is Ernestine Wade,” she said very clearly and in a high voice, as though Alleyn was deaf. “I live at Primrose Court, Kings Road, Chelsea. Spinster.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Jenkins came forward.

“I’m Janey Jenkins. I live in a studio flat in Yeomans Row, No. 99d. I’m a spinster, too, if you want to know.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “just for ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs.’ you know.”

“Now you, Maurice,” said Miss Jenkins.

“Pringle,” said that gentleman as though the name was an offence. “Maurice. I’m staying at 11, Harrow Mansions, Sloane Square.”

“Is that your permanent address?”

“No. Haven’t got one unless you count my people’s place. I never go there if I can help it.”

“The Phoenix Club will always find you, won’t it?” murmured Miss Jenkins.

“Oh, God, yes,” replied Mr. Pringle distastefully.

“Next please,” said Alleyn cheerfully. Mrs. Candour spoke suddenly from the ecclesiastical throne. She had the air of uttering an appalling indecency.

“My name is Dagmar Candour. Mrs. Queen Charlotte Flats, Kensington Square. No. 12.”

“C. a. n—?” queried Alleyn.

“d. o. u. r.”

‘Thank you.”

Mr. Ogden, who had several times taken a step forward and as often politely retreated, now spoke up firmly.

“Samuel J. Ogden, Chief. I guess you’re not interested in my home address. I come from the States — New York. In London I have a permanent apartment in York Square. No. 93, Achurch Court. I just can’t locate my card-case, but — well, those are the works.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Ogden. And now you, if you please, sir.”

Father Garnette hesitated a moment, oddly. Then he cleared his throat and answered in his usual richly inflected voice:

“Father Jasper Garnette.” He spelt it. “I am the officiating priest of this temple. I live here.”

“Here?”

“I have a little dwelling beyond the altar.”

“Extremely convenient,” murmured Alleyn. “And now, these two,” — he looked a little doubtfully at Claude and Lionel — “these two young men.”

Claude and Lionel answered together in a rapturous gush.

“What?” asked Alleyn.

“Do be quiet, Lionel,” said Claude. “We share a flat in Ebury Street: ‘Ebury Mews.’ Well, it isn’t actually a flat, is it, Lionel? Oh dear, I always forget the number — it’s too stupid of me.”

“You are hopeless, Claude,” said Lionel. “It’s 17, Ebury Mews, Ebury Street, Inspector Alleyn, only we aren’t very often there, because I’m in the show at the Palladium and Claude is at Madame Karen’s in Sloane Street and—”

“I do not yet know your names.”

“Lionel, you are perfectly maddening,” said Claude. “I’m Claude Wheatley, Inspector Alleyn, and this is Lionel Smith.”

Alleyn wrote these names down with the address, and added in brackets: “Gemini, possibly heavenly.”

M. de Ravigne came forward and bowed.

“Raoul Honore Christophe Jerome de Ravigne, monsieur. I live at Branscombe Chambers, Lowndes Square. My card.”

“Thank you, M. de Ravigne. And now will you all please show me exactly how you were placed while the cup was passed round the circle. I understand the ceremony took place in the centre of this area.”

After a moment’s silence the priest came forward.

“I stood here,” he said, “with the chalice in my hands, Mr. Ogden knelt on my right, and Mrs. Candour on my left.”

“That is correct, sir,” agreed Ogden and moved into place. “Miss Jenkins was on my right, I guess.”

“Yes,” said that lady, “and Maurice on mine.”

Mrs. Candour came forward reluctantly and stood on Garnette’s left.

“M. de Ravigne was beside me,” she whispered.

“Certainly.” M. de Ravigne took up his position and Miss Wade slipped in beside him.

“I was here,” she said, “between Mr. de Ravigne and Mr. Pringle.”

“That completes the circle,” said Alleyn. “What were the movements of the acolytes.”

“Well you see,” began Claude eagerly, “I came here — just here on Father Garnette’s right hand. I was the Ganymede you see, so I had the jug of wine. As soon as Father Garnette gave Mrs. Candour the cup, I gave her the wine. She holds the cup in her left hand and the wine in her right hand. She pours in a little wine and speaks the first god-name. You are Hagring, aren’t you Mrs. Candour?”

“I was,” sobbed Mrs. Candour.

“Yes. And then I take the jug and hand it to the next person and—”

“And so on,” said Alleyn. “Thank you.”

“And I was censing over here,” struck in Lionel with passionate determination. “I was censing all the time.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn; “and now, I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you all a little longer. Perhaps, Mr. Garnette, you will allow them to wait in your rooms. I am sure you would all like to get away from the scene of this tragedy. I think I hear my colleagues outside.”

There was a resounding knock on the front door.

“Oh, may I let them in?” asked Claude.

“Please do,” said Alleyn.

Claude hurried away down the aisle and opened the double doors. Seven men, three of them constables, came in, in single file, headed by a tall thick-set individual in plain clothes who removed his hat, glanced in mild surprise at the nude statues, and walked steadily up the aisle.

“Hullo, Fox,” said Alleyn.

“Evening, sir,” said Inspector Fox.

“There’s been some trouble here. One of you men go with these ladies and gentlemen into the room at the back there. Mr. Garnette will show you the way. Will you, Mr. Garnette? I’ll keep you no longer than I can possibly help. Dr. Kasbek, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here—”

“Look here,” said Maurice Pringle suddenly. “I’m damned if I can see why we should be herded about like a mob of sheep. What has happened? Is she murdered?”

“Very probably,” said Alleyn coolly. “Nobody is going to herd you, Mr. Pringle. You are going to wait quietly and reasonably while we make the necessary investigations. Off you go.”

“But—”

“I knew,” cried Mrs. Candour suddenly. “I knew something dreadful would happen. M. de Ravigne, didn’t I tell you?”

“If you please, madame!” said de Ravigne with great firmness.

“All that sort of thing should have been kept out,” said little Miss Wade. “It should never—”

“I think we had better follow instructions,” interrupted Father Garnette loudly. “Will you all follow me?”

They trooped away, escorted by the largest of the constables.

“Lumme!” ejaculated Alleyn when the altar door had shut. “As you yourself would say, Fox, ‘quelle galère’.”

“A rum crowd,” agreed Fox, “and a very rum place too, seemingly. What’s happened, sir?”

“A lady has just died of a dose of cyanide. There’s the body. Your old friend Mr. Bathgate will tell you about it.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox mildly. “You’ve found something else in our line, have you?”

“It was at the climax of the ceremony,” began Nigel. “A cup was passed round a circle of people, these people whom you have just seen. This woman stood in the middle. The others knelt. A silver jug holding the wine was handed in turn to each of them and each poured a little into the cup. Then the priest, Father Garnette, gave her the cup. She drank it and — and fell down. I think she died at once, didn’t she?”

He turned to Dr. Kasbek.

“Within twenty seconds I should say.” The doctor looked at the divisional surgeon.

“I would have tried artificial respiration, sent for ferrous sulphate and a stomach tube and all the rest of it but” — he grimaced — “there wasn’t a dog’s chance. She was dead before I got to her.”

“I know,” said the divisional surgeon. He lifted the drapery and bent over the body.

“I noticed the characteristic odour at once,” added Kasbek, “and so I think did Mr. Bathgate.”

“Yes,” agreed Nigel, “that’s why I butted in.”

Alleyn knelt by the fallen cup and sniffed.

“Stinks of it,” he said. “Bailey, you’ll have to look at this for prints. Not much help if they all handled it. We’ll have photographs first.”

The man with the camera had already begun to set up his paraphernalia. He took three flashlight shots, from different viewpoints, of the body and surrounding area. Alleyn opened the black bag, put on a pair of rubber gloves and took out a small bottle and a tiny funnel. He drained off one or two drops of wine from the cup. While he did this Nigel took the opportunity to relate as much of the conversation of the Initiates as he could remember. Alleyn listened, grunted, and muttered to himself as he restored the little bottle to his bag. Detective-Sergeant Bailey got to work with an insufflator and white chalk.

“Where’s the original vessel that was handed round by one of those two hothouse flowers?” asked Alleyn. “Is this it?” He pointed to a silver jug standing in a sort of velvet-lined niche on the right side of the chancel.

“That’s it,” said Nigel. “Claude must have kept his head and put it there when — after it happened.”

“Is Claude the black orchid or the red lily?”

“The black orchid.”

Alleyn sniffed at the silver jug and filled another bottle from it.

“Nothing there though, I fancy,” he murmured. “Let me get a picture of the routine. Miss Quayne stood in the centre here and the others knelt round her. Mr. Garnette — I really cannot bring myself to allude to the gentleman as ‘Father’ — Mr. Garnette produced the cup and the — what does one call it? Decanter is scarcely the word. The flagon, perhaps. He gave the flagon to Master Ganymede Claude, passed his hand over the cup and up jumped a flame. A drop of methylated spirits perhaps.”

“I suppose so,” said Kasbek, looking amused.

“Well. And then the cup was passed from hand to hand by the kneeling circle and each took the flagon from Claude and poured in a libation.”

“Each of them uttered a single word,” interrupted Nigel. “I really have no idea what some of them were.”

“The name of a deity, I understand,” volunteered Kasbek. “I am not a member of the cult, but I’ve been here before. They pronounce the names of six deities. ‘Hagring,’ ‘Haco,’ ‘Frigga,’ and so on. Garnette is Odin and the Chosen Vessel is always Frigga. The idea is that all the godheads are embodied in one godhead and that the essence of each is mingled in the cup. It’s a kind of popular pantheism.”

“Oh, Lord!” said Alleyn. “Now then. The cup went round the circle. When it got to the last man, what happened?”

“He handed it to the acolyte, who passed it on to the priest, who gave it to Miss Quayne.”

“Who drank it.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Kasbek, “who drank it, poor thing.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I said ‘when it got to the last man’ — it was a man you said? Yes, I know we’ve been over this before, but I want to be positive.”

“I’m sure it was,” said Nigel. “I remember that Mr. Ogden knelt at the top of the circle, as it were, and I seem- to remember him giving the cup to the acolyte.”

“I believe you’re right,” agreed the doctor.

“That agrees with the positions they took up just now.”

“Was there any chance of Miss Quayne herself dropping anything into the cup?”

“I don’t think so,” Nigel said slowly. “It so happens that I remember distinctly she took it in both hands, holding it by the stem. I’ve got a very clear mental picture of her, standing there, lit by the torch. She had rings on both hands and I remember I noticed that they reflected the light in the same way as the jewels on the cup. I feel quite certain she held it like that until she drank.”

“I’ve no such recollection,” declared the doctor.

“Quite sure, Bathgate?”

“Yes, quite sure. I–I’d swear to it.”

“You may have to,” said Alleyn. “Dr. Kasbek, you say you are not one of the elect. Perhaps, in that case, you would not object to telling me a little more about this place. It is an extremely unusual sort of church.”

He glanced round apologetically. “All this intellectual sculpture. Who is the lowering gentleman with the battle-ax? He makes one feel quite shy.”

“I fancy he is Wotan, which is the same as Odin. Perhaps Thor. I really don’t know. I imagine the general idea owes something to some cult in Germany, and is based partly on Scandinavian mythology, though as you see it does not limit itself to one, or even a dozen, doctrines. It’s a veritable olla podrida with Garnette to stir the pot. The statues were commissioned by a very rich old lady in the congregation.”

“An old lady!” murmured Alleyn. “Fancy!”

“It is rather overwhelming,” agreed Kasbek. “Shall we move into the hall? I should like to sit down.”

“Certainly,” said Alleyn. “Fox, will you make a sketch-plan of the chancel? I won’t be more than two minutes and then we’ll start on the others. Run a line of chalk round the body and get the bluebottle in there to ring for the mortuary-van. Come along with us, won’t you, Bathgate?”

Nigel and Dr. Kasbek followed the inspector down to the front row of chairs. These were sumptuously upholstered in red embossed velvet.

“Front stalls,” said Alleyn, sitting down.

“There are seven of them, as you see. They are for the six Initiates and the Chosen Vessel. These are selected from a sort of inner circle among the congregation, or so I understand.”

Dr. Kasbek settled himself comfortably in his velvet pew.

He was a solid shortish man of about fifty-five with dark hair worn en brosse, a rather fleshy and pale face, and small, intelligent eyes.

“It was founded by Garnette two years ago. I first heard of it from an old patient of mine who lives nearby. She was always raving about the ceremonies and begging me to go. I was called in to see her one Sunday evening just before the service began and she made me promise I’d attend it. I’ve been several times since. I am attracted by curious places and interested in — how shall I put it? — in the incalculable vagaries of human faith. Garnette’s doctrine of dramatised pantheism, if that’s what it is, amused and intrigued me. So did the man himself. Where he got the money to buy the place — it was originally a nonconformist clubroom, I think — and furnish it and keep it going, I’ve no idea. Probably it was done by subscription. Ogden is Grand Warden or something. Hell be able to tell you. It’s all very expensive, as you see. Garnette is the only priest and literally the ‘onlie begetter,’ the whole show in fact. He undoubtedly practices hypnotism and that, too, interests me. The service you saw to-night, Mr. Bathgate, is only held once a month and is their star turn. The Chosen Vessel — Miss Quayne on this occasion — has to do a month’s preparation, which means, I think, intensive instruction and private meditation with Garnette.”

“Odin and Frigga,” said Alleyn. “I begin to understand. Are you personally acquainted with any of the Initiates?”

“Ogden introduced himself to me some weeks ago and Garnette came and spoke to me the first evening I was here. On the look-out for new material, I suppose.”

“None of the others?”

“No. Ogden suggested I should ‘get acquainted,’ but” — he smiled — “I enjoy being an onlooker and I evaded it. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

“It’s all extremely suggestive and most useful. Thank you very much, Dr. Kasbek. I won’t keep you any longer. Dr. Curtis may want a word with you before you go. I’ll send him down here. You’ll be subpoenaed for the inquest of course.”

“Of course. Are you Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn?”

“Yes.”

“I remembered your face. I saw you at the Theodore Roberts Trial.”

“Oh, yes.”

“The case interested me. You see I’m an alienist.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn again with his air of polite detachment.

“I was glad they brought in a verdict of insanity. Poor Roberts, I suppose in a case of that sort the police do not push for the — the other thing.”

“The police force is merely a machine. I must fly I’m afraid. Good night. Bathgate, will you let Dr. Kasbek out when he has spoken to Curtis?”

Alleyn returned to the top of the hall. The divisional surgeon joined Kasbek and the two doctors walked down the aisle with that consultation manner, heads together, faces very solemn, like small boys in conference. Nigel followed sheepishly at a tactful distance. The word cyanide floated at intervals down the aisle. At last Dr. Curtis said: “Yes. All right. Good night.” They shook hands. Nigel hurried up to wrestle with the elaborate bolts and lock that secured the double doors.

“Oh, thank you very much,” said Kasbek. “You’ve made yourself quite invaluable this evening, Mr. Bathgate.”

“To tell you the truth, sir,” said Nigel, “I am surprised at my own initiative. It was the smell that did it.”

“Oh, quite. I was just going to say no one must leave when you spoke up. Very glad of your support. Can you manage? Ah — that’s done it. I see there’s a constable outside. I hope he lets me out! Good night, Mr. Bathgate.”