Death Makes a Prophet

by John Bude

  “You work for the Blot, don’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I say!—I shouldn’t have said that. I meant Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

  “Yes, I’m her secretary.”

  “Phew!”

  After which expressive ejaculation there was again a long silence. This time it was Denise who stepped in.

  “Don’t you find it cold wearing shorts in the winter?”

  “I have to. My father believes in rational clothing.”

  “But he doesn’t wear shorts.”

  “I mean, he believes in it for other people.”

  “I see.”

  “Mind you, I’m pretty tough.” Terence crooked an arm to show off his biceps and threw out his barrel-like chest. “I do dumb-bells and clubs before my open window every morning. I can do the mile in four minutes, twenty seconds. Not bad, is it?”

  “It’s jolly good,” said Denise warmly. “I’m not very hot at that sort of thing. I was in the second eleven hockey at school. But even that was rather a fluke.”

  After a further pause, Terence enquired:

  “Do you believe in all this Children of Osiris stuff? I know I oughtn’t to talk like this. After all it was the Guv’nor’s idea. I suppose it’s all right if you like that sort of thing. But I don’t. I’m keen on sports. Er…do you belong?”

  “Well,” admitted Denise, “I’m a member of the Order, if that’s what you mean. You see in my job it would be a bit awkward if I wasn’t. Mrs. Hagge-Smith more or less made me join when she engaged me. And as I have to earn my own living…”

  “I say, what rotten luck. Of course, my father being the High Prophet, I can’t very well get out of it. I’m a Symbol-Bearer in the Temple. But I’m not much cop at it.” He boomed happily: “I’m awfully glad you’re going to be staying here for a bit. It will cheer things up for me no end.”

  Denise flushed with pleasure at the compliment, but not knowing quite what to say, she wisely said nothing. Terence scratched his knees, which were burning in the heat from the fire, shot a quick glance at the miracle in his midst and asked abruptly:

  “I say, don’t think this rude of me, but do you have manifestations?”

  “Manifestations?”

  It sounded as if he were referring to insects or pimples.

  “Yes, you know—astral visions and all that sort of thing. Spirit shapes.”

  “No—I can’t say that I do. I dream rather a lot after a late supper. But I’m not at all psychic, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I am,” announced Terence, to Denise’s surprise. “I’m always having astral manifestations. I get quite a kick out of it.” His eyes assumed a dreamy expression and then suddenly narrowed, as if he were trying, there and then, to penetrate the Veil. “It’s marvellous sometimes how clearly I see things. They’re so terribly realistic.”

  “Things?” enquired Denise. “What things?”

  “Steaks mostly. But sometimes it’s mutton-chops or steak and kidney pudding. I just have to close my eyes, relax my mind and body, and there they are.” He passed a healthy red tongue round his lips and swallowed rapidly. “You think it’s blasphemous of me to see things like that, don’t you? I know it’s not very high-minded, but—”

  “I don’t think anything of the sort. I think it’s very clever of you to see anything at all.”

  Terence shot a quick glance at the door, shied away from the painted glaring eyes of the mummy-cases, and lowering his voice, went on:

  “I just can’t help it. I suppose it’s a kind of wish fulfilment, as the psychologists call it. The point is, I’ve got a pretty healthy appetite and all these vegetarian fripperies leave me cold. I’ve no interest in the food I’m supposed to eat, only in that which I’m not allowed to. Sickening, isn’t it? I mean I just can’t work up any real enthusiasm for peanut cutlets and raw cabbage. Pretty low-minded of me, isn’t it?”

  “Oh I don’t know. I’m only a vegetarian myself because in Rome one has to do as the Romans do. But then, I never worry much about food.”

  “You never worry?” said Terence with a shocked and incredulous look. “Never worry about food!” For the second time he lowered his voice and cast a guilty glance at the door. “Look here, can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “You promise not to give me away?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll let you in on something. Last week I went on the binge. And it’s not the first time, either.” There was a proud and defiant ring in his rumbling bass voice. “Yes, I sneaked out last Tuesday night and went on the binge.”

  “Where?”

  “Wilson’s Restaurant in Chives Avenue.” He sighed profoundly and his eye was lit with a retrospective gleam. “Gravy soup, sole à la bonne femme and a double portion of silver-side! Oh boy!” He chuckled happily. “What a binge! What a glorious, all-in, slap-up binge! I’d been saving up for that. Ten weeks’ pocket-money gone in a flash. You can’t keep that sort of thing up on sixpence a week. There are long blank periods in between, worse luck!”

  “Oh you poor boy!” breathed Denise, genuinely moved by his predicament. “Fancy you getting only sixpence a week at your age.”

  “Father’s pretty stingy, you know. He doesn’t believe in money. At least, not for other people.”

  “Like rational clothing.”

  “Yes—that’s it. Like rational clothing.”

  They laughed happily together, each conscious of the undercurrent of sympathy which was flowing between them. Already they were fast overcoming their shyness.

  “I say—what’s the Blot doing here? Any idea?”

  “None at all at present. I daresay we shall soon find out.”

  “Well, whatever she’s got up her sleeve,” observed Terence sagaciously, “I’ll wager it’s going to land us in all sorts of trouble. Whenever she turns up in Welworth things start to happen. And the trouble is you can never tell where they’re going to end!”

  Which was about the wisest and most penetrating remark Terence Mildmann had ever made.

  IV

  Mr. Penpeti stayed to tea. He also stayed to dinner. Even Eustace could not entirely detach himself from the wild enthusiasms swirling about him. A complete scheme for the Summer Convention had been drawn up. Numerical and astrological influences had been worked out so that the most suitable period of June could be chosen. Denise, under Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s direction, had already drawn up a summons to the members of the Inmost Temple to attend a committee meeting on the following day. Eustace and Penpeti had even sketched out a rough schedule of lectures, discussions, rituals, and so forth. Aware that Denise would almost certainly have to attend the convention, Terence was prepared to admit that Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s latest and most grandiose idea wasn’t such a bad bet after all. As for Penpeti, he was at his most forceful, charming and persuasive—every now and then veiling his hypnotic eyes behind their heavy lids, slipping away into a state of “non-being” and coming out of his trance with ever new and more splendid suggestions.

  But behind all this activity it grew more and more evident that Eustace was simmering with irritation. He resented the free-handed way in which Penpeti gradually took command of the proceedings. Once or twice Peta actually overrode Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s opinions and substituted ideas of his own. And what was even more disturbing, Mrs. Hagge-Smith appeared quite ready to submit to his dictatorship. Everybody seemed ready to bow down before him.

  When he left “Tranquilla” (which was the name of Mr. Mildmann’s mock-Tudor mansion) Penpeti was delighted with the way in which everything was progressing. His position inside the Movement was growing more and more secure and his influence over Mrs. Hagge-Smith more comprehensive. He sighed with the deepest satisfaction.

  His rise had been swift. In less than eighteen months he had been promoted from
a mere nonentity to the second most important person in the Order. Of course, he had been forced to walk warily, very warily; but now his patience and caution were beginning to pay big dividends. It was not only that he enjoyed the kudos and the five hundred a year that went with the office of Prophet-in-Waiting—it was more than that. Much more. The whole point was that, after a period of almost unbearable suspense, he was safe! Safe at last from the—

  But at this juncture Peta Penpeti’s thoughts sheered away from all recollections of the past. It was better that way. Why summon up those dark unwanted spectres when he could exorcise them by a simple refusal to think about them? It would be only too easy to allow those smoky shadows of the past to haunt him and hound him into a pit of the deepest depression. But that way lay madness! After all, for eighteen months now he had been safe. And if safe for eighteen months, why not for ever? The fear that had once sniffed at his heels now seemed to have turned tail and given up the hunt. He was free once more to look ahead and relax. He must still walk warily, of course, but…

  Suddenly, not five yards from his own front-gate, Penpeti stopped dead. In a flash all his reassuring arguments fled. A chill trickle of fear ran up his spine and left him trembling. From the gloom ahead a figure in a seedy mackintosh and black felt hat sidled up to him and placed a detaining hand on his arm. Penpeti recoiled as if from the clammy touch of a snake.

  “Well?” he demanded in a low voice. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “I think you can guess.”

  “But look here, Yacob, you know I damned well can’t—”

  “Think again, my dear fellow. Er…for your sake.”

  For an instant Penpeti hesitated, then with a quick glance up and down the road, he muttered angrily:

  “All right—come inside. I don’t want to be seen hanging about here with you.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” said Yacob.

  Penpeti opened the gate and Yacob followed him up the flagstone path and into the tiny unlighted hall. Not until he had groped his way into the little sitting-room and carefully drawn the curtains, did Penpeti switch on the light. Yacob blinked owlishly in the sudden glare, threw his black hat on to the settee and sat down beside it. Penpeti stood over him and scrutinised with unconcealed hatred those swarthy, dark-jowled features, the tawny, malignant eyes that looked up so mockingly into his own. Just now, of course, he had been wrong. Too optimistic. There was always Yacob—the predatory, unpredictable Yacob, wandering back at odd intervals into his life and forcing him to remember all he wanted to forget.

  Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t quite so safe as he imagined. No, despite all his reassuring arguments, there was always Yacob!

  Chapter III

  Eustace Writes a Letter

  I

  It would be impossible to describe the various forms of ritual practised by the Children of Osiris without writing an exhaustive treatise on Cooism. There is such a book available to the general public—The Development, Practice, and General Principles of the Cult of Coo by Eustace K. Mildmann—Utopia Press—21/-. The work is in two volumes. The reading is not, alas, very much snappier than the title. But a word about the constitutional side of Cooism is, perhaps, essential.

  Apart from the High Prophet and the Prophet-in-Waiting, the fortunes of the Movement were presided over by the members of the Inmost Temple. These numbered six—three High Priests and three High Priestesses. Among the latter, of course, was Mrs. Hagge-Smith. For all her airy assumption that she had this governing body in her pocket, Mrs. Hagge-Smith was more optimistic than accurate. There were at least two other members of the Inmost Temple who carried nearly as much weight in the order as she did—Penelope Parker and Hansford Boot. Both had money, which made them quite independent of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s whims and prejudices. And both had brains which in Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s case were at a premium. Alicia admittedly had energy and enthusiasm but when it came to academic matters she was a broken reed. Hansford was Eustace Mildmann’s stoutest champion. Penelope backed Penpeti. The other three members of the Inmost Temple, although less influential, had, despite Alicia’s insidious propaganda remained loyal to the founder of the Movement. But the rift dividing these two factions had been steadily widening and at the meeting convened to discuss the idea of a Summer Convention matters reached a new high level of tension.

  “Wrong approach. Stupid!” exclaimed Hansford Boot, who spoke a kind of shorthand English peculiarly his own. “Tents. Trees. Arcadian idyll angle. Ridiculous. Laughable. Too frivolous. Don’t like it.”

  “I must say…” began Eustace with a nod of approval, “that as the founder of the order I—”

  “Balderdash!” shot out Mrs. Hagge-Smith. “We must carry Cooism out into the world. This parochial attitude shows a deplorable lack of spirit. We must grow and grow and grow!” She made a gesture of expansion which caused the committee-men on either side of her to lean back quickly in their chairs. “We must no longer hide our light under a bushel. We want to gather more and more children to our bosom.” She made a gesture of gathering children to her bosom, which enabled the committee-men to tilt forward again, though they kept a wary eye open for any further hint of expansion. “I know that I have the full support of our splendid Prophet-in-Waiting and I suggest we call upon dear Mr. Penpeti to express his views.”

  Penpeti did so with voluble charm, his rich voice resounding under the tin-roof of the temple and causing a frisson of voluptuous pleasure to course down Penelope’s spine. The weaker section of the opposition began to waver. Hansford came back with a further series of staccato objections. Eustace again attempted to back him up, only to be interrupted a second time by his redoubtable patron. Penelope said nothing. Penpeti painted a noble and imaginative picture of thousands of sunburned, smiling devotees in rational clothing, strolling happily under the immemorial elms of Old Cowdene Park. Hansford sketched in an impressionistic picture of those same thousands clad in mackintoshes and goloshes squelching about in the mud beneath immemorial elms that dripped and whipped in a cold June wind. Mrs. Hagge-Smith said: “Balderdash!” Eustace put in timidly: “As High Prophet I do beg of you to allow me—” But this time it was Penelope, speaking for the first time, who interrupted him.

  She spoke languidly, mystically, in her soft attractive drawl for ten minutes without a break. Her slender hands wove esoteric patterns on the air. The gauzy veil over her corn-coloured hair was like an aura about her and the pale oval of her face was lit with the beauty of pure devotion. The male section of the committee, with the exception of Penpeti was held spellbound. Yes—even Eustace’s weak eyes were expressive of tenderness and admiration. He gazed at Penelope as if she were the reincarnation of some ancient goddess, of Isis herself, perhaps, the hallowed wife of Osiris. In fact he had always believed that she was Isis reborn. In the same way, with the most abject humility of course, he wondered if he might not be a resurrected Osiris. Beyond that he dare not think without exercising the more profane side of his imagination. He only knew that Penelope’s presence was a kind of sweet torment, a perilous distraction. Unfortunately Eustace was one of those prize idiots who fondle the belief that no man over fifty can fall in love. He was unable therefore to diagnose his state-of-mind with any accuracy. Actually Eustace was climbing the first rungs of a ladder that was to lead him to dizzy heights of foolishness and mental anguish. Fate, in short, had earmarked Penelope as his Achilles heel.

  When, therefore, Penelope declared herself in favour of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s idea, Eustace’s opposition collapsed. The matter was put to the vote, and the motion, with the single exception of Hansford Boot, received the full support of the committee. Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s vision was already well on the way to becoming a reality.

  II

  When the other members of the Inmost Temple had departed, Hansford Boot drew Eustace aside into the vestry. He looked glum and grim.

  “Well, Hansford?”
enquired Eustace gently, “what is it you are so anxious to see me about? You look depressed.”

  “I am. Don’t like it. Hate hostility. But felt I must speak up.”

  “And the trouble?”

  “Penpeti!” snapped Mr. Boot. “In collaboration with Mrs. H-S.”

  And then it all came out—an impassioned, yet well-reasoned belief that there was treason in their midst. Hansford Boot was emphatic. Unless Eustace took a strong line there was a danger that the Temple of Cooism would be split asunder. Wasn’t Eustace aware of the growing conspiracy among certain elements of the Movement to deny the original ethics of Cooism, in favour of new and disturbing principles? This Summer Convention was a perfect example of his theory. There was no doubt that Mrs. H-S and Penpeti were filled with ambition. They were hungry for power. Mrs. H-S would like to see Penpeti elevated to the position of High Prophet. She was working to that end and, if Eustace were unprepared to retire with good grace, then, declared Mr. Boot, the Penpeti-Hagge-Smith element would break away and start a kind of bastard Cooism of their own. Such a tragedy, at all costs, must be avoided. Hansford Boot was even more emphatic.

  “Shall do all I can to cook their goose. Must rally round you with unflinching determination. Vital! Something strange about Penpeti. Intuition tells me. Undesirable influence. Hypocritical. Mrs. H-S too simple to see it. Led by the nose. Penpeti using her for his own ends.”

  His telegraphic speech gathered force and speed. His evident sincerity was impressive and Eustace warmed to his old friend. Such devotion was touching and he felt unworthy of it. But deep down he knew that Hansford’s suggestions matched up perfectly with his own unspoken suspicions. If only he were less timid. If only he had the courage to go to Mrs. Hagge-Smith and point out to her that as the Father of Cooism his word was law. If only he had the fire and eloquence of an Old Testament prophet to sway the dissenters and bring them back into the fold. But those gifts were unfortunately with the opposition, with Penpeti himself. A sudden surge of anger swept through him at the thought of Penpeti’s overweening conceit and presumption. And this anger increased when he thought of Penelope Parker’s obvious admiration for his Prophet-in-Waiting. He resettled his pince-nez at a more aggressive angle and drew himself up to his full height. At that moment he would have revealed to anybody with psychic powers an aura of flaming, unequivocal red.