Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 60, No. 1. Whole No. 344, July 1972

The African Tree Beavers by Michael Gilbert{© 1972 by Michael Gilbert.}

Hip, hip, hooray! Messrs. Calder and Behrens, the two quiet, dignified, seemingly sedate English country squires, are back and once again pursuing their undercover roles. The two master counterspies are looking for a secret agent, planted in a “primitive” Norfolk village, in an atmosphere of superstitions, coincidences, animal magnetism, miracles, menace, and mystery... This is the first of a new series...

Like many practical and unimaginative men, Mr. Calder believed in certain private superstitions. He would never take a train which left at one minute to the hour; he distrusted the number 29; and he refused to open any parcel or letter on which the stamp had been fixed upside down. This, incidentally, once saved his life when he refused to open an innocent-looking parcel bearing the imprint of a bookseller from whom he had made many purchases in the past but which proved, on this occasion, to contain three ounces of tritoluene and a contact fuse. Mr. Behrens sneered at the superstition, but agreed that his friend had been lucky.

Mr. Calder also believed in coincidences. To be more precise, he believed in a specific law of coincidence. If you heard a new name, or a hitherto unknown fact, twice within twelve hours you would hear it a third time before another twelve hours was up. Not all the schoolmasterly logic of Mr. Behrens could shake Mr. Calder in his belief.

If challenged to produce an example, Mr. Calder would cite the case of the Reverend Francis Osbaldestone. The first time he heard the name was at eleven o’clock one night, at the Old Comrades Reunion of the Infantry Regiment with which he had fought for a memorable eight months in the Western Desert in 1942. He attended these reunions once every three years. His real interest was not in reminiscence of the war, but in observation of what had taken place since. It delighted him to see that a Motor Transport Corporal, whom he remembered slouching round in a pair of oily denims, should have become a prosperous garage proprietor, and that the Orderly Room Clerk, who had sold places on the leave roster, had developed his talents, first as a bookmaker’s runner and now as a bookmaker; and that the God-like Company Sergeant Major should have risen no higher than commissionaire in a block of flats at Putney, who would be forced, if he met him in ordinary life, to call his former clerk, “sir.”

Several very old friends were there. Freddie Faulkner, who had stayed on in the army and had risen to command the Battalion, surged through the crowd and pressed a large whiskey into his hand. Mr. Calder accepted it gratefully. One of the penalties of growing old, he had found, was a weak bladder for beer. Colonel Faulkner shouted, above the roar of conversation, “When are you going to keep your promise?”

“What promise?” said Mr. Calder. “How many whiskies is this? Double or triple?”

“I thought I’d get you a fairly large one. It’s difficult to get near the bar. Have you forgotten? You promised to come and look me up.”

“I hadn’t forgotten. It’s difficult to get away.”

“Nonsense. You’re a bachelor. You can up-sticks whenever you like.”

“It’s difficult to leave Rasselas behind.”

“That dog of yours? For God’s sake. Where do you think I live? In Hampstead Garden Suburb? Bring him with you. He’ll have the time of his life. He can chase anything that moves, except my pheasants.”

“He’s a very well-behaved dog,” said Mr. Calder, “and does exactly what I tell him. If you really want me—”

“Certainly I do. Moreover I can introduce Rasselas to another animal lover. Our rector. Francis Osbaldestone. A remarkable chap. Now get your diary out and fix a date—”

It was at ten o’clock on the following morning when the name cropped up next. Mr. Calder was stretched in a chair in front of his fire, his eyes shut, nursing the lingering remains of a not disagreeable hangover. Mr. Behrens was in the other chair, reading the Sunday newspapers. Rasselas occupied most of the space between them.

Mr. Behrens said, “Have you read this? It’s very interesting. There’s a clergyman who performs miracles.”

“The biggest miracle any clergyman can perform nowadays,” said Mr. Calder sleepily, “is to get people to come to church.”

“Oh, they come to his church all right. Full house every Sunday. Standing room only.”

“How does he do it?”

“Personal attraction. He’s equally successful with animals. However savage or shy they are, he can make them come to him and behave themselves.”

“He ought to try it on a bull.”

“He has. Listen to this. On one. occasion a bull got loose and threatened some children who were picnicking in a field. The rector, who happened to be passing, quelled the bull with a few well-chosen words. The children were soon taking rides on the bull’s back.”

“Animal magnetism.”

“I suppose, if you’d met St. Francis of Assisi, you’d have said, ‘animal magnetism’.”

“He was a Saint.”

“How do you know this man isn’t?”

“He may be. But it would need more than a few tricks with animals to convince me.”

“Then what about miracles? On another occasion the rector was wakened on a night of storm by an alarm of fire. The verger ran down to the rectory to tell the rector that a barn had been struck by lightning. The telephone line to the nearest village with a fire brigade was down. The rector said, ‘Not a moment to lose. The bells must be rung.’ And as he spoke the bells started to ring.”

Mr. Calder snorted.

“It’s gospel truth. Mr. Penny, the verger, vouches for it. He says that by the time he got back to his cottage, where the only key of the bell chamber is kept, and got across with it to the church, the bells had stopped ringing. He went up into the belfry. There was no one there. The ropes were on their hooks. Everything was in perfect order. At that moment the fire brigade arrived. They had heard the bells and were just in time to save the barn.”

Mr. Calder said, “It sounds like a tall story to me. What do you think, Rasselas?” The dog showed his long white teeth in a smile. “He agrees with me. What is the name of this miracle worker?”

“He is the Reverend Francis Osbaldestone.”

“Rector of Hedgeborn, in the heart of rural Norfolk?”

“Do you know him?”

“I heard his name for the first time at about ten o’clock last night.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Behrens, “according to the fantastic rules propounded and believed in by you, you will hear it again before ten o’clock this evening.”

It was at this precise moment that the telephone rang.

Since Mr. Calder’s telephone number was not only unlisted but changed every six months, his incoming calls were likely to be matters of business. He was not surprised, therefore, to recognize the voice of Mr. Fortescue, who was the Manager of the Westminster Branch of the London and Home Counties Bank, and other things besides.

Mr. Fortescue said, “I’d like to see you and Behrens as soon as possible. Shall we say, tomorrow afternoon?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Calder. “Can you give me any idea what it’s about?”

“You’ll find it all in your Observer. An article about a clergyman who performs miracles. Francis Osbaldestone.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Calder.

“You sound pleased about something,” said Mr. Fortescue suspiciously.

Mr. Calder said, “You’ve just proved a theory.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Fortescue, “that you knew Colonel Faulkner quite well, in the army.”

“He was my Company Commander,” said Mr. Calder.

“Would you say he was an imaginative man?”

“I should think he’s got about as much imagination as a Number Eleven bus.”

“Or a man who would be easily deluded?”

“I’d hate to try.”

Mr. Fortescue pursed his lips primly and said, “That was my impression, too. Do you know Hedgeborn?”

“Not the village. But I know that part of Norfolk. It’s fairly primitive. The army had a battle school near there during the war. They were a bit slow about handing it back, too.”

“I seem to remember,” said Mr. Behrens, “that there was a row about it. Questions in Parliament. Did they give it back in the end?”

“Most of it. They kept Snettisham Manor, with its park. After all the trouble at Porton Experimental Station they moved the poison gas section down to Cornwall and transferred the Bacterial Warfare Wing to Snettisham, which is less than two miles from Hedgeborn.”

“I can understand,” said Mr. Calder, “that Security would keep a careful eye on an establishment like Snettisham. But why should they be alarmed by a saintly rector two miles down the valley?”

“You are not aware of what happened last week?”

“Ought we to be?”

“It has been kept out of the press, but it’s bound to leak out sooner or later. Your saintly rector led what I can only describe as a village task force. It was composed of the members of the Parochial Church Council and two dozen or so of the villagers and farmers. They broke into Snettisham Manor.”

“But, good God,” said Mr. Calder, “the security arrangements must have been pretty ropey.”

“The security was adequate. A double-wire fence, patrolling guards and dogs. The village blacksmith cut the fence in two places. A farm tractor dragged it clear. They had no trouble with the guards, who were armed only with truncheons. The farmers had shotguns.”

“And the dogs?”

“They made such a fuss over the rector that he was, I understand, in some danger of being licked to death.”

“What did they do when they got in?” said Behrens.

“They broke into the experimental wing and liberated twenty rabbits, a dozen guinea pigs, and nearly fifty rats.”

Mr. Behrens started to laugh, but managed to turn it into a cough when he observed Mr. Fortescue’s eyes on him.

“I hope you don’t think it was funny, Behrens. A number of the rats had been infected with Asiatic plague. They hope they recaptured or destroyed the whole of that batch.”

“Has no action been taken against the rector?”

“Naturally. The police were informed. An Inspector and a Sergeant drove over from Thetford to see the rector. They were refused access.”

“Refused?”

“They were told,” said Mr. Fortescue gently, “that if they attempted to lay hands on the rector they would be resisted — by force.”

“But surely—” said Mr. Behrens. And stopped.

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue. “Do think before you say anything. Try to visualize the unparalleled propaganda value to our friends in the various C.N.D. and Peace Groups if an armed force had to be dispatched to seize a village clergyman.”

Mr. Behrens said, “Pm visualizing it. Do you think one of the more enterprising bodies — the International Brotherhood Group occurs to me as a possibility — might have planted someone in Hedgeborn? Someone who is using the rector’s exceptional influence—”

“It’s a possibility. You must remember that the Bacterial Warfare Wing has only been there for two years. If anyone has been planted, it has been done comparatively recently.”

“How long has the rector been there?” said Mr. Calder.

“For eighteen months.”

“I see.”

“The situation is full of possibilities, I agree. I suggest you tackle it from both ends. I should suppose, Behrens, that there are few people who know more about the International Brotherhood Group and its ramifications than you do. Can you find out whether they have been active in this area recently?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“We can none of us do more than our best,” agreed Mr. Fortescue. “And you, Calder, must go down to Hedgeborn immediately. I imagine Colonel Faulkner would invite you?”

“I have a standing invitation,” said Mr. Calder. “For the shooting.”

Hedgeborn has changed in the last 400 years, but not very much. The Church was built in the reign of Charles the Martyr and the Manor in the reign of Anne the Good. There is a village smithy, where a farmer can still get his horses shoed; he can also buy diesel oil for his tractor. The cottages have thatched roofs, and television aerials.

Mr. Calder leaned out of his bedroom window at the Manor and surveyed the village, asleep under a full moon. He could see the church at the far end of the village street, perched on a slight rise, its bell tower outlined against the sky. There was a huddle of cottages round it. The one with a light in it would belong to Mr. Penny, the verger, who had come running down the street to tell the rector that Farmer Allen’s farm was on fire. If he leaned out of the window Mr. Calder could just see the roof of the rectory, at the far end of the street, masked by trees. Could there be any truth in the story of the bells? It had seemed fantastic in London. It seemed less so in this forgotten backwater village.

A soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of Stokes, once Colonel Faulkner’s batman, now his factotum.

“I was to ask if you’d care for anything before you turned in, sir. Some biscuits, or a nightcap?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Calder. “Not after that lovely dinner. Did you cook it yourself?”

Stokes looked gratified. “It wasn’t what you might call hote kweezeen.”

“It was excellent. Tell me, don’t you find things a bit quiet down here? Dull?”

“You see, sir, I’m used to it. I was born here.”

“I didn’t realize that,” said Mr. Calder.

“I saw you looking at the smithy this afternoon. Enoch Clavering’s my first cousin. Come to that, we’re mostly first or second cousins. Allens and Stokes and Vowles and Claverings.”

“It would have been Enoch who cut down the fence at Snettisham Manor?”

“That’s right, sir.” Stokes’s voice was respectful, but there was a hint of wariness in it. “How did you know about that, if you don’t mind me asking? It hasn’t been in the newspapers.”

“The Colonel told me.”

“Oh, of course. All the same, I do wonder how he knew about Enoch cutting down the fence. He wasn’t with us.”

“With you,” said Mr. Calder. “Do I gather, Stokes, that you took part in this — this enterprise?”

“Well, naturally, sir. Seeing I’m a member of the Parochial Church Council. Would there be anything more?”

“Nothing more,” said Mr. Calder. “Good night.”

He lay awake for a long time, listening to the owls talking to each other in the elms.

“It’s true,” said Colonel Faulkner next morning. “We are a bit inbred. All Norfolk men are odd. It makes us just a bit odder, that’s all.”

“Tell me about your rector.”

“He was some sort of missionary, I believe. In darkest Africa. Got malaria very badly and was invalided out.”

“From darkest Africa to darkest Norfolk. What do you make of him?”

The Colonel was lighting his after-breakfast pipe and took time to think about that. He Said, “I just don’t know, Calder. Might be a saint. Might be a scoundrel. He’s got a ‘touch’ with animals. No denying that.”

“What about the miracles?”

“No doubt they’ve been exaggerated in the telling. But — well, that business of the bells. I can give you chapter and verse for that. There is only one key to the bell chamber. I remember what a fuss there was when the key was mislaid last year. And no one could have got it from Penny’s cottage, opened the tower up, rung the bells and put the key back without someone seeing him. Stark impossibility.”

“How many bells rang?”

“The tenor and the treble. That’s the way we always ring them for an alarm. One of the farmers across the valley heard them, spotted the fire, and phoned for the brigade.”

“Two bells,” said Mr. Calder thoughtfully. “So one man could have rung them.”

“If he could have got in.”

“Quite so.” Mr. Calder was looking at a list. “There are three people I should like to meet. First, a man called Smedley.”

“The rector’s warden. I’m people’s warden. He’s my opposite number. Don’t like him much.”

“Then Miss Martin, your organist. I believe she has a cottage near the church. And Mr. Smallpiece, your village postmaster.”

“Why those three?”

“Because,” said Mr. Calder, “apart from the rector himself they are the only people who have come to live in this village during the past two years — so Stokes tells me.”

“He ought to know,” said the Colonel. “He’s related to half the village.”

Mr. Smedley lived in a small dark cottage. It was tucked away behind the Viscount Townshend pub, which had a signboard outside it with a picture of the Second Viscount looking remarkably like the turnip which had become associated with his name.

Mr. Smedley was old and thin and inclined to be cautious. He thawed very slightly when he discovered that his visitor was the son of Canon Calder of Salisbury.

“A world authority on monumental brasses,” he said. “You must be proud of him.”

“I’d no idea.”

“Yes, indeed. I have a copy somewhere of a paper he wrote on the brasses at Verden, in Hanover. A most scholarly work. We have some fine brasses in the church here, too. Not as old or as notable as Stoke d’Abernon, but very fine.”

“It’s an interesting village altogether. You’ve been getting into the papers.”

“I’d no idea that our brasses were that famous.”

“Not your brasses. Your rector. He’s been written up as a miracle worker.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Oh, why?”

Mr. Smedley blinked maliciously and said, “I’m not surprised at the ability of the press to cheapen anything it touches.”

“But are they miracles?”

“You’ll have to define your terms. If you accept the Shavian definition of a miracle as an act which creates faith, then certainly, yes. They are miracles.”

It occurred to Mr. Calder that Mr. Smedley was enjoying this conversation more than he was. He said, “You know quite well what I mean. Is there a rational explanation for them?”

“Again, it depends what you mean by rational.”

“I mean,” said Mr. Calder bluntly, “are they miracles or just conjuring tricks?”

Mr. Smedley considered the matter, his head on one side. Then he said, “Isn’t that a question which you should put to the rector? After all, if they are conjuring tricks, he must be the conjurer.”

“I was planning to do just that,” said Mr. Calder, and prepared to take his leave. When he was at the door his host checked him by laying a clawlike hand on his arm. He said, “Might I offer a word of advice? This is not an ordinary village. I suppose the word which would come most readily to mind is — primitive. I don’t mean anything sinister. But being so isolated it has grown up rather more slowly than the outside world. And another thing—” Mr. Smedley paused. Mr. Calder was reminded of an old black crow, cautiously approaching a tempting morsel and wondering if he dared to seize it. “I ought to warn you that the people here are very fond of their rector. If what they regarded as divine manifestations were described by you as conjuring tricks — well, you see what I mean.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Calder. He went out into the village street, took a couple of deep breaths, and made his way to the postoffice. This was dark, dusty, and empty. He could hear the postmaster, in the back room, wrestling with a manual telephone exchange. He realized, as he listened, that Mr. Smallpiece was no Norfolkman. His voice suggested that he had been brought up within sound of Bow Bells. When he emerged, Mr. Calder confirmed the diagnosis. If Mr. Smedley was a country crow, Mr. Smallpiece was a cockney sparrow.

He said, “Nice to see a new face around. You’ll be staying with the Colonel. I ’ope his aunt gets over it.”

“Gets over what?”

“Called away ten minutes ago. The old lady ’adder fit. Not the first one neither. If you ask me she ’as one whenever she feels lonely.”

“Old people are like that,” agreed Mr. Calder. “Your job must keep you very busy.”

“Oh, I am the cook and the captain bold and the mate of the Nancy brig,” agreed Mr. Smallpiece. “I work the telephone exchange — eighteen lines — deliver the mail, sell stamps, send telegrams, and run errands. ’Owever, there’s no overtime in this job, and what you don’t get paid for you don’t get thanked for.”

He looked at the clock above the counter which showed five minutes to twelve, pushed the hand forward five minutes, turned a card in the door from Open to Closed, and said, “Since the Colonel won’t be back much before two, what price a pint at the Viscount?”

“You take the words out of my mouth,” said Mr. Calder. As they walked down the street he said, “What happens if anyone wants to ring up someone while you’re out?”

“Well, they can’t, can they?” said Mr. Smallpiece.

When the Colonel returned — his aunt, Mr. Calder was glad to learn, was much better — Mr. Calder reported the negative results of his inquiries to date.

“If you want to see Miss Martin,” said the Colonel, “you can probably kill two birds with one stone. She goes along to the rectory most Wednesdays, to practise the harmonium. You’ll find it at the far end of the street. The original rectory was alongside the church, but it was burned down about a hundred years ago. I’m afraid it isn’t an architectural gem. Built in the worst style of Victorian ecclesiastical red brick.”

Mr. Calder, as he lifted the heavy wrought-iron knocker, was inclined to agree. The house was not beautiful. But it had a certain old-fashioned dignity and solidity. The rector answered the door himself. Mr. Calder had hardly known what to expect. A warrior ecclesiastic in the Norman mold? A fanatical priest, prepared to face stake and fire for his faith? A subtle Jesuit living by the Rule of Ignatius Loyola in solitude and prayer?

What Mr. Calder had not been prepared for was a slight nondescript man with an apologetic smile who said, “Come in, come in. Don’t stand on ceremony. We never lock our doors here. I know you, don’t I? Wait! You’re Mr. Calder and you’re staying at the Manor. What a lovely dog. A genuine Persian deerhound of the royal breed. What’s his name?”

“He’s called Rasselas.”

“Rasselas,” said the rector. He wasn’t looking at the dog, but was staring over his shoulder, as though he could see something of interest behind him in the garden. “Rasselas.” The dog gave a rumbling growl. The rector said, “Rasselas,” again, very softly. The rumble changed to a snarl. The rector stood perfectly still, and said nothing. The snarl changed back into a rumble.

“Well, that’s much better,” said the rector. “Did you see? He was fighting me. I wonder why.”

“He’s usually very well behaved with strangers.”

“I’m sure he is. Intelligent, too. Why should he have assumed that I was an enemy? You heard him assuming it, didn’t you?”

“I heard him changing his mind, too.”

“I was able to reassure him. The interesting point is, why should he have started with hostile thoughts? I trust he didn’t derive them from you. But I’m being fanciful. Why should you have thoughts about us at all? Come along in and meet our organist, Miss Martin. Such a helpful person and a spirited performer on almost any instrument.”

The opening of an inner door had released a powerful blast of Purcell’s overture to Dido and Aeneas, played on the harmonium with all stops out.

“Miss Martin. MISS MARTIN!”

“I’m so sorry, Rector. I didn’t hear you.”

“This is Mr. Calder. He’s a wartime friend of Colonel Faulkner. Curious that such an evil thing as war should have produced the fine friendships it did.”.

“Good sometimes comes out of evil, don’t you think?”

“No,” said the rector. “I’m afraid I don’t believe that at all. Good sometimes comes in spite of evil. A very different proposition.”

“A beautiful rose,” said Miss Martin, “can grow on a dunghill.”

“Am I the rose and is Colonel Faulkner the dunghill, or vice versa?”

Miss Martin tittered. The rector said, “Let that be a warning to you not to take an analogy too far. I have to dash along now, but please stay — Miss Martin will do the honors. Have a cup of tea. You will? Splendid.”

Over the teacups, as Mr. Calder was wondering how to bring the conversation round to the point he required, Miss Martin did it for him. She said, “This is a terrible village for gossip, Mr. Calder. Although you’ve hardly been down here two days, people are already beginning to wonder what you’re up to. Particularly as you’ve been — you know — getting round, talking to people.”

“I am naturally gregarious,” said Mr. Calder.

“Now, now. You won’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know better. You’ve been sent.”

Mr. Calder said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, “Sent by whom?”

“I’ll mention no names. We all know that there are sects and factions in the Church who would find our rector’s teachings abhorrent to their own narrow dogma. And who would be envious of his growing reputation.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Calder, relieved.

“I’m not asking you to tell me if my guess is correct. What I do want to impress on you is that there is nothing exaggerated in these stories. I’ll give you one instance which I can vouch for myself. It was a tea party we were giving for the Brownies. I’d made a terrible miscalculation. The most appalling disaster faced us. There wasn’t enough to eat. Can you imagine it?”

“Easily,” said Mr. Calder.

“I called the rector aside and told him. He just smiled, and said, ‘Look in that cupboard, Miss Martin.’ I simply stared at him. It was a cupboard I use myself for music and anthems. I have the only key. The only key, I repeat. I walked over and unlocked the cupboard. And what do you think I found? A large plate of freshly cut bread and butter and two plates of biscuits.”

“Enough to feed the five thousand.”

“It’s odd you should say that. It was the precise analogy that occurred to me.”

“Did you tell people about this?”

“I don’t gossip. But one of my helpers was there. She must have spread the story. Ah, here is the rector back. Don’t say a word about it to him. He denies it all, of course.”

“I’m glad to see that Miss Martin has been looking after you,” said the rector. “A thought has occurred to me. Do, you sing?”

“Only under duress.”

“Recite, perhaps? We are getting up a village concert. Miss Martin is a tower of strength in such matters—”

“It would appear from his reports,” said Mr. Fortescue to Mr. Behrens, “that your colleague is entering fully into the life of the village. Last Saturday, according to the East Anglian Gazette, he took part in a village concert in aid of the R.S.P.C.A. He obliged with a moving rendition of The Wreck of the Hesperus.”

“Good gracious,” said Mr. Behrens. “How very versatile.”

“He would not, however, appear to have advanced very far in the matter I sent him down to investigate. He thinks the rector is a perfectly sincere enthusiast. He has his eye on three people, any one of whom might have been planted in the village to work on the rector. Have you been able to discover anything?”

“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Behrens. “I’ve made the round of our usual contacts. I felt that the International Brotherhood Group was the most likely. It’s a line they’ve tried with some success in the past. Stirring up local prejudice and working it up into a national campaign. You remember the schoolchildren who trespassed on the missile base at Loch Gair and were roughly handled?”

“Were alleged to have been roughly handled.”

“Yes. It was a put-up job. But they made a lot of capital out of it. I have a line on their chief organizer. My contact thinks they are up to something. Which means they’ve got a secret agent planted in Hedgeborn.”

“Or that the rector is their secret agent.”

“Yes. The difficulty will be to prove it. Their security is rather good.”

Mr. Fortescue considered the matter, running his thumb down the angle of his prominent chin. He said, “Might you be able to contrive, through your contact, to transmit a particular item of information to their agent in Hedgeborn?”

“I might. But I hardly see—”

“In medicine,” said Mr. Fortescue, “I am told that when it proves impossible to clear up a condition by direct treatment it is sometimes possible to precipitate an artificial crisis which can be dealt with.”

“Always bearing in mind that if we do precipitate a crisis, poor old Calder will be in the middle of it.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Fortescue.

It was on Friday during the second week of his stay that Mr. Calder noticed the change. There was no open hostility. No one attacked him. No one was even rude to him. It was simply that he had ceased to be acceptable to the village.

People who had been prepared to chat with him in the bar of the Viscount Townshend now had business of their own to discuss whenever he appeared. Mr. Smedley did not answer his knock, although Mr. Calder could see him through the front window reading a book. Mr. Smallpiece avoided him in the street.

It was like the moment, in a theater, when the safety curtain descends, cutting off the actors and all on the stage from the audience. Suddenly he was on one side and the village was on the other.

By Saturday the atmosphere had become so oppressive that Mr. Calder decided to do something about it. Stokes had driven the Colonel into Thetford on business. He was alone in the house. He decided, on the spur of the moment, to have a word with the rector.

Although it was a fine afternoon the village street was completely empty. As he walked he noted the occasional stirring of a window curtain and he knew he was not unobserved, but the silence of the early-autumn afternoon lay heavily over everything. On this occasion he had left a strangely subdued Rasselas behind.

His knock at the rectory door was unanswered. Remembering the rector saying, “We never lock our doors here,” he turned the handle and went in. The house was silent. He took a few steps along the hall, then stopped. The door on his left was ajar. He looked in. The rector was there. He was kneeling at a carved prie-dieu, as motionless as if he had been himself part of the carving. If he had heard Mr. Calder’s approach he took absolutely no notice of it. Feeling extremely foolish, Mr. Calder withdrew by the way he had come.

Walking back down the street he was visited by a recollection of his days with the Military Mission in wartime Albania. The mission had visited a remote village and had been received with the same silent disregard. They had usually been well received, and this time it puzzled them. When he returned to the village some months later Mr. Calder learned the truth. The village had caught an informer and were waiting for the mission to leave before they dealt with him. He had heard the details of what they had done to the informer, and although he was not naturally queasy it had turned his stomach.

That evening Stokes waited on them in unusual silence. When he had gone, the Colonel said, “Whatever it is, it’s tomorrow.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m told that the rector has been fasting since Thursday. Also that morning service tomorrow has been canceled, and Evensong brought forward to four o’clock. That’s when it’ll break.”

“It will be a relief,” said Mr. Calder.

“Stokes thinks you ought to leave tonight. He thinks I shall be all right, but you might not be.”

“That was thoughtful of Stokes. But I’d as soon stay. That is, unless you want to get rid of me.”

“Glad to have you,” said the Colonel. “Besides, if they see you’ve gone they may put it off. Then we shall have to start all over again.”

“Did you make contact with the number I asked you to?”

“Yes. From a public phone booth in Thetford.”

“And what was the answer?”

“It was so odd,” said the Colonel, “that I was afraid I might get It wrong, so I wrote it down.” He handed Mr. Calder a piece of paper.

Mr. Calder read it carefully, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

“Is it good news or bad?”

“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Calder. “But I can promise you one thing. You’ll hear a sermon tomorrow which you won’t forget.”

When the rector stepped into the pulpit his face was pale and composed, but it was no longer gentle. Mr. Calder wondered how he could ever have considered him nondescript. There was a blazing conviction about the man, a fire that lit up the whole church. This was no longer the gentle St. Francis. This was Peter the Hermit, “whose eyes were a flame and whose tongue was a sword.”

He stood for a moment, upright and motionless. Then he turned his head slowly, looking from face to face in the crowded congregation, as if searching for support and guidance from his flock. When he started to speak it was in a quiet, almost conversational voice.

“The anti-Christ has raised his head once more. The Devil is at his work again. We deceived ourselves into thinking that we had dealt him a shrewd blow. We were mistaken. Our former warning has not been heeded. I fear that it will have to be repeated, and this time more strongly.”

The Colonel looked anxiously at Mr. Calder, who mouthed the word, “Wait.”

“Far from abandoning its foul work at Snettisham Manor, I have learned that it is not only continuing, but intensifying it. More of God’s creatures are being imprisoned in its cells and tortured by methods which would have shamed the Gestapo. In the name of science, mice, small rabbits, guinea pigs, and hamsters are being put to obscene and painful deaths. Yesterday a cargo of African tree beavers, harmless and friendly little animals, arrived at this — at this scientific slaughterhouse. They are to be inoculated with a virus which will first paralyze their limbs, then cause them to go mad with pain, and finally to die. The object of the experiment is to hold off the moment of death as long as possible—”

Mr. Calder, who was listening with strained attention to every word, had found it difficult to hear the closing sentence and realized that the rector was now speaking against a ground swell of noise which burst out suddenly into a roar. The rector’s voice rode over the tumult like a trumpet.

“Are we going to allow this?”

A second roar crashed out with startling violence.

“We will pull down this foul place stone by stone! We will purge what remains with fire! All who will help, follow me.”

“What do we do?” said the Colonel.

“Sit still,” said Mr. Calder.

In a moment they were alone in their pew with a hundred angry faces round them. The rector, still standing in the pulpit, quelled the storm with an upraised hand. He said, “We will have no bloodshed. We cannot fight evil with evil. Those who are not with us are against us. Enoch, take one of them. Two of you the other. Into the vestry with them.”

Mr. Calder said, “Go with it. Don’t fight.”

As they were swirled down the aisle the Colonel saw one anxious face in the crowd. He shouted, “Are you in this, too, Stokes?” The next moment they were in the vestry. The door had clanged shut and they heard the key turn in the lock. Thick walls and nine inches of stout oak cut off the sounds. They could hear the organ playing. It sounded like Miss Martin’s idea of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. A shuffling of feet. A door banging. Then silence.

“Well,” said the Colonel. “What do we do now?”

“We give them five minutes to get to the rectory. There’ll be some sort of conference there, I imagine.”

“And then?”

Mr. Calder had seated himself on a pile of hassocks and sat there, swinging his short legs. He said, “As we have five minutes to kill, maybe I’d better put you in the picture. Why don’t you sit down.”

The Colonel grunted, and subsided.

Mr. Calder said, “Hasn’t it struck you that the miracles we’ve been hearing about were of two quite different types?”

“Don’t follow you.”

“One sort was simple animal magnetism. No doubt about that. I saw the rector operating on Rasselas. Nearly hypnotized the poor dog. The other sort — well, there’s been a lot of talk about them, but I’ve heard real evidence of only two. The bells that rang themselves and the food that materialized in a locked cupboard. Isolate them from the general hysteria, and what do they amount to? You told me yourself that the bell-chamber key had once been mislaid.”

“You think someone stole it? Had a duplicate made?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Calder Impatiently, “the person who organized the other miracle, of course. I think it’s time we got out of here, don’t you?”

“How?”

“Get someone to unlock the door. I notice they left the key in it on the other side. There must be some sane folk about. Not all the farmers were in church.”

The Colonel said, “Seeing that the nearest farm likely to be helpful to us is a good quarter of a mile away, I’d be interested to know how you intend to shout for help.”

“Follow me up that ladder,” said Mr. Calder, “and I’ll show you.”

The rector said, “Is that clear? They’ll be expecting us on the southern side, where we attacked before. So we’ll come through the woods, on the north. Stokes, can you get the Colonel’s Land Rover up that side?”

“Easily enough, Rector.”

“Have the grappling irons laid out at the back. Tom’s tractor follows you. Enoch, how long to cut the wire?”

“Ten seconds.”

This produced a rumbling laugh.

“Good. We don’t want any unnecessary delay. We drive the tractors straight through the gap and ride in on the back of them. The fire-raising material will be in the trailers behind the rear tractor. The Scouts can see to that under you, Mr. Smedley.”

“Certainly, Rector. Scouts are experts at lighting fires. If we start upwind, that should give you time to get the animals out before the fires take hold.”

“Excellent. Now, the diversion at the front gate. That will be under you, Miss Martin. You’ll have the Guides and Brownies. You demand to be let in. When they refuse, you all start screaming. If you can get hold of the sentry I suggest you scratch him.”

“I’ll let Matilda Briggs do that,” said Miss Martin. “She’ll enjoy it.”

Enoch Clavering touched the rector on the arm and said, “Listen.” Then he went over to the window and opened it.

“What is it, Enoch?”

“I thought I heard the bells some minutes ago, but I didn’t like to interrupt. They’ve stopped now. It’s as it was last time. The bells rang themselves. What does it signify?”

“It means,” said the rector cheerfully, “that I’ve been a duffer. I ought to have seen that the trap door to the belfry was padlocked. Our prisoners must have climbed up and started ringing the tenor and the treble. Since they’ve stopped, I imagine someone heard them and let them out.”

Miss Martin said, “What are we going to do?”

“What we’re not going to do is lose our heads. Stokes, you’ve immobilized the Colonel’s car?” Stokes nodded.

“And you’ve put the telephone line out of communication, Mr. Smallpiece?”

“Same as last time.”

“Then I don’t see how they can summon help in under half an hour. We should have ample time to do all we have to.”

“I advise you against it,” said Mr. Calder.

He was standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket. He looked placid, but determined. Behind him they could see the great dog, Rasselas, his head almost level with Mr. Calder’s shoulder, his amber eyes glowing.

For a moment there was complete silence. Then a low growl of anger broke out from the crowded room. The rector said, “Ah, Mr. Calder. I congratulate you on your ingenuity. Who let you out?”

“Jack Collins. And he’s gone in his own car to Thetford. The police will be here in half an hour.”

“Then they will be too late.”

“That’s just what I was afraid of,” said Mr. Calder. “It’s why I came down as fast as I could — to stop you.”

There was another growl, louder and more menacing. Enoch Clavering stepped forward. He said, “Bundle him down into the cellar, Rector, and let’s get on with it.”

“I shouldn’t try it,” said Mr. Calder. His voice was still peaceful. “First, because if you put a hand on me this dog will have the hand off. Secondly, because the Colonel’s outside in the garden. He’s got a shotgun, and he’ll use it if he has to.”

The rector said gently, “You mustn’t think you can frighten us. The Colonel won’t shoot. He’s not a murderer. And Rasselas won’t attack me. Will you, Rasselas?”

“You’ve got this all wrong,” said Mr. Calder. “My object is to prevent you attacking us. Just long enough for me to tell you two things. First point, the guards at Snettisham have been doubled and they are armed. They have orders to shoot. What you’re leading your flock to isn’t a jamboree, like last time. It’s a massacre.”

“I think he’s lying,” said Mr. Smedley.

“There’s one way of finding out,” said Mr. Calder. “But it’s not the real point. The question which really matters is this: have any of you ever seen a tree beaver?”

The question was so unexpected that it fell into a sudden pool of silence.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Calder. “There must be some naturalists here. Rector, I see the Universal Encyclopaedia of Wild Life on your shelf. Would you care to turn its pages and give us a few facts about the habits of this very curious creature.”

The rector said, with a half smile of comprehension on his face, “What are you getting at, Mr. Calder?”

“I can save you some unnecessary research. The animal does not exist. Indeed, it could not exist. Beavers live in rivers, not in trees. The animal was invented by an old friend of mine, a Mr. Behrens. And having invented this remarkable animal he thought it would be a pity to keep it all to himself. He had news of its arrival at Snettisham passed to a friend of his, who passed it on to a subversive organization known as the International Brotherhood Group. Who, in turn, passed it to you, Rector, through their local agent.”

The rector was smiling now. He said, “So I have been led up the garden path. Sancta simplicitas! Who is this agent?”

“That’s easy. Who told you about the tree beavers?”

There was a flurry of movement. A shout, a crash, and the sound of a shot.

“It is far from clear,” said Mr. Calder, “whether Miss Martin intended to shoot the rector or me. In fact Rasselas knocked her over and she shot herself. As soon as they realized they had been fooled, the village closed its ranks. They concocted a story that Miss Martin, who was nervous of burglars, was known to possess a revolver, a relic of the last war. She must have been carrying it in her handbag, and the supposition was that, in pulling it out to show it to someone, the gun went off and killed her. It was the thinnest story you ever heard, and the Coroner was suspicious as a cat. But he couldn’t shake them. And after all, it was difficult to cast doubt on the evidence of the entire Parochial Church Council supported by their rector.

“The verdict was accidental death.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “It would have been hard to prove anything. In spite of your tree beavers. How did the rector take it?”

“Very well indeed. I had to stay for the inquest and made a point of attending Evensong on the following Sunday. The church was so full that it was difficult to find a seat. The rector preached an excellent sermon on the text, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ ”

“A dangerous opponent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “On the whole, I cannot feel sorry that the authorities should have decided to close Snettisham Manor.”