Holy Disorders

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  ‘Do you know which way he went?’

  ‘No. We didn’t see. Mummy’s in a terrible state.’

  ‘Listen,’ said the Inspector. ‘Will you do something for me?’ His normal easy-going manner had vanished, and a brisk, formidable coldness taken its place.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go down to the station and tell them what’s happened. They’ll know exactly what to do.’

  ‘I…I daren’t. I’m frightened.’ She hesitated. ‘And I’m afraid to leave Mummy here alone.’

  ‘Take her with you. You’ve nothing to worry about. Savernake’s too busy trying to get away to bother about you.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘I…All right.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  The Inspector ran back to his bicycle and mounted. From the gate he shouted:

  ‘Was he on foot?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ He left her standing forlorn and slightly helpless in the drive.

  There were three ways Savernake might have gone. One was back into the town – a wholly foolhardy undertaking, unworthwhile even for the sake of bluff; a second was down to the waterfront, which he must have anticipated would be guarded; and the third was along the estuary and round the cliffs to Tolnmouth. Here it might be just possible for a man on foot to elude the watchers, and the Inspector decided it was his best chance. He would, of course, make an admirable target, on his bicycle, for a stray shot from copse or thicket by the roadside; but that had to be risked. The Inspector, normally a peaceable, easy-going man, kind to his wife and family, fond of books, genial in his enforcement of the law, and very generally liked in Tolnbridge, had now become a formidable machine, practically insensible to ordinary fear. He recognized, wryly, that he would probably be a good deal less bold running with the hare instead of hunting with the hounds. But he remembered also the many unamiable characteristics of his quarry, and deliberately stifled that pity for the defeated which springs up infallibly in the English mind. He liked England, without thinking very much about it, and he objected, with more intensity than he would have admitted, to people who tried to interfere with her. Moreover, he liked to think of England as standing solidly against her enemies, not buffeted by treachery from within; that offended his sense of symmetry. ‘Je haïs’ he might have said if he had known enough French, ‘le mouvement qui déplace les lignes.’

  He was glad to have his gun with him. The only time he ever gave himself wholly up to resentment and dislike was when engaged in target practice. At such times he vaguely felt himself to be engaged in destroying some undefined power of evil; the target became his personal enemy, and he fired at it as though it represented some amalgam of the forces of oppression – Capitalism, Fascism, Bolshevism (he seldom particularized further) – incarnate in shadowy, insubstantial, infinitely menacing figures. It was the only form of daydreaming he allowed himself, but it made him peculiarly dangerous when he had his gun and something legitimate to shoot at.

  In the meantime, it was exceedingly hot.

  In a quarter of an hour he had arrived at the top of the cliffs, near the deserted quarry which Geoffrey and Frances had seen on their walk that morning. It was possible that he had missed Savernake on the way. But he knew that half a mile on there were guards, and he decided to climb up among the gorse-bushes on a small knoll and discover if anything could be seen. And it was just as he was laying down his bicycle – no longer practicable on the rough track – that he saw Savernake.

  He was working his way quickly, silently, and apprehensively through the bushes only about fifteen yards away, and by a lucky chance had not observed the Inspector’s approach. It was possible to see the sunlight gleaming on the sweat which poured from his brow, and the limp, tousled condition of his corn-coloured hair. The Inspector sighed his satisfaction as he crouched out of sight: it was too simple. He waited until Savernake, glancing nervously about, had arrived in the open and turned his back to go further, and then drew his revolver and stepped out after him.

  ‘Stop and hold up your hands!’

  Savernake stopped, stiffened, but did not turn. Then he began in a sudden fury of desperation to run, doubling back away from the direction he had been going, and the guards. The Inspector went after him, but he was the heavier man, and Savernake was impelled by panic fear. The Inspector stopped and aimed his gun.

  Twenty yards now separated them, and the shot was a difficult one, with Savernake in swift, dodging flight. He staggered for a moment at the impact of the first bullet, but still went on – more slowly now, tripping on stones and gorse-roots, and clutching at the spines for support. The Inspector fired again; missed. A third time, and Savernake fell. But he went on crawling away, still alive, as a chicken will run about a farmyard with head severed. Perhaps he was remembering what Fen had told him about his own death, only three hours before; no one ever knew. For the Inspector also was remembering things – the killing of two men, the dreary blasphemy of the Black Mass. He fired a fourth time, and the shot smashed Savernake’s backbone as he crawled. He stopped, seemed to be trying to get to his feet, and then fell hard on his face and lay still. So he was dead.

  Fen and Geoffrey walked back from the police station to the clergy-house. They had grown tired of waiting, and when Frances had arrived to announce that the Inspector was on Savernake’s track, had made up their mind to return. It was with a full heart that Geoffrey saw Frances again; he realized now that he had never really expected to. But a hand-press and a smile were somehow all he had been able to manage.

  Of James nothing had so far been heard. The guards were positive that his car had not been able to get through, and thought it extremely unlikely that he had succeeded on foot. But Geoffrey was only too willing to leave the job of finding him to the police, and so, it seemed, was Fen. Although now doped and patched by the doctor, he had grown noticeably more bilious, irritable, and depressed. He refused to indulge in any explanations, merely saying:

  ‘I’m going to my room to lie down until dinner. I’m ill,’ he added severely. ‘You think things out on your own.’ He tramped upstairs, while Geoffrey settled down in the drawing-room to think.

  Harry James got up from the armchair in Fen’s bedroom as Fen flung open the door and strode in. His eyes, small and black as a pig’s, glistened behind the thick lenses of his glasses, and the hand which held his revolver trembled slightly. His clothes were dusty and dishevelled.

  ‘Come in, Professor,’ he said softly. ‘I was waiting for you. Close the door quietly and don’t try to shout.’

  Fen did as he was told. He felt very tired.

  ‘You were mad to come here,’ he said. ‘And you certainly won’t get away.’

  The innkeeper’s hand was trembling more. ‘I know that. But I decided I wanted to settle things with you first. If you hadn’t been so bloody interfering, we should have been all right…No, keep your hands up.’

  ‘It’s uncomfortable,’ Fen complained.

  ‘Never mind. It will only be for a minute.’

  Fen thanked heaven, with perhaps more fervour than was normal, that he was standing behind a chair, with his feet and legs out of sight of James. He blessed the inefficiency of the housekeeper, who had left a small pebble lying there, where he had dropped it yesterday when emptying out what he had imagined was a praying mantis, but which proved to be a deformed grasshopper. The only other problem was of not betraying in the upper part of his body the movement of his leg – that and getting the pebble in the right direction without moving his eyes from the man with the gun. Of course, the chance was so frail as to be almost ludicrous, but there was no other, and he had at least the advantage that James was in a highly nervous state. His glance strayed to the full-length cupboard set in the door; it had been convenient because of its lack of a keyhole. He hoped the damned things hadn’t all killed one another by now. It was a pity he was not near enough to James to
risk a leap at the crucial moment, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Aloud he said:

  ‘What I can’t fathom is why the hell a man like you gets mixed up in a business like this at all.’

  ‘Don’t try to gain time. It won’t help you.’ James’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  ‘For heaven’s sake give me a minute or so.’

  ‘So you want to know why I joined the Nazis, do you?’ It suddenly occurred to Fen that for James, too, every minute of life was now precious; the thought encouraged him.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you, Mr clever-bloody-professor. I joined ’em because they pay well, see? A fat bloody lot I care what government there is. That doesn’t affect men like me. But I can tell you one thing: if I’d had the running of this business things would have turned out very differently…’

  Now, thought Fen, now: no use putting it off. His eyes fixed unwaveringly on James, he kicked the pebble. His heart almost stopped until he heard the slight tap and clatter as it hit the cupboard door. Inwardly he vowed libations to the gods; outwardly he gave a slight start, and ostentatiously paid no attention. From now on it depended on acting.

  James had heard. He stepped quickly back to bring Fen and the cupboard door simultaneously within his range of vision. Then he jerked his head towards it.

  ‘What’s through there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Fen rapidly. ‘It’s only a cupboard. Why?’ (Oh, the strain of not over-acting one’s acting!)

  ‘I think you know very well why. There’s someone behind there.’ (So the trick had worked.)

  ‘Nothing except my suits, I assure you.’ Fen kept glancing rapidly and with heavily concealed expectancy at the door. James’s nerves were getting worse, and he also was unable to keep his eyes off it. The problem now was to keep his mind off the realities of the situation. From his point of view, it hardly mattered if the whole Devon constabulary were behind that door: he had chosen to make his own escape impossible, and he would still be able to carry out his purpose of killing Fen. At the same time, he evidently had no wish to die at once, which would almost certainly happen if there were someone behind the door, and besides, the motive of curiosity is a very powerful one. Fen was relying on these two factors. And it was therefore with intense dismay that he heard James say:

  ‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t make any difference to our little quarrel.’

  It seemed to have failed. But still the curiosity and the fear must remain, waiting to be aroused again. And plainly James did not suspect the origin of the noise, for the pebble was a small one, and moreover had bounced out of sight. Fen noted with slight satisfaction that if James moved to the door he would be in range of a quick jump; but the difficulty was to get him there.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind,’ said Fen, ‘if I got something out of that cupboard…in a pocket of my suit…’

  ‘Don’t try that on me…and don’t move.’ The trigger-finger was tense again.

  ‘Perhaps you’d get it: a photograph…’

  ‘And perhaps I wouldn’t.’ James’ eyes were uneasy again. The sweat was beginning to trickle down his cheeks, and his glasses were misting over – an added advantage, Fen thought, as he dare not attempt to wipe them. Suddenly he burst out:

  ‘You leave that bloody cupboard alone! How do I know it’s not a door with one of your fine friends behind it?’ Anger, and fear, had triumphed, and Fen felt a moment’s real hope. But it rapidly faded. The innkeeper recovered his self-possession. His nerves had come very near breaking-point, but they had not broken. He was breathing quickly and heavily now, as a man breathes whose heart is beating too quickly.

  ‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to finish you now, before you can get up to any more of your tricks.’ Again his finger grew tight.

  Fen was desperate. He must get the man’s attention back to that door, or perish. A start in that direction? It would have to be very carefully judged. Too little, and it would be ineffectual: too much, and James’ already overstrained nerve might break, and the fatal shot be fired. But that must be risked.

  For a fraction of a second Fen resigned himself to eternity. No explosion came. But now James could stand it no longer. The sweat was literally dripping on to his collar, and his hand shook almost uncontrollably.

  ‘How do I know it isn’t all a bloody trick!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘How do I know that! There’s no one there! I’ll prove it! And by Christ, I’ll make a mess of you when I have!’

  He strode towards the cupboard door. Fen closed his eyes in gratitude. He had done all he could. It rested with them now. New anxieties seized him. Perhaps they had fought and killed one another. Perhaps the darkness had made them torpid. Perhaps…He calculated distances, and braced his muscles for a jump.

  A faint drowsy murmur, the murmur of a hayfield in summer, filled the air. James backed towards the cupboard, stood pressed against the wall, felt for the latch, lifted it, and, after a moment’s hesitation, half opened the door.

  It was enough. Out of it, like the battalions of hell, poured a seemingly unending swarm of bees, wasps, and hornets, assembled there by Fen for the purposes of experiment, and maddened by their dark and prolonged imprisonment. Since James was the nearest animate object, they attacked his face with the utmost ferocity. It would have needed a superman to keep his head in such an extraordinary situation, and James’s nerve was already gone. His attention was diverted just long enough for Fen to take a running kick at the gun in his right hand. It went off, smashing three fingers of his left. The insect horde turned its attention to Fen. When Geoffrey, startled by the shot, came racing upstairs, he found James babbling and moaning on the floor and Fen beating fiercely but unavailingly at his vengeful collection.

  Since Fen was rather badly stung (though not as badly as he made out), they put him to bed, swearing terribly and crying for whisky.

  14

  In the Last Analysis

  Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.

  SHAKESPEARE

  From among a mass of bandages which the doctor was now unwinding, a bleak, pale blue eye glared at the assembled company. ‘I’m not well enough,’ said a familiar voice from beneath the bandages. ‘I am not well enough to be unwound yet.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the doctor in the brisk, heartless manner of his kind. ‘You’re perfectly well. The swelling’s practically gone – you must have a skin like leather. And you can’t go about for weeks looking like a mummy.’

  ‘You’re most unkind,’ said Fen, feeling his restored features tenderly. ‘I have been gassed, bludgeoned, and attacked by the third plague of Egypt. But does anyone sympathize? No. They stand about jeering.’ He sat up in bed and scowled.

  It was the following evening, and they were all gathered in Fen’s bedroom, which only the prolonged exercise of Flit had succeeded in clearing of insects. Geoffrey thought that the occasion had the solemnity of the unveiling of a monument. Frances, Garbin, Spitshuker, Dallow, Dutton all stood or sat about the room. Various formalities had prevented Peace’s being released yet, but he would be out shortly. And the Inspector, who as Fen told them was superintending the final break-up of the cordon, had promised to look in a little later.

  Of course they wanted an explanation, and after a good deal of grumbling, Fen consented to give it.

  ‘The motive for the murders of Brooks and Butler,’ he said, ‘was obvious from the start – as was the whole of this business,’ he added with some vehemence, ‘to anyone with even a speck of brain.’

  ‘Control yourself,’ said Geoffrey.

  After a mild fit of the sulks, Fen went on:

  ‘That motive was, of course, the wireless hidden in the Bishop’s Gallery in the cathedral – an admirable hiding-place, blamelessly public and yet easily available for use at night to anyone with access to a cathedral key. Brooks found out about it – how, and how much, we don’t know, but enough to make it necessary to put him out of the way. The fir
st attempt, after the choir-practice, failed: the injection of atropine wasn’t fatal. So he was murdered in the hospital before he recovered sanity enough to tell what he knew. But in the meantime the cathedral had been put under guard, and it was imperatively necessary to get the transmitting set away to some spot less under the eye of the law. The only time to do it was during the hours of service. The organist was dead, and the deputy organist temporarily out of action; it would be possible to burrow discreetly through to the Bishop’s Gallery from the organ-loft, concealing the hole behind the big music cupboard which stands against the partition. Apparently they hadn’t contemplated the possibility of another deputy coming at once; so when your arrival was announced, Geoffrey, it gave them a bit of a shock. They tried to put you off with threatening letters and they tried to put you out of action. No good. Another way had to be devised.’

  ‘Then it was Savernake,’ asked Geoffrey, ‘who put that letter on my seat in the train?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘He must have written it and had it ready in case of emergency. But I suppose it was the merest chance that I happened to get into his compartment.’

  ‘I think so. If you hadn’t, he would have got it to you just the same. As to his writing it…’ Fen’s blue eyes glanced easily round the gathering.

  ‘Well?’ Geoffrey felt a sudden, unaccountable tension in the air.

  ‘Apparently it hasn’t occurred to any of you,’ said Fen, ‘that if Savernake had the brains to run a spy-ring, he hadn’t the personality; and if James had the personality, he hadn’t the brains. What’s more, Savernake could not have systematically drugged Josephine, since he was out at Maverley most of the time; and for James it would have been nearly impossible.’

  They were silent.

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ said Fen, ‘which doesn’t seem to have suggested itself to any of you. Both James and Savernake had alibis for the murder of Brooks.’