“I have watched many nights,” the Archdeacon answered, “and behold His mercy endureth for ever.”
“Also I have watched with you,” the voice said, “yet not I, but He that sent me. You shall watch yet through a deeper night, and after that I will come to this place on the second morning from now, and I will begin the mysteries of my Lord, and thereafter He shall do what He will, and you shall see the end of these things. Only be strong and of a good courage.”
The form was gone. The Archdeacon looked out over the countryside, and his lips moved in their accustomed psalm.
Chapter Fourteen
THE BIBLE OF MRS. HIPPY
As the inspector was carried back to London in the first available train, he found himself slipping from side to side on the smooth ice of his uncertain mind. Impartially he considered that this sudden return was likely to be as futile as any other attempt he had made at solving the problem of the murder. But, on the other hand, there could not be many rather undersized men in the neighbourhood of London who within the last two months had been intimately connected with Wesleyan Methodism and with death. When Mr. Batesby had spoken that morning it had seemed as if two streams of things—actual events and his own meditations—had flowed gently together; as if not he, but Life were solving the problem in the natural process of the world. He reminded himself now that such a simplicity was unlikely; explanations did not lucidly arise from mere accidents and present themselves as all but an ordered whole. He dimly remembered Mrs. Hippy, the occupant of the house next but two to his own; he remembered that she was an acquaintance of his wife, who had gone with her to certain bazaars, sales of work, and even church services. If she had had a lodger who had disappeared, why hadn’t his wife mentioned it before? It was such a failure on the part of his intimates that the inspector always expected, he told himself, and always found.
His wife was staying with her mother, so the inspector lunched near King’s Cross, and then went on to 227 Thobblehurst Road. Mrs. Hippy came to the door, and appeared delighted to see him. “Why, come in, inspector,” she said. “I thought Mrs. Colquhoun said you were going away.”
“So I did,” the inspector said, following her to the drawing-room, as it was solemnly called, which looked on to the street. “But I had some inquiries to make which brought me back.”
“Really?” Mrs. Hippy said, rather absently. “Inspector, can you think of a fish in two syllables?”
“A fish?” the inspector said vaguely. “Walrus? salmon? mackerel? No, that’s three.”
“It might count as two perhaps,” Mrs. Hippy answered. “Why did the por-poise? Because it saw the mack-reel.”
“Eh?” the inspector said. “What’s the idea exactly?”
Mrs. Hippy, plunging at a number of papers on the chesterfield, produced an effort in bright green and gold, entitled in red Puzzles and Riddles: a Magazine for All. “They’re offering a prize,” she said, “for the best ten questions and answers of that sort. They say it’s one of the best ways, but rather out of date. But I think they’re splendid. Look, I’ve done four. Why does the shoe-lace?”
She paused, got no answer, and said delightedly, “Because the button-holes. The next——”
“Good! Splendid!” the inspector cried. “Splendid, Mrs. Hippy. I suppose they’ll print them all if you win. And you’re sure to. You’d be good at cross-word puzzles. But I won’t disturb you long. I only came to ask if you could tell me anything about a fellow named Pattison you had stopping here.”
“Mr. Pattison?” Mrs. Hippy said, opening her eyes. “Why, do you want to arrest him? I don’t know where he is; he left me a month ago.”
“Where did he go to? Can you tell me that?” Colquhoun asked.
“Canada,” Mrs. Hippy answered. “At least, he said he was going to. But he was a funny creature altogether. Not sociable, if you understand. Dull, heavy, so to speak. I lent him all the old numbers of this”—she waved Puzzles and Riddles, “but he didn’t work out a single one, though I told him the easiest. And he spoilt my Bible, scribbling all over it. My mother’s Bible too—not the one I take to church. But there, it always seems to be like that when you try and help. People don’t deserve it, and that’s a fact.”
“Perhaps you won’t mind helping me, all the same,” the inspector said. “Could I see the Bible? And did you know that he was going to Canada?”
“Not to say know,” Mrs. Hippy said, looking longingly at the competition. “He said he was going; and one morning he wished me good-bye and said he’d send me a postcard. But he never has done.”
Further interrogation made it clear that her knowledge was of the slightest. She sometimes let two rooms, furnished, to a single gentleman, and the late Mr. Pattison, arriving at Victoria one day and seeing the card in her window, had taken them, with solemn assurances of respectability and a month’s rent in advance. He had seemed to be rather worried, though what about Mrs. Hippy had never understood. He had come to the Wesleyan Church she herself attended several times, but it had not seemed to calm his distress. He had borrowed a Bible from her, and had scribbled everywhere in it. Finally he had told her that he would be leaving for Canada shortly, and had departed one morning, carrying a suitcase and bidding her a final farewell.
As the rooms had been thoroughly “done out” and were now empty, awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Hippy’s married sister, the inspector went through them with care and without success. He then withdrew with the Bible to his own deserted house and gave himself up to its study.
The scribbling seemed entirely haphazard. It was everywhere—on the fly-leaves, in the margins, and here and there right across the pages themselves. It consisted largely of fragmentary prayers, ejaculations, and even texts. A phrase which occurred on the printed page would be rewritten and underscored in the margin; and this seemed to have been done especially with such phrases as record or assert the Mercy and Compassion of God. Sometimes this repetition would be varied by a wild “I believe, I believe” scrawled against a verse, by an “He saves,” or a “God is love.” On the other hand, certain verses were marked by a line and a question-mark. “Depart from me, ye cursed,” was heavily lined; so was “he that is filthy, let him be filthy still”; so was “I have delivered him over to Satan.” The sayings about the unpardonable sin were scratched heavily out; so was “He will have mercy on whom He will have mercy.” In the midst of these fantastic scrawls there appeared here and there a carefully written comment. Against “God shall be all in all” was written in a small, sedate hand: “Lies,” and against “reconciling the world to Himself” appeared, similarly, “Not true.”
The fly-leaves, the back of the New Testament half-title, and the spaces between the various books were occupied with longer jottings. The first of these seemed to be a kind of discussion. It was not easy to decipher, but it appeared to be a summing up of the promises of salvation and an argumentum ad hominem at the end. But the very end was the words, heavily printed: “I am damned.”
This sort of thing, whatever religious mania it suggested, was not of much use to the inspector. It brought him no nearer to discovery why the murdered man, if Mr. Pattison were he, had got himself murdered. Farther on, however, he found himself, at the end of Deuteronomy, confronted with the single word: “Gregory.” Nothing followed, but it raised his hopes wonderfully. Still, it was one thing to read “Gregory” and another to prove that Gregory had slain the writer. He went on turning the pages.
At the end of Job there was a whole sentence. “He won’t let me go and Jesus won’t get me away.” This might be Gregory or it might, as the inspector suspected, be meant for the devil. Well, if Mr. Pattison and the devil were on those terms, all wasn’t lost yet.
Between two of the minor prophets was scrawled: “I saw her to-day; so she is out”; after which there was a blank, till, on the back, of the half-title of the “New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,” there came this longer note:
“I will put it all down. I am Jam
es Montgomery Pattison. I am forty-six years old, and I know that the devil will kill me soon. I have done his will against my wishes too long and I cannot get away from him now. When I heard Mr. Macdermott preach I thought my heart was opened and the Lord had come to me and saved me, and I testified to my master, who was a worse sinner than I. But he has me too fast and I cannot escape. I have served him and the devil together for twenty-four years, since he caught me robbing him. I have done forgery and worse. I have stood by and seen him swear the woman I seduced into prison for soliciting him; and now I cannot get free. He is going to kill me; it is in his eyes and face.” There came an outburst of appeals to God and to Christ, and the record resumed. “He had Louise put into prison to torture me. It was him all through.” There was a blank space, and then, written in the steady, sedate hand, “I have gone back to him altogether, and he will kill me. This is what comes of God.”
On the very last page of the book, enclosed in a correct panel, with decorative curves flowing round it, was printed in clearly and precisely: “Mr. Gregory Persimmons, Cully, Nr. Fardles, Hertfordshire.”
The inspector shut the book and went into the kitchen to make himself tea.
Chapter Fifteen
‘TO-NIGHT THOU SHALT BE WITH ME IN PARADISE’
Lord Mayor’s Street in the evening seemed always, if by any chance it could, to attract and contain such mist as might be about. A faint vapour made the air dim, especially round the three shops, and caused passers-by to remark regularly either that the evening was a bit misty or that the evenings were drawing in or that there might be something of a fog by the morning. But for Gregory Persimmons, as he came swiftly into it about nine o’clock on the same day, the chemist’s shop rode London like a howdah on the back of an elephant, the symbol and shelter of the prince that ruled the armies of the air. He reached the door, which was still ajar, pushed it open, entered, and closed it after him.
The shop was dark, after the street light a few paces away outside, but the gleam of a light came from the inner room. For the first time since Gregory had known it the Greek was not there, but as he hesitated a voice sounded from within.
“Is that you, Gregory?” Manasseh called.
“It is I,” Gregory answered, crossed the shop, and went in.
The room was bare and dirty. On a table under the window and exactly opposite the door in to the shop, the Graal stood exposed, under the light of a single electric bulb which hung without a shade from the middle of the ceiling. There were no pictures and no books; a few chairs stood about, and in one corner was a high closed cabinet. A dilapidated carpet covered the floor.
The Greek was sitting in a chair on the left of the Graal. Manasseh had apparently been walking up and down, but he stood still as Gregory came in, and looked at him anxiously. “Well,” he said, “have you brought the child?”
“Not to-night,” Persimmons said. “I thought it better not. You or someone else, Manasseh, have worked wonders. She’s almost well again, and wanted to see him. So I promised she should to-morrow, and he’s coming to London with me to-morrow afternoon to go to—I forget where he is to go to. It doesn’t matter. When do we leave England?”
“The day after,” Manasseh said. “I’m supposed to go down and see the woman again that morning. But as things are I don’t know …”
“Send them a wire in the morning,” Gregory suggested. “‘Detained till this afternoon.’ We shall be at Harwich by then.”
“I don’t know why you’re so keen on the child,” Manasseh said morosely. “You won’t have him—interfered with at all, even to make the journey easier?”
“The journey will be all right,” Gregory said. “Jessie’s coming too. Jessie is the girl who looks after him. It’s quite safe—she doesn’t know exactly, but she will come. She’s got no relations near at hand; she’s a sensuous little bitch, and she has her wanton eyes on Mr. Persimmons of Cully. She’ll hope to be compromised; I know her. And she knows she may have to go on a journey, but not where or why.”
Manasseh nodded. “But why take him?” he insisted.
“Because I owe him for a debt to the Sabbath,” Gregory answered. “Because we haven’t often the chance of such a pure and entire oblation. It’s wonderful the way he’s taken to me, and I think we shall make him a lord of power before we have done. Isn’t that worth more than sending him silly? And Jessie can be dropped anywhere if she’s inconvenient.” He walked across to the table. “And what about you?” he asked. “Do we take this with us, or do you still want to destroy it now?”
“No,” Manasseh said. “I have thought of it, and we will take it. There may be something in what you said.”
“What I said?” Gregory asked, whistling softly as he surveyed the Cup.
“We may be able to use it for destruction—to destroy through it,” Manasseh said. “I have dreamt that we might learn to destroy earth and heaven through it, or at least all intelligible experience of them among men. It is death as well as life, and who knows how far death may go? They talk of their Masses, you talk of your Black Mass, but there may be such a Mass of Death said with this as shall blast the world for ever. But you and I are not great enough for that.”
Gregory answered softly, “I think you may be right, Manasseh. Bear with me, for I am young in these things. I know the current of desire in which all things move, and I have guided it a little as I will. But I see there are deeper things below.” He looked at the Greek. “And what do you say,” he asked, “who are older than we?”
The Greek answered, his eyes fixed on the Graal: “All things are indivisible and one. You cannot wholly destroy and you cannot wholly live, but you can change mightily and for ever as any of our reckoning goes. Even I cannot see down infinity. Make it agreeable to your lusts while the power is yours, for there are secret ways down which it may pass even now and you shall not hold it.”
Gregory smiled, and filliped the Graal with a finger. “Do you know,” he said, “I should like to annoy the Archdeacon a little.” He stood still suddenly and cried out: “And there is a way by which it may be done. I have tried it, and I know. This is the circle of all souls, and I will gather them and marry them as I please. I will bring them from this world and from another and I will bind the lost with the living till the living itself be lost.”
Manasseh moved nearer to him. “Tell me,” he said; “you have a great thought.”
“I have a thought that is pleasant to my mind,” Gregory said, “and this is what we will do. There went out from among us lately by my act a weak, wretched, unhappy soul that sought to find its god and in its last days returned to me and was utterly mine. It was willing to die when I slew it, and in the shadows it waits still upon my command. We will draw this back, and we will marry it to this priest, body and soul, so that he shall live with it by day and by night, and come indeed in the end to know not which is he. And let us see then if he will war against us for the Graal.”
“This you can do if you will,” Manasseh said, “for I have seen spirits recalled, though not by means of the Graal. But can you bind it so closely to the priest?”
“Assuredly you can,” the Greek said, “if you have the conditions. But they are exact. You must have that body here into which you will bring that soul in contact—I do not know if it could be done at a distance, but I do not think it has been done, and I am sure you have no time to try. And you must have that soul at your command, and I think you have. And you must have a means of passage, and you have it in this Cup. And you must have a very strong desire, and this you have, both of you, for this is at once possession and destruction. And you are the better for knowing the worst, and this I do, and I will set my power with yours if you choose.”
“We must have the body here,” Gregory said. “But—will he come?”
“I do not see why he should not come if he is asked,” the Greek said. “Cannot Manasseh bring him with some tale of the woman?”
“To-morrow night is the last night we can be s
ure of having in England,” Manasseh answered, “if we wish to escape with both the Graal and the child. But he might come for that.”
They were silent, standing or sitting around the Cup, where it seemed to await their decision in a helpless bondage. They were still silent some minutes later when a sudden knock sounded on the door of the shop. Gregory started, and both he and Manasseh glanced inquiringly at the Greek, who said casually: “It may be someone for medicine or it may be they have followed Gregory. Go you, Manasseh. If they ask for me, tell them I am away from home to-night; and if for Gregory, tell them he is not here.”
Manasseh obeyed, pulling the door to behind him. Gregory smiled at the Greek. “Do you really give them medicine?” he asked.
The Greek shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he said. “I don’t poison ants; they may as well live as die. But there are not many who will come.”
They heard Manasseh cross the shop and open the door, then several exclamations at once in different voices. Then a gay voice, at the sound of which Gregory started and looked round, said: “Why, if it isn’t the doctor himself! Now this is fortunate. My dear doctor, we’ve been talking about you all day. Let’s see, were you properly introduced to the Duke? No, oh, no, don’t shut the door. No, I beg you. We’ve come all the way from Fardles—Castra Parvulorum, you know; the camp of the children—to ask you a question—two questions. Is Gregory here by any chance? That’s not one of them. No, really—sorry to push, but … Thank you ever so much; you can shut it now.”
Under this rush of talk had sounded Manasseh’s exclamatory protests and the scuffle of feet. Gregory put out a hand to the Graal, but the Greek made a motion with his hand and checked him. “How many are there?” he asked softly. Gregory tiptoed to the narrow opening and peeped through. “Two, I think,” he whispered, returning. “Mornington and the Duke. I can’t see or hear anyone else. Hadn’t we better move that?”
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