Death in Ecstasy (3 page)

Somebody laughed attractively. It was Miss Janey Jenkins. She was young and short and looked intelligent.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn’t mean to laugh, only Claude and Lionel are rather awful, aren’t they?”

“I agree,” said Nigel quickly.

She turned, not to him, but to Maurice Pringle, the young man who had spoken so strangely to the priest. He now stood apart from the others and looked acutely miserable. Miss Jenkins went and spoke to him, but in so low a voice that Nigel could not hear what she said.

“Dr. Kasbek,” said the little spinster, whom Mr. Ogden had called Miss Wade, “Dr. Kasbek, I am afraid I am very foolish, but I do not understand. Has Cara Quayne been murdered?”

This suggestion, voiced for the first time, was received as though it was a gross indecency. Mrs. Candour, a peony of a woman, with ugly hands, uttered a scandalised yelp; M. de Ravigne hissed like a steamboiler; Mr. Ogden said: “Wait a minute,
wait
a minute”; Pringle seemed to shrink into himself, and Janey Jenkins took his hand.

“Surely not, Miss Wade,” said Dr. Kasbek. “Let us not anticipate such a thing.”

“I only inquired,” said Miss Wade. “She wasn’t very happy, poor thing, and she wasn’t very popular.”

“Miss Wade — please!” M. de Ravigne looked angrily at the little figure. “I must protest — this is a — a preposterous suggestion. It is ridiculous.” He gesticulated eloquently. “Is it not enough that this tragedy should have arrived? My poor Cara, is it not enough?”

The voice of Father Garnette could be heard, muffled but sonorous, beyond the curtains.

“Listen to him!” said Pringle. “Listen! He’s keeping them quiet. He’s kept us all quiet. What are we to believe of him?”

“What are you talking about?” whispered Mrs. Candour savagely.

“You know well enough. You’d have taken her place if you could. It’s not his fault — it’s yours. It’s all so — so beastly—”

“Maurice,” said Miss Jenkins softly.

“Be quiet, Janey. I will say it. Whatever it is, it’s retribution. The whole thing’s a farce. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to tell them—”

He broke away from her and ran towards the curtains. Before he reached them they parted and a tall man came through.

“Oh, there you are, Bathgate,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. “What’s the trouble?”

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.”