Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“What’s that got to do with it?” rejoined Maurice, who seemed to have set himself some impossible standard of discourtesy. “I should have thought the British Police Force scarcely knew how to pronounce the word judging by results.”

“Someone must have told me about it,” said Alleyn vaguely.

Maurice looked sharply at him and then turned red.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This filthy show’s got me all jumpy.”

“Well it might. I only asked you if you were interested in psychoanalysis because you used that password to the intelligentsia—‘sadism.’ I don’t suppose you know what it means. What are your views on crowd psychology?”

“Look here, what the hell are you driving at?”

“On the psychology of oratory, for instance? What do you think happens to people when they come under the sway of, shall we say, a magnetic preacher?”

“What happens to them! My God, they are his slaves.”

“Strong,” said Alleyn. “Would you describe this congregation as Mr. Garnette’s slaves?”

“If you must know — yes. Yes. Yes. Yes!”

“Yourself included?”

The boy looked strangely at Alleyn as though he was bringing the inspector into focus. His lips trembled.

“Look,” he said.

Alleyn walked up to him, looked steadily in his face, and then murmured, so quietly that Nigel did not hear, a single word. Maurice nodded.

“How did you guess?”

“You told me to look. It’s your eyes, you know. Contracted pupils. Also, if you’ll forgive me, your bad manners.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I suppose not. Is this Mr. Garnette’s doing?”

“No. I mean somebody gets them for him. He — he gave me special cigarettes. Quite mild really. He said it helped one to become receptive.”

“No doubt.”

“And it does! It’s marvellous. Everything seems so clear. Only — only—”

“It’s more than mild cigarettes now, I think.”

“Don’t be so bloody superior. Oh, God, I’m sorry!”

“Do the other Initiates employ this short cut to spiritual ecstasy?”

“Janey doesn’t. Janey doesn’t know. Nor does Ogden. Don’t tell Janey.”

“I won’t if I can help it. All the others?”

“No. Cara Quayne had begun. The Candour does. She did before Father Garnette found her. Ogden and de Ravigne don’t. At least I’m not sure about de Ravigne. I want him to try. Everyone ought to try and you can always leave off.”

“Can you?” said Alleyn.

“Of course. I don’t mean to go on with it.”

“Did you all meet here in Mr. Garnette’s rooms and— smoke his cigarettes.”

“At first. But lately those two — Mrs. Candour and Cara — came at separate times.” Maurice put his hand to his mouth and pulled shakily at his under lip. “And then — then Cara began to make her preparations for Chosen Vessel and she came alone.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t see. You don’t know. Only I know.” He now spoke rapidly and with great vehemence as though driven by an intolerable urge. “It was one afternoon about three weeks ago when I came in to see him. No one in the church. So I went straight up here — past here — up to the door, his door. I spoke: ‘Are you there, Father?’ They couldn’t have heard. I went in — half in — they didn’t see me. Oh, God! Oh, God! Frigga and Odin. The Chosen Vessel!” He gave a screech of laughter and flung himself into one of the chairs. He buried his face in his arm and sobbed quite loudly with an utter lack of restraint.

Inspector Fox strolled across the nave and stared with an air of calm appreciation at a small effigy of a most unprepossessing Nordic god. Nigel, acutely embarrassed, bent over his notebook. Detective-Sergeant Bailey emerged from his retreat, cast a glance of weary disparagement at Maurice, and went back again.

“So that is what you meant by retribution,” said Alleyn. Pringle made a sort of shuddering movement, an eloquent assent.

A little figure appeared out of the shadows at the end of the hall.

“Have you quite finished, Inspector Alleyn?” asked Janey.

She spoke so quietly that it took Nigel a second or two to realise how furiously angry she was.

“I’ve quite finished,” said Alleyn gravely. “You may both go home.”

She bent over Pringle.

“Maurice. Maurice darling, let’s go.”

“Let me alone, Janey.”

“Of course I won’t. I want you to take me home.”

She spoke softly to him for a minute and then he got up. She took his arm. Alleyn stood aside.

“I could murder you for this,” said Janey.

“Oh, my child, don’t talk like that!” exclaimed Alleyn with so much feeling that Nigel stared.

Janey looked again at the inspector. Perhaps she saw something in his dark face that made her change her mind.

“All right, I won’t,” said Janey.

After Maurice had been searched and sent home Nigel approached Alleyn with a certain air of imbecile fractiousness that he assumed whenever he wished to annoy the inspector.

“Will somebody,” asked Nigel plaintively, “be good enough to explain that young man’s behaviour to me?”

“What?” asked Alleyn absently.

“I want to know your explanation for Pringleism. Why did Pringle ask you to look at him? Why did you look at him? What did you say to Pringle? And why did Pringle cry?”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you take Form One for this evening?”

“Very good,” said Fox, returning from his god. “What is it you were inquiring about, Mr. Bathgate?”

“Pringleism.”

“Meaning the young gentleman’s behaviour, sir? Well, it was rather unusual I must say. My idea is he takes something that isn’t good for him.”

“What do you mean, Inspector Fox? Something dietetically antagonistic? Oysters and whisky?”

“Heroin and hot air,” snapped Alleyn. “Oh, Mr. Garnette, Mr. Garnette, it shall go hard if I do not catch you bending.”

“I say!” said Nigel. “Do you think Garnette —”

“Let us have the French gentleman, please, Bailey,” interrupted Alleyn.

Monsieur de Ravigne emerged with an air of sardonic aloofness. He was a good-looking man, tall for a Frenchman and extremely well groomed. He saw Alleyn and walked quickly down towards him.

“You wish to speak to me, Inspector Alleyn?”

“If you please, M. de Ravigne. Will you sit down?”

“After you, monsieur.”

“No, no, monsieur, please.”

They murmured and skirmished while Fox gazed at them in mild enchantment. At last they both sat down. M. de Ravigne crossed his legs and displayed an elegant foot.

“And now, sir?” he inquired.

“You are very obliging, monsieur. It is the merest formality. A few questions that we are obliged to ask in our official capacity. I am sure you understand.”

“Perfectly. Let us discharge this business.”

“Immediately. First, were you aware of any unusual or peculiar odour during the ceremony of the cup?”

“You allude, of course, to the odour of prussic acid,” said M. de Ravigne.

“Certainly. May I ask how you realise the poison used was a cyanide?”

“I believe you yourself mentioned it, monsieur. If you did not it is no matter. I understood immediately that Cara was poisoned by cyanide. No other poison is so swift, and after she fell—” he broke off, became a little paler and then went on composedly “—after she fell, I bent over her and then — and then — I smelt it.”

“I see. But not until then?”

“Not until then — no. The odour of the incense — sweet almond the acolyte tells me — was overpowering and, strangley enough, similar.”