Holy Disorders

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘13 Sept. There is Whispering in the town that all is not well here, and Whispering against my own Person. Seven of the servants have left. Burning coals found scatter’d about the library, though there was no fire there. The warmth grows insufferable.

  ‘19 Sept. A servant today found all the hangings of my closet ablaze. The conflagration was hard to extinguish.

  ‘2 Dec. Praise be to God for all His mercies! Two months gone and no Incident, and the heat likewise evaporated. That Devil’s minion Elizabeth Pulteney sent at last to her right Account. Virtue can command even the Powers of Hell. My mind is at last at rest, and I can apply my self with renew’d vigour to the affairs of the Diocese. God has allow’d this as a Testing of my Faith, and I am emerg’d triumphant. The evil Phantasms are gone.

  ‘3 Dec. I shall not see Christmas. This morning enter’d one of the Sextons to tell me that a woman would see me by the North Transept of the cathedral. Poor fellow, he knew not what manner of thing it was bade him fetch me forth. As I stood looking about me for the Woman, I saw it crouching in the shadow of a buttress. The skin is like parchment, peeling from the Skull, that shows through in white patches. There are no Eyes. The Hair is still beautiful, beautiful. But I must not see it again…’

  The writing trailed away. Geoffrey turned on; the rest of the book was blank. There was a long silence. Geoffrey looked inquiringly at Dallow.

  ‘The night of the twenty-fourth,’ said the Chancellor softly, ‘was cold and windy, and on Christmas morning there was snow. They found Bishop John Thurston lying in his bed. There were burns on his face, and he had died of suffocation. There was no sign of a struggle, but his mouth was full of hair.’

  Geoffrey closed the book and put it on the table beside him. He made no comment.

  ‘An ugly, frightening tale,’ said Fen, who had let his cigarette go out and was now relighting it. ‘The history of Tolnbridge Cathedral is evidently more lurid than I’d imagined.’ He turned to Dallow. ‘Is there devil-worship in Tolnbridge now? I’ve reason to believe there may be.’

  To Geoffrey’s surprise Dallow nodded. ‘A singularly childish cult of demonolatry exists – in no sense, you understand, a continuation of the tradition, but merely a trumped-up, unspontaneous affair. It appears to give certain people a mild frisson of excitement.’

  ‘I think,’ said Fen, who was beginning to fidget and shuffle his feet, ‘that it may have some remote connexion with the murder of Butler. You don’t run it yourself, I suppose? From the contemptuous way in which you referred to it, I should imagine not.’

  ‘You imagine rightly, my de-ear Professor. I have been once or twice to the Black Mass, but much of it was always so incompetent and – if I may use the word – uncanonical, that I have recently discontinued my attendance.’

  ‘You never thought of reporting it to the police? It is illegal, you know.’

  ‘But so harmless! If you could only see the poor dears –’ Dallow stopped, glanced at his watch, and suddenly beamed. ‘Half-past eight. And yesterday was Thursday. Now, does Friday come after or before Thursday? After, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why?’ Really, thought Geoffrey, this amiable posturing was a little much.

  ‘Because I think it is on Fridays that they devil-worship. Every Friday – just like a churchwardens’ meeting, my dear sirs. If we were to go to their place of resort we might find them at it. Would you like that?’ Dallow might have been organizing a Sunday School treat.

  ‘It seems a good idea,’ said Fen. ‘Let’s visit them. But first tell me more. Who runs the racket?’

  ‘My de-ear Professor, I haven’t – I really haven’t – the least notion.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Geoffrey exclaimed.

  ‘It may be the Bishop himself.’ Dallow giggled irritatingly, and balanced himself on the tips of his toes, looking for a moment like a drawing by Edward Lear. ‘Both celebrants and participants are masked, you understand. Identification of your neighbour is made virtually impossible. And that reminds me that we too shall have to be masked.’ He went to a cupboard, and took three weird contraptions from it. ‘Animal masks, you see. Rather beautifully designed. They are of Hindu origin. They will do.’ The masks were of a pig, a cow, and a goat.

  Fen put on the cow’s mask. His pale blue eyes stared disconcertingly from the eyeholes. Geoffrey took the pig, and Dallow the goat. They surveyed one another without enthusiasm.

  ‘You both look pretty silly,’ said Fen. He mooed experimentally, and then, seeming pleased with the sound, did it again. He continued to moo all the way to their destination. There were times when Fen could be very irritating indeed.

  The Black Mass proved to be in progress in an old wooden Scout hut, situated in a deserted spot a little way off the road from Tolnbridge to Tolnmouth. It still bore traces of its former occupancy, in the shape of cardboard beavers, otters, and other amorphous-looking fauna pinned to various parts of the hall, and which stared down at the goat, pig, and cow which came and settled themselves at the back. They looked very absurd, but no one took any notice of them.

  There were quite a number of people present, all masked, and mostly women. Two masked and black-robed figures pottered ineffectually about by an improvised altar. There was no talking. Presently the business of the evening commenced, and very dull it was. It consisted, as far as Geoffrey could judge, of the ordinary Latin Mass, with the Confiteor and Gloria omitted. Geoffrey, Dallow, and Fen made no attempt to communicate, and no one seemed to expect them to. There were no diabolic ecstasies – but then, Geoffrey reflected, there were seldom any noticeable ecstasies at the Divine Mass. There was no human sacrifice, or obscene ritual. Geoffrey had seldom spent a less interesting half-hour. Fen became very fidgety indeed, and could scarcely be restrained from stalking out. Geoffrey wondered how it would end; perhaps they would play God Save the King, or the Doxology, upside down.

  Eventually, however, things seemed somehow or other to come to a stop. The Celebrant and Acolyte departed to a room at the back of the hut, and the participants, after a little whispering and sniggering together, melted away into the growing dusk.

  ‘I thought they always had an orgy after the Mass,’ complained Fen, removing his mask.

  ‘An orgy.’ A trace of humour appeared in Dallow’s voice. He waved a hand at the surroundings. ‘Hardly the right milieu, do you think? One would require to be very determined indeed to have a satisfactory orgy here.’

  The hall, except for themselves, was now completely empty. Geoffrey went to the altar, and examined the Cup and the Host. The latter, he found, was a large section of turnip painted black, apparently with creosote.

  ‘That is traditional,’ Dallow explained. ‘I expect they got it out of a book,’ he added contemptuously.

  The Cup proved to be a revolting concoction with a basis, it seemed, of quinine.

  ‘Keep them healthy, anyway,’ said Fen cheerfully. ‘I’m going to interview the priests of these rites,’ he added, making for the door into the back room.

  ‘Then I shall leave you,’ said Dallow pleasantly, ‘to your investigations. I think you may have difficulty. The rule of secrecy is very strictly observed, and – for obvious reasons – particularly by the Celebrant. However, I wish you luck. You may catch me up – I am a slow walker. In case not, a very good evening to you, with a murderer behind every door.’ He giggled, and with a limp wave of the hand left the hut.

  Fen turned the handle of the door, and pushed it open. It was ill-fitting and scraped on the floor. They found themselves in a room structurally identical with the one they had just left, only much smaller. It was unfurnished, except for a single cheap table and chair.

  The Acolyte had gone, but the Celebrant was unrobing, his back turned towards them. When he heard them come in, he replaced his mask unhurriedly; then faced them.

  ‘Well, gentlemen?’ The voice was clearly disguised. But Geoffrey found it impossible to identify the original.

  ‘We hoped to be able to make your acquai
ntance,’ said Fen.

  ‘I’m afraid that that’s impossible. Absolute anonymity is the rule. You yourselves should be masked.’

  ‘That’s rather absurd.’

  The Celebrant made a gesture which might have been humorous resignation. What he actually did was to take an automatic from beneath his robes and fire it at Fen.

  11

  Whale and Coffin

  Why, what a disgraceful catalogue of cutthroats is here!

  OTWAY

  By some miracle, the shot went wide. Looking back on it afterwards, Geoffrey thought that the Celebrant’s arm became entangled in his robes; and there was no doubt that he was extremely nervous. Fen, who had fought in the Great War, fell flat on his face, with well-drilled precision. Geoffrey, who had not, remained immobile, gaping in frank stupefaction. And the Celebrant was seized with panic. There was no logical reason why he should not have killed both of them there and then. But he hesitated, and as he hesitated, there came a sound of running footsteps outside; someone had heard the shot. Grotesque in his robes and mask, the Celebrant rushed to an outer door, flung it open, and vanished. Almost at the same instant someone pounded across the hall, and came in through the door by which they themselves had entered. It was Dallow, dishevelled and alarmed. More automatically than courageously, Geoffrey followed the Celebrant out. As he went, he was aware of Fen climbing to his feet and grumbling quietly to himself.

  The Celebrant had a good start. Like some fantastic crow, with his black robes flapping in the wind, he was running across the wet fields into the gathering dusk. Grimly Geoffrey set off in pursuit, though with no very clear plan of action in mind. The chase proved abortive, for before very long the Celebrant stopped, turned, and fired his automatic at Geoffrey. As an offensive measure this was perfectly useless, since the shot must have fallen at least a hundred yards short. But as a deterrent it was good enough. Geoffrey slowed down, stopped, and stood watching as the figure plunged on and was eventually lost to view in a small clump of trees. Then he returned to the hut. It was not heroic, but it was sensible.

  ‘I don’t know what good you expected chasing him to do,’ said Fen peevishly when he reappeared. ‘I am covered,’ he added with more concentrated malevolence, ‘in bruises.’

  He inspected himself tenderly.

  ‘I lost him,’ said Geoffrey rather obviously.

  Dallow, who apparently was now acquainted with the situation, moaned faintly in deprecation. ‘I confess, my de-ear Professor,’ he said, ‘that I lingered, fearing trouble of some kind. But this I did not anticipate.’

  Fen pressed himself experimentally, and let out a sudden howl.

  ‘Perhaps you might tell us,’ he said when the noise had subsided, ‘why you were so anxious.’

  The Chancellor had his answer ready – almost too ready, it seemed to Geoffrey. ‘In the first place,’ he pronounced, with the air of one embarking on a lecture, ‘there were ritual considerations. In the second, the compelling need of anonymity in this business. I suspected your intrusion would not be welcome, though I never thought…’ He stopped, not even pretending to simulate incoherence.

  Fen grunted. He inspected the place where the bullet had buried itself in a wooden joist, and then the room. It contained absolutely nothing beyond the table, the chair, a quantity of dust, and themselves.

  ‘Useless,’ he exclaimed disgustedly. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You will perhaps allow me, my de-ear Professor, to accompany you as far as my house?’

  Fen gave a grudging and uncivil permission. They set off, walking moodily and in silence. It was the measure of Fen’s absorption that he passed by three dragon-flies, a golden beetle, and a nest of flying ants without even deigning to notice them. Geoffrey thought, rather unintelligently and quite fruitlessly, about the case. What Dallow was thinking it was impossible to tell, but he appeared to be reciting sections of The City of Dreadful Night to himself at brief intervals. It was only when they were nearing his house again that Fen exclaimed:

  ‘Oh, my dear paws!’

  Dallow was not aware of Fen’s recourse to the White Rabbit in moments of high excitement. He looked round with mild surprise.

  ‘What a fool I’ve been,’ said Fen.

  ‘I know this stage,’ put in Geoffrey. ‘You tell us you know who the murderer is, we ask you, and you won’t inform us, though there’s no reason in heaven or earth why you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course there’s a reason why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Because,’ said Fen solemnly, ‘you did it yourself.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so daft.’

  ‘All right, I know you didn’t. But seriously, there is a good reason why I shouldn’t. An all-important reason. You’ll know it finally.’

  ‘Are you certain you know what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Logically certain. I can’t think why I didn’t see it before. Unfortunately, there isn’t a shred of material proof – nothing that would hang the person concerned. For that reason I’ve got to go warily. (It’s the Butler murder I’m talking about, by the way.) But the identity of one person concerned is as certain as anything on this earth. Or rather…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s one snag.’ Fen was very thoughtful. ‘Just one. And it depends on something I must ask Peace. At least -’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, it must depend on that.’

  ‘You mean Peace isn’t guilty?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘But he’s the only person who could have been in that cathedral…’

  Fen groaned. ‘I know, I know. But just the same, he’s not guilty.’

  ‘He had the best motive.’

  ‘Don’t be so foolish. We know perfectly well what the motive was. And it wasn’t money. I should have thought you would have known how Butler was murdered, if anyone did.’

  Geoffrey was blank. ‘Me?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘But didn’t you say that the police would find incriminating evidence in Peace’s room?’

  Fen sighed and shook his head, like one dealing with a particularly backward child. ‘Oh, Geoffrey, Geoffrey…Perhaps this will give it to you. Peace left to go up to the cathedral before we got back to the clergy-house last evening, didn’t he?’

  ‘That was what Spitshuker said.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  Fen shook his head again. ‘Never mind. You ought to know, and so ought everyone else. I expect we shall find Peace at the police station. They’ll have found the stuff in his room by now, and either arrested him or detained him for questioning.’

  ‘I don’t see how you knew anything would be in his room.’

  ‘No,’ said Fen rudely. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  At this point the argument ceased, as they had arrived at Dallow’s house. The Chancellor bade them an affected good night, and went in. They continued down the hill into the town.

  ‘It occurs to me,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that this Black Mass business might, if suitably handled, and with the help of drugs, be a very good way of getting military information out of the wives of people in the know – they were mostly women there.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. In spite of the horrid boredom of the whole business, I really believe the majority of those people must have thought they were doing something wicked and exciting and important.’

  They walked on in silence. Thanks to the rain-clouds, it was considerably darker now than it had been on the last evening, when they had gone up to the cathedral and found Butler dead. Looking at his watch, Geoffrey was surprised to see that it was only half-past nine.

  ‘Still time for a drink,’ said Fen laconically when informed of this fact.

  ‘Why didn’t you want to tell me who the murderer was?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Was it because Dallow was with us? Is he in on this business?’

  Fen frowned in perplexity. ‘He may be. That’s just what one doesn’t know. There must be more than one person co
ncerned – perhaps three even, though I doubt if there are likely to be more. All I know is that one person was quite definitely concerned in the murder of Butler, and may be the brains of the whole business.’

  ‘You say concerned in the murder…’

  ‘Well, there must have been more than one of them in the cathedral when Butler went up there, in order to get that radio away.’ Fen paused. ‘Geoffrey, are you very famous as a composer?’

  ‘No. Church musicians would probably know about me. Very few other people. Why the change of subject?’

  ‘I was thinking about the landlord of the Whale and Coffin knowing your Christian name. He might just be a knowledgeable music-lover, overwhelmed at being confronted by you in the flesh.’ (Geoffrey glared.) ‘But it doesn’t seem very likely.’ (Geoffrey snorted crossly.) ‘We must tackle him on the subject. They’re occasionally inefficient, these people. But I’ve no doubt the same idea will have occurred to them, and they’ll be ready for us. Anyway, we must see Peace first.’

  They found the Inspector standing on the steps of the police station, smoking a cigarette and gazing blankly and purposelessly up the street. He brightened somewhat when he saw them.

  ‘Ah, here you are, sir,’ he said to Fen. ‘You were right about that stuff in Peace’s room. We found it easily enough, under the traditional loose floor-board; the clergy-house key to the cathedral, a phial of atropine solution, and the hypodermic.’

  ‘Any fingerprints?’

  ‘Not a thing. They’d been wiped clean.’

  ‘Yes, I rather expected that. What have you done about it?’

  ‘Arrested him. Or rather the Yard people have. He’s here now, but we haven’t got a thing out of him more than he told us before.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fen. ‘So the Yard’s come, has it? Appleby?’

  ‘No, unfortunately.’ The Inspector looked uneasily over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. ‘A couple of great churls, they are. Most uncooperative. They think they’ve got the whole business cut-and-dried, now they’ve arrested Peace. Won’t do anything but sit in the station playing rummy and smoking foul pipes.’