Death Makes a Prophet

by John Bude

  Then, enhaloed in mystery, there had arrived in Welworth Garden City a man after Alicia’s own heart. A man with poise and personality; a man with a black beard and dark, hypnotic eyes; a man with an exotic accent and the manners of a French count.

  “Penpeti,” declared Mrs. Hagge-Smith, “is not only a man—he’s an experience!”

  Be that as it may, Peta Penpeti soon rose in the ranks of the order. He brought a new and exciting mysticism into the meetings, an oriental spice that had previously been missing from the hot-pot. His name alone stirred the imagination, for wasn’t Penpeti a genuine ancient Egyptian surname? It meant “divine father”, and that, in fact, is what Penpeti soon became to many of the more impressionable and younger daughters of Cooism. Although there was nothing divine in his appearance, his attitude to these young ladies, however, was strictly paternal and his devotion to the Movement seemed irreproachable. He claimed to be a reincarnation of a certain Pen Penpeti, a priest in the temple of Amen-Ra at Thebes, but his more immediate origins remained shrouded in mystery. It was rumoured that he had actually been born within sight of the Nile, that he had later led a life of dissipation in Cairo, run through a considerable fortune, repented of his ways and arrived in England in search of salvation. He had been tutored, so it was said, by a Scotch dominie, which doubtless accounted for his faultless use of the English language.

  Mrs. Hagge-Smith found him delightful. His polish and urbanity were refreshing after Eustace’s rather dreary humility. She liked the jaunty angle at which he wore his fez and the long black caftan he wore beneath his black cloak. She liked his oriental exaggerations, his long, mystical silences, his air of culture and assurance.

  In Welworth, Penpeti was probably the finest single advertisement that the Children of Osiris had ever received. Comment on him invariably led to some mention of Cooism, and Cooism to some mention of Eustace Mildmann. So, in a way, Eustace was bathed in reflected glory. After the advent of Penpeti, Mrs. Hagge-Smith was able to double the annual subscription and, out of the resultant profits, Penpeti was voted a salary of five hundred a year. He seemed to have no money of his own, which was not surprising since he was supposed to have squandered a fortune. He lived modestly in a Garden City Council House in Wistaria Road—that is to say, an ordinary Council House with blue-painted frames and doors, two bay-trees in scarlet tubs and a flagstone path. He took most of his meals at the Rational Feeding Restaurant, a vegetarian dive on Broadway, Welworth’s main thoroughfare. A daily woman came in and “did” for him. Penpeti, in short, for all his extravagant appearance, lived in an atmosphere of monastic isolation. But whether by choice or necessity nobody was prepared to say.

  But there they were, this exclusive, intelligent coterie of seekers-after-truth—eccentric, temperamental, “different”, perhaps, but at bed-rock moved by those passions, great and small, which are the arbiters of human action. On the surface the Children of Osiris seemed to reflect indeed all the uncomplicated and lovable traits of the very young. They seemed to be banded together by their common faith, imbued with an almost excessive consideration for each other’s feelings. But appearances, even in a Garden City, are deceptive. Beneath this concealing crust of Cooism a ferment was at work; small hostilities were growing; vague jealousies were gaining strength; little intrigues swelling into obsessions. And far off, no more than a dark speck beyond a distant horizon, wasn’t there a nebulous hint of approaching tragedy in the air? Big oaks from little acorns grow, and viewing events in retrospect there seems little doubt that the jumping-off point of this tragedy was Alicia Hagge-Smith’s “vision”. Without her “vision” circumstances favourable to a murder would never have materialised. And without a murder, Inspector Meredith would never have heard of the Children of Osiris. As it was, he always considered it to be one of the most interesting, bizarre, and exacting of all his cases.

  Chapter II

  Mrs. Hagge-Smith Has a Vision

  I

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Hagge-Smith, as she swept into the breakfast-room of Old Cowdene, “don’t speak to me for a moment. I want to sit perfectly silent and let the Influences flow into me. I’ve had a vision! A wonderful, inspiring vision!” She sniffed appreciatively. “Ah, am I right in suspecting walnut steak? Yes, my dear, you can serve me with a small helping and pour my coffee. It’s wrong to neglect our earthly bodies. We must never forget that they’re the temporary dwelling-places of our Better Selves.”

  She was addressing her secretary, a young and extremely pretty brunette with a stylishly slender figure and a nice deferential manner that went well with her position in the household. That this manner was the only false thing about her, Mrs. Hagge-Smith had never realised. That behind her charming presence Denise Blake concealed an unswerving dislike of her employer was something so fantastic that Mrs. Hagge-Smith would have refused to credit it. She was used to deference, smiling faces, quick obedience and good service—the result, she felt sure, of an irresistible personality rather than a bloated bank balance. She liked to have Denise about because she was quiet and efficient and deft. She had, moreover, a pale blue aura which Alicia had always found particularly soothing.

  Having crossed to the sideboard and served Mrs. Hagge-Smith, Denise poured her coffee and returned to her own place at the breakfast-table. She began to nibble her toast, slyly watching Alicia from under her long lashes. There was no doubt from the smile of beatitude on her face that the Influences were flowing in. Denise wondered what form her latest enthusiasm would take and just where it was destined to land them. From a certain congested look about those raddled and monumental features there was no doubt that the vision was a thumping big one.

  At the end of ten minutes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith came out of her state of “non-being” like a cork from a bottle. She reached for the toast and marmalade, demanded a second cup of coffee and rapped out:

  “We shall be leaving for Welworth on the ten-ten. You will come with me. See that Millie has me packed by nine-thirty sharp and order the car round for nine-forty-five.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

  “And ring the Endive Hotel and reserve our rooms for a week.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

  Denise, despite the gloomy November day beyond the window, brightened considerably. Anything to get away from the deadly dull routine which reigned at Old Cowdene. Even Welworth Garden City would seem like Paris and Buenos Aires rolled into one after this waterlogged, isolated corner of Sussex. Although she had been with Mrs. Hagge-Smith for nearly six months, she had never before accompanied her on any of her many visits to this Canterbury of Cooism. She had often tried to imagine what Mr. Mildmann and Mr. Penpeti and many other of the Coo celebrities looked like, for at one time or another Mrs. Hagge-Smith had dictated letters to all of them. Now she would have the chance to see for herself. She imagined the experience would be rather amusing.

  Out in the hall, she got through to the Endive Hotel and was informed with regrets that every room in the place was booked up for at least a fortnight. There was a Hand Weavers Conference due to start that very day. Denise went up to Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s dressing-room and gave her the information.

  “How tiresome, my dear. But we mustn’t lose control. You must telephone Mr. Mildmann at once and see if he can have us. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him I’ve had a vision in connection with our great work. I must discuss it with him without delay.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

  Ten minutes later it was all arranged. Mr. Mildmann, who really had no option, said he’d be only too delighted to accommodate Mrs. Hagge-Smith and her secretary under his humble roof. He would expect them for lunch. Little did Denise realise as she turned away from the phone that the Hand Weavers Conference was destined to alter the whole future aspect of her existence. Little did she realise, as she packed her well-worn, imitation leather suitcase, that she was moving towards an experience before which all previous
experiences would pale into insignificance.

  II

  Lunch—spaghetti and lentil pie with prunes and custard to follow—was over. Mrs. Hagge-Smith, aflame with impatience, drew Eustace aside into the latter’s study. Eustace eyed his patron through his pince-nez with a nervous, rather apprehensive look. He conducted her to a chair and threw an extra log or two on the fire.

  “Well, Alicia?”

  “Eustace, my dear,” announced Mrs. Hagge-Smith dramatically. “We simply must have it! We must bend all our energies to its creation. We must organise it without delay. It all came to me last night in a vision.”

  “It?”

  Eustace looked utterly fogged. Mrs. Hagge-Smith threw wide her arms as if embracing her large and invisible idea.

  “Our Summer School!” she cried. “Our very own al fresco Convention! A gathering of all our children, all of them…at Old Cowdene.”

  “Old Cowdene?” echoed Eustace bleakly.

  “All our children!” repeated Mrs. Hagge-Smith with a moist expression. “All of them.”

  “All?” echoed Eustace, still more bleakly. “But my dear Alicia—”

  “Eustace!” exclaimed Mrs. Hagge-Smith. “Don’t tell me that you haven’t the wildest enthusiasm for my idea. It would break my heart if I thought I couldn’t rely on your support. We shall have to put it, of course, to the members of the Inmost Temple. But as you know, we never have the slightest difficulty in overriding their objections. Well, what do you say?”

  “It’s all so sudden, so extensive in scope, I’ve barely had time to grasp it all. You mean you are prepared to throw open your estate at Old Cowdene for a general convention of the Movement?” Mrs. Hagge-Smith nodded. “But how would you house them? We have, as you know”—Eustace coughed deprecatingly—“a present membership of over ten thousand. Even if only half of them were able to attend—”

  “Tents!” broke in Mrs. Hagge-Smith with a snap.

  “Tents?” echoed Eustace. “You mean we could accommodate them in tents?”

  “I was granted an astral manifestation of it, my dear Eustace. Rows and rows of delightful tents with all our happy and devoted children wandering among them. With the Chinese summer-house converted into a Temple and a huge marquee for meals. It was all there—perfect in every detail. Even the cook-houses. It was all so beautiful, so idyllic, so right, that it brought tears to my eyes. I confess it, Eustace. When my vision faded I just lay in bed and wept with joy.”

  “What if it rains?” asked Eustace in a tentative sort of way.

  “It won’t,” said Mrs. Hagge-Smith decisively. “I have a feeling about these things. And I feel it won’t rain. I’m always lucky with my weather. It runs in the family.”

  “And Peta?” asked Eustace. “How do you think he’ll react?”

  “Yes, there is Mr. Penpeti,” said Mrs. Hagge-Smith, her previous self-assurance suddenly modified. “You rang him as I suggested and told him to come round at once?”

  Eustace nodded.

  “He should be here at any minute. I know you value his opinion on matters of grand policy.”

  “I do. I think he’s an exceptionally gifted man. So hypnotic. A Gemini, of course. Like Shakespeare.”

  “Umph,” commented Eustace with a hint of sourness. “I’m not sure if we can trust these astrological labels. Shakespeare himself said ‘It is not in our stars…’, didn’t he? And Gemini,” he mused. “The Heavenly Twins. I often think it is the sign of the two-faced. I have nothing against Peta, of course. But I sometimes think you overrate his sincerity.”

  “Eustace!” gasped Mrs. Hagge-Smith. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Mr. Penpeti. You, the High Prophet of our order, allowing the grosser human emotions to…”

  Mrs. Hagge-Smith got no further since at that moment the maid announced the arrival of Mr. Penpeti himself. He came into the room, still wearing his fez, with a smile of welcome on his pallid features. Ignoring Eustace entirely, he crossed the room with a pantherine tread, seized one of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s large and capable hands and raised it to his lips.

  “An unanticipated pleasure,” he murmured. “All day I have been filled with a strange sense of expectancy. And now…” He stood back with a soft, ingratiating smile. “And now this!”

  He made to seize her hand a second time, but unfortunately Mrs. Hagge-Smith in the interim had unearthed her handkerchief to attend to a slight catarrhal trouble to which she was subject. Penpeti’s manœuvre, therefore, much to Eustace’s delight, was merely an embarrassment for both of them. He crossed to a chair and, somewhat stiffly, sat down.

  “I called you round,” said Eustace haughtily, “because Alicia…er, that is, Mrs. Hagge-Smith, has a matter of considerable importance to discuss with us.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Mr. Penpeti!” exclaimed Mrs. Hagge-Smith. “I am sure I can look to you for the enthusiasm which dear Eustace has lamentably failed to exhibit.” Penpeti gave a little bow. “I have been blessed with a most wonderful inspiration. Last night in bed I—”

  And for the second time Mrs. Hagge-Smith set out the details of her vision. Penpeti’s reaction was startling. He sprang from his chair, seized both Alicia’s hands, kissed them each in turn, and whipped round on Eustace.

  “But this is a superb, incomparable idea! Of course we must have a Summer Camp. Why haven’t we thought of it before! We must ensure that we have representatives from every branch. My dear Mrs. Hagge-Smith, the Movement already owes more to you than it can ever repay. Now, alas, we’re more than ever in debt to you. And when do you suggest that we—?”

  “Next June,” broke in Mrs. Hagge-Smith, whose organised mind had already worked out the general details of her scheme. “That will give us six months to prepare. We must, of course, have running water laid on, with proper drainage, shower-baths, electricity, telephone extensions, laundry facilities, washing-up machines—”

  The list seemed to prolong itself interminably and as the magnitude of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s conception dawned more fully on Mr. Mildmann’s mind, his nervousness seemed to increase. As a small provincial bookseller he was not used to thinking in a big way. The whole project not only staggered but frightened him. Carrying out the ceremonies of his faith in the snug and familiar atmosphere of the Welworth Temple, he was happy and confident. But this super-epic à la Cecil de Mille left him apprehensive and miserable. He dropped into a sulky silence whilst Alicia and Penpeti continued to discuss the scheme with ever-increasing liveliness. Only once did he look up and murmur a timid objection.

  “But the expense…the expense of it all! Have you thought of that, Alicia?”

  Mrs. Hagge-Smith dismissed his objection with an airy wave of her hand and returned with redoubled fervour to Peta Penpeti. She was thinking it was a thousand pities that Cooism had been created by such a spineless creature as Eustace Mildmann. Otherwise Mr. Penpeti might have been its High Prophet—a splendid, forceful, inspiring leader, a man after her own heart. Together they could have lifted the Movement to new and exalted heights, expanding its influence, furthering its publicity until it was known from one end of the country to the other. This Summer Convention was but a trial spin. Mrs. Hagge-Smith could see the tentacles of Cooism reaching out over the Continent and beyond, to India, Africa and Asia, even to America. Cooism—a World Religion! And why not? With Penpeti by her side she was ready to dare anything. If only Eustace were not such a wet blanket, such a cautious old maid, so provincial in outlook! Alicia sighed. Life, even if you had a million, was very exasperating.

  III

  In the large, severely-furnished drawing-room across the hall another conversation was in progress. It was by no means a fluent conversation. In fact, silence and speech were mixed in about equal proportions. The room itself was not exactly conducive to light and witty badinage. There was a vast amount of hard polished wood underfoot, with here and there an unreliabl
e rush-mat which, at the slightest provocation, would skid from under one with all the consequent social embarrassment. Hard wooden chairs were set about, defying the intruder to make himself comfortable. Strange appliquéd figures, representing scenes from the Book of the Dead, marched in stiff procession round the wooden-panelled walls. Two stone Thoths, one Anubis, three Hathors, a Beb, a Mut and a Set were the principal ornaments, save for one enormous imaginative oil-painting over the wooden fireplace depicting Am-Mit, the Eater of the Dead, enjoying with immense gusto the unvarying plat du jour. A few scraggy sprays of “everlastings” stuck up from the necks of several wooden vases and to either side of the door, like the immobile sentinels of a past epoch, stood two anthropoid coffins of carved and painted wood.

  Yet by far the most wooden object in the room at that particular moment was Terence Mildmann. He was sitting on the very edge of a small upright chair, his brawny knees gleaming in the firelight, his two ham-like hands clasped over his thighs. Despite the raw November day he was dressed, save for walking-stick and rucksack, like a hiker. His expression was difficult to analyse but among the more fleeting emotions it was possible to isolate delight, incredulity and acute bashfulness. Seated opposite to him on a small, hard, wooden coffin-stool, was Denise.

  Neither was prepared to say just what had happened to them over the luncheon-table. Once, twice, perhaps three times, their eyes had met for a brief instant, yet within that flash of time something incredible had transpired. Terence, at any rate, knew that he had never seen anything quite so breathlessly lovely as Denise, and Denise knew that she had never met anything quite so pathetically helpless as Terence. Once they were in the drawing-room he had offered her a cigarette. She said she didn’t smoke. Terence said he didn’t, either. He wasn’t allowed to. His father didn’t like it. After that they both looked into the fire and said nothing for a time. Then Terence tried again: