Holy Disorders

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘You devil.’

  ‘It’s hard,’ said Fen complainingly. ‘One gives the police a perfectly sound piece of advice – information almost – and that’s the sort of thanks one gets.’

  The wraith of a smile passed across the Inspector’s face. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right. Have your own way. I dare say it’s all my eye, anyway. It can wait.’ He turned to go. ‘But my God, if this is a joke –’

  ‘Don’t threaten witnesses,’ said Fen. ‘Oh, one more thing – very important. Was there any trace of poison or bullets or knife-thrusts or anything at the autopsy? It is over by now, I suppose?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Splendid. That suits me admirably.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said the Inspector with heavy irony, ‘that you’ve nothing more to find out. You must tell me when you make an arrest.’

  ‘Ah,’ Fen was pensive. ‘There’s the rub. Means, motive, opportunity, all settled. The only trouble is that I haven’t at the moment the least idea who did it.’

  They found Peace in the garden, extended fatly in a deck-chair and snoring up into the dappled foliage of the chestnut tree above his head. He had been little in evidence, Geoffrey thought, since the interview in the train; at dinner last night he had been curiously self-effacing, doing and saying nothing that could force itself memorably on the attention. And yet he was, in fact, the only person who could have been in the cathedral when Butler was killed, and it was conceivable that his ‘business talk’ with the Precentor had provided him with an adequate motive. Geoffrey frowned. But a motive wasn’t what was wanted – unless, as was quite possible, the phantom radio had nothing to do with the murder in the cathedral. Murder in the Cathedral. Would Butler, like St Thomas, like St Ephraim, be canonized now he was dead? Or Murder ex cathedra. Peace, of course, would have had time to get to the hospital from the station and kill Brooks; so would Savernake; so would Mrs Garbin. But the murder of Brooks had depended, it seemed, on a knowledge of the times at which he got his medicine; which none of these people would have had, since he had only been found, and taken to the hospital, the previous morning. Here, then, was a possible means of elimination. It was true that, since plainly more than one person was involved in the affair, a phone call to London earlier in the day could have given the necessary information, but this, surely, was too complicated and unnecessary a method of procedure to be plausible.

  Peace still exuded his prosperous and professional air, even in sleep. Slumbering at ease, his face was composed and childlike. He snored, not thunderously, but with a faint and not unpleasant moaning, like the wind in a chimney. His well-cut suit, now creased and crushed, clung about his form unreticently, and his chubby hands lay upon his stomach. Beside him on the grass lay The Mind and Society, along with a tall glass and two lager bottles, one of them empty. This happy and idyllic scene conveyed no sense of tragedy – either that which had been already enacted or that which was now preparing. It seemed a pity to wake him.

  Considerateness and sensitivity to conventional atmospheres were not, however, Fen’s strongest points. He advanced boisterously, making a formidable amount of noise. Peace jerked into alarmed wakefulness; then, noticing the source of the commotion, heaved painfully to his feet and stood ineffectually brushing himself and blinking blearily and without enthusiasm about him.

  ‘Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,’ said Fen, ‘and give to rapture all thy trembling strings.’

  ‘Rapture?’ Peace peered at him anxiously. ‘Liar?’ He paused dubiously. ‘That seems a little hard.’

  Fen settled himself on the grass. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘is the ground. Are there no more chairs? Phyllida and Corydon may have enjoyed this sort of thing, but not I.’ He rummaged in a dandelion root. ‘Ants,’ he said.

  ‘The Arcadian myths’ – the dominie in Peace became very evident – ‘are plainly sexual in origin. Always they concern pursuit. Pan is the incarnation of male desire, Syrinx the elusive, fleeting object of his lust. Almost one might say that the myth involves the whole contradiction and antithesis of the male and female characteristics. Or possibly’ – he became thoughtful – ‘not.’

  Fen grunted. ‘Do you never get tired of rummaging about finding psychological parallelisms?’

  ‘Yes. Very tired. But if one regards it as an amusing and preposterous game it can help to pass away a dull evening. The Faust legend, now: there’s endless material in that – the stored dream-fantasies of a whole ethnic division of humanity. And the principles of the game are so simple that, as they used to say about labour-saving machines, a child can operate it. Water is always the unconscious – I haven’t the least idea why. If you dream about tumbling into the sea and swimming about underneath it means your unconscious has triumphed, or’ – he paused – ‘that you’re dyspeptic. Anything round or hollow is the womb, the feminine principle.’ He picked up the empty lager bottle and tapped the bottom of it. ‘This, for example – a mandala-symbol. Anything else is a masculine principle, in all probability. Also, there are primal old men with beards.’

  ‘It appears to me,’ said Fen gravely, ‘that we are in the presence of a radical breakdown of faith.’

  ‘Faith.’ Peace nodded. ‘That’s it precisely. Not intellectual doubt, but a breakdown of faith. The witch-doctor loses confidence in his paint and head-dress and amulets.’ He was silent.

  Geoffrey sought for a means of turning the conversation to more relevant matters. ‘Did you,’ he inquired cautiously, ‘get any light from your conversation with Spitshuker last night?’

  Peace glanced at him sharply; the ruse was transparent. ‘He offered to substitute his own faith for my own. He said it was at once much more rational and much less so, and would consequently be twice as satisfactory.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I suppose he’s right. I confess I feel drawn to the Church in a way I’ve never experienced before. The transition shouldn’t be difficult. It isn’t what one believes that matters, it’s the emotional need one’s beliefs satisfy. Plainly I’m one of those people who need a faith – what kind doesn’t much matter. Patriotism might do equally well.’

  Intellectually, Geoffrey thought, the man was stronger than he at first appeared to be, but that constituted only the surface of his mind. Where was the emotional centre? A woman? That was possible. A scientific passion? – but what he said conveyed little of that impression. Money? Creativity in some line? A man’s life may be wholly bound up with a passion for basket-work. Or after all, was there no such centre? Was the shell really as hollow as it sounded? In himself, Peace was a perplexing problem. Somehow he lacked inwardness, lacked a self – the result, perhaps, of constantly attending to the inwardness, the personalities, of others.

  Fen, who was playing around with one of the lager bottles, said mildly:

  ‘The minds of people, as such, are always less interesting, because more uniform, than the façade they present to the world. Dr Butler for example.’ He paused deliberately, to allow the change of topic to settle. ‘How little one knew about him.’

  Peace resigned himself. ‘He was a curious man. I knew little about him, for I saw him seldom. He disapproved, arbitrarily and without consideration, of my profession, which was one of the things that induced me to continue in it. For the rest, if you’ll believe me (though it doesn’t depend on that), he was entirely selfish. His calling required of him a certain show of charitableness, but it never went beyond the bare minimum of bienséance. And that was why I came down here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fen’s voice deliberately lacked interest.

  Peace leaned forward; he spoke slowly and emphatically. ‘My father died a rich man. There were only two of us children. As I was already on the road to prosperity and Irene, my sister, had nothing, he left his money to her – on the understanding that should my fortunes ever fail, half was to come to me for the benefit of my children. The capital, you realize, could not be touched.’ He paused and fingered his tie.

 
; ‘That understanding Butler effectually wrecked when he married Irene. He persuaded her, in fact, that the whole of the inheritance should be left to their own children, and poor Irene, who never had a great deal of spirit of her own, was forced to agree. The man was a bully, and I fancy he had an easy job of it.’ There was real feeling in Peace’s voice now, Geoffrey noticed.

  ‘Naturally, I want as good prospects for my children as I can possibly get, and just recently things haven’t been going so well with me. People have had to draw in their horns a bit, and the war’s induced them to stop fussing so much about themselves – which is a damned good thing. But just recently, too, Butler had been trying to get Irene to transfer the money to him, for better safety, as he said.’ Peace’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘I knew once that happened there’d be no more hope for me and my family. Writing was no good, so I came down to talk things over with him. That’s why I went to see him up at the cathedral last night. We’d had a few words about it earlier, when I first arrived, and he’d been pretty cool, I can assure you. Said he’d give me his final word later. His decision!’ The man was agitated; he got up and paced restlessly up and down. ‘Well, he never did. But you see the injustice of it – the vile impertinence and lack of all moral decency. It isn’t as if I’d wanted the lot; it isn’t as if this understanding about the money were a fabrication of mine – I’ve got letters to prove it. And yet he – he, who had lived in comfort on that money for nearly twenty years – was going to “give me his decision” as if I were a beggar, a poor relation soliciting at his door!’

  Here was the man with a vengeance, thought Geoffrey: sincerity was plain in every word he spoke, a sincere sense of outraged justice, a sincere affection for his family; and, it was hardly necessary to add, a sincere and plausible motive for murder. Fen asked:

  ‘Was the reason for your visit here generally known?’

  ‘He’d broadcast his own account of it pretty widely, you can be sure – the sponging relative.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fen was thoughtful. ‘And the money is very important to you?’

  Peace grinned suddenly. ‘Very. I’m not quite so successful at my job as I made myself out to be to you, Mr Vintner. I’ve done well enough, I suppose. But really I’ve always been a square peg. Most men fit their jobs, but I don’t. I don’t know what I should have been – an actor, I sometimes think.’

  Fen stirred himself. ‘How dreadful.’

  ‘And do you know, if I had found my proper place in the scheme of things, I don’t think I should have bothered about this business at all, however poor I was.’

  Fen made vague signs of concurrence. ‘Dissatisfaction always breeds demands, even if they’re not for the particular satisfaction that’s lacking.’ He appeared rather pleased at this utterance.

  ‘You see why I’m telling you all this.’ Peace sat down, something of his normal diffident good-nature restored. ‘I have, as far as I know, the best motive yet discovered for killing Butler, and obviously it’s no use trying to cover it up. Also, I was the only person who could have been in that cathedral when he was killed. So I quite see that things don’t look too good for me.’ He hesitated. ‘Personally, Mr Fen, I know of you only as a literary critic. But I’ve been told that you’ve had a good deal of experience of these affairs, and that’s why I put the facts before you. Not – heaven forbid! – in any frenzied attempt to prove my innocence, but in the hope that they may help to prove someone else guilty.’

  The man was no fool; very clearly he recognized his position. But, on the other hand, frankness and willingness to help might be an excellent pose; he might, in fact, be drawing attention to one motive in order to divert suspicion from another.

  Fen cleared his throat, noisily and at great length. ‘You’ve told all this to the police?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Of course, of course. The truth in all circumstances. I suppose you know they’ll arrest you?’

  Peace sat up. ‘Good God! Surely it’s not as bad as that?’

  ‘They’re certain to get round to it sooner or later,’ said Fen with malignant delight. ‘Tell me about your movements.’

  ‘Movements? Ah, yes, I see. At the relevant hours. The train arrived more or less on time, and I came straight here. Characteristically, there was no one in when I arrived, but Irene and Butler turned up in about ten minutes – say at a quarter past six. No alibi for the Brooks murder, you see. Butler and I were both supposed to be going to the clergy- house for dinner, but he cried off at the last moment. Couldn’t stand the sight of me, I suppose. After dinner, when the meeting was going on, I sat in the summer-house, but I got bored with that and went back shortly before nine. It was then that Butler arranged to meet me privately up at the cathedral, at about twenty past. I got talking to Spitshuker, and although I saw how the time was going, I thought it wouldn’t do him any harm to wait. And besides, Frances was getting anxious about him. She said she was going out to look for you at the Whale and Coffin, and would I wait and let her walk up to the cathedral with me to make sure he was all right. The poor kid seemed really scared. Anyway, she was the devil of a time, so I set off alone just before ten – rather more than five minutes before you arrived – and I was just pottering about trying to find a door that was open when I heard that crash. The rest you know.’

  ‘Convenient,’ Fen murmured. ‘Extraordinarily convenient. The trouble is that one can’t check the extra minute or two here and there which counts. Ultimately it doesn’t matter, though.’

  Peace grimaced. ‘It matters to me.’

  ‘And what is the situation now about this money?’

  ‘I suppose I shall get it now that Butler’s dead. Which makes matters look worse. Do you think if I abandoned all claim –’

  ‘Give up a lot of cash!’ Fen howled indignantly. ‘Certainly not. Don’t be so daft. No one ever leaves me any money,’ he complained darkly, ‘despite my frenzied efforts with rich old women. It’s an extraordinary thing that the people who really deserve money –’ He suddenly lost interest in what he was saying, and climbed to his feet. ‘Never mind that. I must see Savernake and the girl. Are they about?’

  ‘Somewhere.’ Peace seemed indifferent. ‘But you haven’t advised me what to do.’

  ‘Do!’ exclaimed Fen. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It isn’t supposed to mean anything. It’s a quotation from our great English dramatist, Shakespeare. I sometimes wonder if Hemings and Condell went off the rails a bit there. It’s a vile absurd jingle.’

  Frances and Savernake were in another part of the broad, rambling garden, talking quickly and earnestly. Geoffrey wondered if Dutton had been right, and if after all they would get married now. Love imposes a sense of proprietorship; and though Geoffrey had no possible claim on the girl, he felt an active resentment at Savernake’s easy air when he was with her. One should not, in any case, treat so much beauty with an easy air. Beauty, as Dr Johnson remarked, is of itself very estimable, and should be considered as such. Geoffrey found himself disliking Savernake, and not entirely for reasons of jealousy – disliking his affectation, his evasiveness, his nervous jumpiness. As they approached, he stood twisting his long, thin fingers together, his sparse, corn-coloured hair meticulously brushed back and his grey eyes moving with great rapidity from person to person; just on the edge of downright shiftiness.

  He opened the conversation unfortunately by a reference to Fen’s butterfly-net. Geoffrey riposted with a feeble sarcasm, Fen being temporarily engaged in trying to catch hold of a dragonfly. The atmosphere perceptibly worsened. It was not that there was any particular gloom about it. Frances quite candidly admitted that though she had been reasonably attached to her father, she was affected by his death more as something shocking than as something melancholy. But there was a tinge of what could only be called irritability in the air, a neurotic rather than an emotional reaction. Everyone
was on edge.

  ‘Poor Mummy,’ said Frances. ‘Daddy used to bully her rather, I’m afraid, but I think she’s more affected now than anyone else. Isn’t that always the way?’

  She wore a light dress of plain black, with white collar and cuffs, which modelled her figure to perfection. Even Fen, who, being comfortably married, had some time ago, more from a sense of wasted effort than from any moral scruples, given up looking at girls’ figures, was manifestly impressed. ‘O my America! my new-found land!’ he murmured; and despite an outraged glare from Geoffrey, who happened to know his Donne, continued to gaze in frank admiration. This inspection was, however, peremptorily interrupted by Savernake, who said insultingly, in the irritating drawl which unfortunately he did not always remember to assume:

  ‘Is there anything in particular we can do for you?’

  Now this was a mistake. Fen turned upon him a look of quite distressing vehemence. ‘Yes, you sheepshead,’ he said, forgetting the proper respect due to the cloth, ‘you can go and dance a rigadoon at the bottom of the garden. A nice thing, to be treated in that cool way when one comes along, bursting with sympathy’ – Fen contrived to look suitably inflated – ‘to lend a helping hand. Apologize!’ he howled in conclusion.

  ‘My dear sir, I can only imagine you’re mad.’

  ‘You fopling!’ said Fen with great contempt. He was enjoying the scene. When not occupied with speaking, he beamed with enthusiasm and delight. ‘You numbskull!’

  ‘Now look here –’

  ‘None of that,’ said Fen sternly. ‘Either you answer my questions, or you don’t.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fen seemed a little taken aback. ‘Well, in that case –’

  ‘Oh, come on, you two,’ said Frances impatiently. ‘Don’t squabble. Of course we’ll answer any questions you like, Mr Fen. Won’t we, July?’ She looked straight at the young man for a moment; then he nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And so,’ said Fen without much conviction, ‘am I.’