Death in Ecstasy (14 page)

“I — ah — I really forget,” said Father Garnette. “Let me see.

There should be last Wednesday’s offertory. I really don’t remembah—”

“It was £61 8
s
. 6
d
.,” announced M. de Ravigne.

“You’ve got it pat!” said Maurice Pringle unpleasantly.

“I am a warden,” replied de Ravigne very placidly. “I counted it. Father Garnette and Mr. Ogden were here. It was, I repeat, £61 8
s
. 6
d
.”

“
And
a cheque for twenty pounds,” said Mr. Ogden dryly. “You might remember that.”

“Your own offering, Monsieur Ogden. I remember.”

“What else?” asked Alleyn.

“There is more importantly, M. l’Inspecteur, a parcel of bearer bonds of which I have told you. They are issued by the Kasternek Oil Company, These were given by Miss Quayne to this church to await the raising of the same amount for a building fund. They are in value five thousand pounds. Since they were here you have always kept the key on your person, is it not so, Father?”

“Quite right, my dear Raoul. You advised me to take this precaution, if you remember.”

“Certainly.”

“Quite correct,” said Mr. Ogden emphatically. “We may all be O.K., but that doesn’t say we’ve got to act crazy.” He stopped short, turned bright red, and glanced uneasily at Father Garnette.

“Anything else in the safe?” asked Alleyn.

“The banking-book is there. That, I believe, is all,” murmured M. de Ravigne.

“Right. Well, we’ll just check it over. I’ll ask Mr. Garnette to do that. It’s purely a matter of form. You will notice we sealed it last night. The usual procedure under the circumstances. Now, Mr. Garnette, if you please.”

He produced the bunch of keys, gave them to Father Garnette and himself broke the police seal. Father Garnette rose, opened the safe and took out the contents one by one, laying them on the table. Nigel noticed that the parcel had been replaced. Bailey must have done that and put a fresh seal on the safe. The cash was counted by Fox who found it correct.

“Have you looked at the parcel of bearer bonds?” asked Alleyn.

Father Garnette glanced at him.

“No,” he said. He sounded anxious and surprised. “No, I have not.”

“Just open it,” suggested Alleyn, “and make sure there has been no theft. We’ve got to explore every possibility.”

Father Garnette undid the red ribbon and pulled open the brown paper.

A neat wad of newspaper lay revealed.

One would have thought it impossible for Father Garnette’s face to look more unhealthy than it already was that morning, but it undoubtedly became a shade more livid when the contents of the parcel were displayed. It also became absolutely expressionless. For about three seconds he stood still. Then he raised his eyes and stared inimically at Alleyn. Nigel wondered if, for a moment, the priest had a mad idea that the police had played a practical joke on him. Alleyn returned his glance gravely. Suddenly Father Garnette seized the newspaper and with an ugly fumbling movement, clawed it apart, shook the leaves open, and then as abruptly, let them fall again. When he spoke it was in a curiously dead voice, as though his throat had closed.

“Robbed!” he said, “I’ve been robbed — robbed.”

They had watched Father Garnette and Father Garnette only, so that when Mr. Ogden produced his national classic expression of incredulity it made them all jump.

Mr. Ogden placed both his hands on the table and leant towards his spiritual leader.

“Oh, yeah?” said Mr. Ogden.

“Is that so?” continued Mr. Ogden; and then, for all the world as though he was an anthology of Quaint American Sayings, he completed the trilogy by adding in a soft undertone:

“Sez you?”

They all turned to watch Mr. Ogden. His good-natured face had settled down into a definitely hard-boiled expression. His lower lip stuck out, his eyes were half-closed. He spoke out of one corner of his mouth. He leant easily on the table, but the very seams of his coat looked tense. He did not remove his gaze from Father Garnette, but he addressed the table at large.

“Folks,” he said, “I guess we’re the Simps from Simpleton. Cable address Giggle-Giggle. No flowers by request.”

“What the hell do you mean?” asked Maurice Pringle.

De Ravigne swore very softly in French.

“What do I mean?” replied Mr. Ogden, never taking his eyes off Garnette. “What do I mean? Aren’t you conscious yet? Who’s taken care of the keys ever since Cara parked those bonds in the safe? Didn’t we say, right now, Father Garnette had been wearing his keys for safety’s sake? Safety is right. I reckon those bonds are so darned safe we’ll never see them any more.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Ogden?” asked Miss Wade. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. Has this money been stolen?”

“Nope,” answered Mr. Ogden. “It’s just kind of disguised itself as the
Daily Mail
.”

“But I don’t understand—”

“Cara’s bonds have been stolen, Miss Wade,” said Janey impatiently, “and newspaper substituted. You can see for yourself.”

“Who has done this?” demanded Father Garnette suddenly. He had drawn himself up to his full height. The resonance had come back to his voice, and something of the old dominance to his manner. He was wearing that dark green garment — a sort of cassock that covered his neck and hung heavily about his feet. In a raffish, theatrical kind of fashion he looked extremely impressive. He puzzled Nigel, who had expected him to crumple up when the theft of the bonds was revealed. He had watched Garnette, and the priest was either dumbfounded or the best actor off the stage that Nigel had ever seen.

“Who has done this?” repeated Garnette. He turned his head and stared round the circle of Initiates.

“I swear I never touched the safe,” bleated Claude Wheatley in a hurry.

“I suggest, Father, that you yourself are best situated to answer this question,” said de Ravigne softly. “It makes itself apparent. As we have said and you have also agreed — you have kept these keys about your person since our poor Cara made her gift.”

“How dare you!” cried Mrs. Candour shrilly. “How dare you suggest such a thing, M. de Ravigne? Father!”

“Quiet, my child,” said Father Garnette.

Maurice Pringle burst out laughing. The others stared at him scandalised.

“Look at him,” coughed Maurice, “look! To the pure all things are pure.”

“Maurice!” cried Janey.

“Just a minute, please,” said Allevn.

They had forgotten all about Alleyn, but now they listened to him.

“Mr. Pringle,” he said, “will you be good enough to pull yourself together? You are behaving like a hysterical adolescent. That’s better. I gather from what you have all said that no one is prepared to volunteer information about the missing bonds.” Father Garnette began to speak, but Alleyn raised a finger. “Very well, I now wish to bring another exhibit to your notice. The book, if you please, Fox.”

Inspector Fox loomed forward and put a book into Alleyn’s hand. Alleyn held it up. It was the copy of Abberley’s
Curiosities of Chemistry
.

“
Quis
?” said Alleyn lightly.

Garnette turned and looked calmly at it. Mrs. Candour gaped at it with her mouth open. Maurice stared at it as if it were an offensive relic, Janey looked blank, M. de Ravigne curious. Mr. Ogden still glared at Father Garnette. Miss Wade balanced her pince-nez across her nose and leant forward to peer at the book. Claude Wheatley said: “What’s that? I can’t see.”

“It is Abberley’s
Curiosities of Chemistry
,” said Alleyn.

“Hey?” exclaimed Mr. Ogden suddenly and wheeled around in his chair. He saw the book and his jaw dropped.

“Why—” he said. “Why—”

“Yes, Mr. Ogden?”

Mr. Ogden looked exceedingly uncomfortable. A dead silence followed.

“What is it?” continued Alleyn patiently.

“Why nothing, Chief. Except that I’m quite curious to know where you located that book.”

“Anybody else know anything about it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes,” said Father Garnette, “I do.”

He was still on his feet. He stretched out his hand and Alleyn gave him the book.

“This volume,” said Father Garnette, “appeared in my shelves some weeks ago. It is not mine and I do not know where it came from. I did not even open it. Simply found it there.”

“Next an unexpurgated translation of Petronius?”

“Ah — preciselah!” said Father Garnette.

He still held the book in his hands. Perhaps the habit of the pulpit caused him to let it fall open.

“Who left this book in my room?” he demanded.

“Look at it,” said Alleyn.

Garnette hesitated as though he wondered what Alleyn meant. Then he looked at the book. It had again fallen open at the page which gave the formula for sodium cyanide. For a moment Garnette scarcely seemed to take it in. Then with sudden violence he shut the book and dropped it on the table.

“I am the victim of an infamous conspiracy,” he said. The baa-ing vowel-sounds had disappeared, and the hint of a nasal inflection had taken their place.

“You tell us,” said Alleyn, “that this book was left in your shelves. When did you first discover it?”

“I do not remembah,” declared Garnette, rallying slightly.

“Try to remember.”

“It was there three Sundays ago, anyway,” volunteered Claude.

“Oh?” said Alleyn. “How do you know that, Mr. Wheatley?”

“Because, I mean, I saw it. And I know it was three Sundays ago because you see I do temple service — cleaning the silver, you know — and all that, every fortnight. And it was while I was doing that, I found it, and it wasn’t last Sunday, so it must have been three Sundays ago.”

“How did you come to find it?”

“Well, I — well, you see — well, I’d finished and Father was out and I thought I’d wait till he came in and so I went into his room to put some things away.”

“Where was the book?”

“Well, it was in the shelves.”

“Where you could see it?”

“Not quite.”

“It was behind the other books?”

“Yes, if you must know, it was,” said Claude turning an unattractive crimson. “As a matter of fact I had put all the books there myself — he stopped and looked nervously from Ogden to Garnette—”about a week before that. I was — I was tidying up in here. I didn’t look at them, then. The book on Chemistry wasn’t there that day. But it was there on the Sunday — a week later. You see I’d read most of the other books and I thought I’d try and find something else, and so—”

“Did you handle it?”

“I–I — just glanced at it.”

“You touched it. You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, I am. Because I remember I had my gloves on. The ones I do the polishing in. I like to keep my hands nice. I wondered if they’d marked it. Then I put it away and — and I read something else, you see.”

“Petronius, perhaps.”

“Yes, it was. I thought it marvellous.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t understand,” began Miss Wade.

“Nor do I,” interrupted Mrs. Candour. “Why is such a fuss being made about this book?”

“It’s a treatise on poisons,” said Maurice. “Cara was poisoned. Find the owner of the book and there’s your murderer. Q.E.D. Our wonderful police!”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mr. Ogden with a curious inflection in his voice, “that it’s not just as simple as all that.”

“Really?” jeered Maurice. “You seem to know a damn’ sight too much to be healthy.”

“Maurice, please!” said Janey.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Jane.”

“The interesting thing about the book,” said Alleyn in his quietest voice, “is that if you handle it as Mr. Garnette did, it falls open at a discourse on cyanide.” He took the book and handed it to de Ravigne. “Like to try?” he asked.

De Ravigne took the book, but he must have handled it differently. It fell open at another place. He examined it closely, a curiously puzzled expression in his eyes.

“Let me see,” said Lionel. “Do, please.” With him the experiment worked successfully.

“How too marvellous!” said Claude.

“Here,” shouted Mr. Ogden suddenly, “lemme see.”

Lionel handed him the book, and he experimented with it while they all watched him. The book fell open repeatedly and each time at the same page.

“Well, for crying out loud!” said Mr. Ogden, and slammed it down on the table.

“Now,” Alleyn went on, “there’s one more exhibit. This box of cigarettes. Yours, isn’t it, Mr. Garnette?” He laid the Benares Box on the table.

“Ah, yes.”

“Will you open it?”

“Is this a sleight of hand act?” asked Maurice Pringle. “No deception practised.”

“None, on my part,” replied Alleyn good-humouredly. “As I think you will agree, Mr. Garnette.”

Garnette had opened the box. Cara Quayne’s note lay on the top of the cigarettes.

“What is this?” asked Garnette. And then: “My God, it’s her writing.”

“Will you read it aloud?”

Garnette read slowly. The habit of the pulpit was so strong in him that he pitched his voice and read deliberately with round vowels and stressed final consonants.

“Must see you. Terrible discovery. After service tonight.”

He put the paper down on the table and again looked at Alleyn. His lips twitched, but he did not speak. He moved his hands uncertainly. He looked neither guilty nor innocent, but simply puzzled.

“Where did this come from?” he said at last.

“It was found last night in that box,” Alleyn said.

“But — I did not know. I did not see it there.”

“Does anyone,” asked Alleyn, “know anything of this note?” Nobody spoke.

“Had Miss Quayne spoken to any of you of this terrible discovery she had made?”

“When was it written?” asked Maurice suddenly.

“Yesterday.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s dated,” answered Alleyn politely.

“Oh, Maurice, my poor pet!” said Janey, and for the first time that morning somebody laughed.

“Shut up!” exclaimed Maurice.

“You did not open this box yesterday, Mr. Garnette?” Alleyn went on.

“No.”

“When did Miss Quayne call?”

“I do not know. I did not see her. I was out from midday until about three o’clock.”

“Where were you?”

“Father Garnette was my guest at luncheon,” said de Ravigne. “I had invited Cara also, but she desired, she said, to spend the day in meditation in her own house.”

“She changed her mind, it seems. How would she get in here?”

“The key to the front door of the church is always left in the porch, monsieur. It is concealed behind the torch there. We all use it.”

“Did any of you come here yesterday between two-thirty and three o’clock while Miss Quayne was in the hall?”

No one had come, it seemed. Alleyn asked them all in turn where they had been. Maurice had lunched with Janey in her flat and had stayed there till four. Mrs. Candour had been at home for lunch, and so had Miss Wade. Miss Wade to everybody’s surprise said she had been in the hall when Cara went through and into Garnette’s flat. Miss Wade had been engaged in a little meditation, it appeared. She had seen Cara come out again and had thought she seemed “rather put out.”

“Why did you say nothing of this before?” asked Alleyn.

“Because you did not ask me, officer,” said Miss Wade.

“
Touché
,” said Alleyn, and turned to the others.

Mr. Ogden had lunched at his club and afterwards taken a “carnstitootional” in the park, arriving home at tea-time. Garnette and de Ravigne had remained in the latter’s house until two-forty, when de Ravigne had asked Garnette the time in order to set his clock right. About ten minutes later, Garnette left. He had a Neophytes’ class at three-thirty, and it seemed that two selected advanced Neophytes always stayed on for what Father Garnette called a little repast in his flat, and then went to the evening instruction. This was a regular routine. That would account, Nigel reflected, for Cara Quayne leaving the note in the cigarette-box. Whatever her terrible discovery was, she would know she had no chance of a private conversation before the evening ceremony. After he left de Ravigne’s house Father Garnette had gone straight to the hall. There he had found one or two people who had come in early for the ceremony. He had not looked at the safe, but he felt sure he would have noticed if it had been open. De Ravigne lived in Lowndes Square, so it would not have taken many minutes for the priest to walk back to Knocklatchers Row. He probably arrived at about three o’clock. De Ravigne said he had remained at home until it was time to go to the evening ceremony. Claude and Lionel, it transpired, had not got up until half-past three in the afternoon.

“Ah, well,” said Alleyn, with the ghost of a sigh, “I shall not keep you here any longer, ladies and gentlemen. The meeting is adjourned.”

One by one the Initiates got to their feet. Garnette remained seated at the table, his face buried in his hands. Evidently most of them felt desperately uncomfortable at the thought of Father Garnette. They eyed him surreptitiously and made uneasy noises in their throats. Ogden still glared at him and, alone of the Initiates, seemed disinclined to leave. M. De Ravigne clicked his heels, made a formal bow which included Alleyn and Garnette, said “Gentlemen”; made a rather more willowy bow, said “Ladies,” and walked out with an air of knowing how to deal with the stiffest social contretemps.

Miss Wade, after some hesitation, made a sudden dart at Garnette, extended a black kid claw and said:

“Father! Faithful! Last ditch! Trust!”

Whereupon Mrs. Candour, who had been waiting for a cue from somebody, uttered a lamentable bellow and surged forward, saying: