Death Makes a Prophet

by John Bude

  “Eustace? But how?”

  “Well,” murmured Penelope, with a mystical expression. “Suppose I went to Alicia and…and told her that Eustace was the father of the child I’m about to bear?”

  Dumbfounded, Penpeti sprang to his feet. He stared at Penelope as if he suspected her of having lost her reason. Then slowly a smile spread over his swarthy features.

  “Eustace,” he said softly. “Eustace, who has written you all these intimate little notes. Eustace, who has made you a proposal of marriage—a proposal in writing! My dear, but this is sheer inspiration. You’re wonderful. And for my sake, you’re prepared to suffer the inevitable scandal that will follow this dénouement?”

  “For your sake, Peta,” said Penelope with perfect simplicity, “you know I’m ready to do anything.”

  “But Eustace may deny the charge of paternity.”

  “What of it? It will be his word against mine. And when Alicia reads those letters…I’ve an idea that the office of High Prophet—”

  Penpeti’s dark eyes glittered.

  “Mine!” he muttered. “This will set the seal on it. Good heavens! Penelope, you’re incomparable! Superb!”

  What did it matter now that Penelope’s financial aid had dried up? If this scheme were successful, Eustace was finished, and he, Penpeti, would without any shadow of doubt, step into his shoes. And the office of High Prophet, as he often had good cause to remind himself, carried with it a salary of five thousand a year!

  One thing alone perplexed him. Why hadn’t Penelope used this contretemps as a lever to force him to marry her? There was nothing really standing in the way of such a union. Thank heaven, of course, that the idea hadn’t occurred to her! For all that, it was a strange and puzzling omission.

  IV

  But in the first flush of his enthusiasm for a scheme that would whitewash his own character at the expense of a man who stood between him and five thousand a year, Penpeti forgot to make allowances for a possible nigger in the wood-pile. The conspiracy, as propounded by Penelope, seemed pretty well flawless, and perhaps it would have been if Sid Arkwright hadn’t enjoyed an occasional half-pint of mild and bitter.

  Sid was happy in his loft above the barn. He liked the free-and-easy rural atmosphere that reigned at Old Cowdene. In point of fact he had little enough to do during that first week in Sussex, for his employer scarcely ever left the confines of the park. Occasionally he taxied the High Prophet from one corner of the estate to the other, for the park covered a surface of nearly nine square miles. But apart from these brief journeys, Sid was more or less left to his own devices.

  Before leaving Welworth he had had just one helluva row with Violet Brett. Not that she hadn’t good reasons for feeling annoyed, but Sid preferred to forget that. At first he had been depressed by the quarrel, but by now he was quite heart-free and ready to take up with any girl that chanced to take his eye. Hilda Shepstone, for example, Miss Parker’s maid over at the Dower House. In Sid’s opinion a bit of a high-stepper and well worth cultivating. Of course, Hilda wasn’t always free in the evening, so Sid had dropped into the habit of taking a stroll up to The Leaning Man once he had deposited the Mildmanns at the manor. After dinner they usually walked back through the park, which gave Sid the rest of the evening to himself.

  It was a Saturday night just after closing-time, when Sid first found himself involved in the secret machinations of his superiors. It happened quite by chance. Rounding a bend in the road at the end of the village on his way back to the park, he was suddenly aware of a figure preceding him down the moonlit lane. The man was moving swiftly, silently and, in Sid’s opinion, furtively. He was continually stopping in his stride and looking back over his shoulder. His curiosity aroused, Sid moved on to the wide grass verge and proceeded to stalk this mysterious figure. There was deep shadow under the overhanging trees and, to judge by the man’s behaviour, he had no idea that Sid was following him.

  Presently the man drew into the side of the road and Sid heard more stealthy footsteps advancing, this time, up the lane. He crouched back under a tangle of briar and waited. In a short time the second figure became clearly visible in the moonlight and Sid gave a start of surprise. There was no mistaking the black-bearded features and the long black caftan. He noticed, however, that Mr. Penpeti was carrying his fez and it struck Sid that he had done this to make himself less conspicuous.

  The man in the shadows gave a low whistle. Penpeti halted, looked cautiously up and down the lane, and joined the second figure under the overhanging branches of elm. Almost at once they broke into a brisk though muted conversation. With his curiosity now at fever heat, Sid withdrew gently up the lane to a point where he had previously noticed a stile that gave on to a field on the same side of the road as the two men. In a flash he was over the stile and creeping silently towards them on the far side of the hedge.

  At a point some five yards away, which was as near as he dared to advance, Sid halted and listened. It was quite impossible to hear every word of their conversation. In fact it was only a few detached phrases of Penpeti’s that he was able to isolate, for his companion was talking in a kind of harsh and throaty whisper. But what he did hear was sufficient to whet Sid’s appetite to hear more. What did it mean? Why had Penpeti met this man so secretively in the lane? And who was his companion?

  After a few seconds Sid realised that it was his employer they were discussing. He caught a series of broken phrases.

  “…point is…Mildmann has been writing letters…long period of time…this woman in question…use these as a lever to…out of office…”

  Then followed a few quick, inaudible comments by the second figure, terminating in a low, mirthless sort of chuckle. Again Penpeti took up the conversation.

  “Awkward, I admit…Parker girl’s all right, though…let me down…work it right…Mildmann will take the rap…I tell you…on to a dead cert…end of our friend Mildmann…kaput!”

  There was another chuckle and further inaudible comments from the second man. Again Penpeti—this time with a persuasive note in his voice, rather anxious.

  “But confound it…asking you to wait a few weeks…must have patience…pay you out then O.K…safe bet, I assure you…in clover if things go…”

  But suddenly Penpeti dropped his voice to match the husky whisper of his fellow conspirator, and Sid was unable to isolate any further sequence of words. But what he had heard roused in him the wildest speculation. This was his chance, he realised, to make amends to his employer for his previous unkind behaviour. He had never forgotten Eustace’s sympathy and generosity in the days following the shooting incident in the Cut. He had fussed over him during his convalescence as if Sid had been his own son. And if he had been wounded by Sid’s rather cheap mockery of all that he held sacred, Eustace never revealed the fact. He said nothing, so that Sid, for the first time in his life, felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. From that day to this Sid had devoted himself with unswerving loyalty to his master’s service. He still thought Cooism a bit of a “queer do”, but he would have rather cut off his right hand than let his employer tumble to the fact.

  He decided that he had nothing further to gain by waiting any longer behind the hedge. Stealthily he retraced his steps and, making a wide detour round the edge of the big meadow, entered the lane at a point some two hundred yards beyond the two men. Thereafter he quickened his pace until the North Lodge came in sight. A light was burning beyond one of the latticed windows. Sid did not hesitate. Instead of making for his loft in the nearby barn, he slipped through the wicket-gate of the drive entrance and pulled the wrought-iron bell under the clematis-covered porch of the front-door.

  Chapter X

  The Letters in the Case

  I

  Long after Sid had departed to the barn, Eustace sat in the softly-lit cosy little parlour of the lodge and pondered darkly. No longer were the malignant forces that
had encompassed him relegated to some indeterminate background. In a flash, they had come sharply into focus. Quite suddenly Eustace could see with horrible clarity exactly where time and destiny had conspired to lead him. He was poised on the edge of an abyss. One false move now and he would be done for!

  It had been an acutely difficult and embarrassing interview for both of them—for Sid because he had learnt something about his employer which his employer had obviously been anxious to conceal; for Eustace because he was naturally humiliated by Sid’s discovery. It was not pleasant to reflect that he, the High Prophet of Coo, had been found out and found wanting by his own chauffeur. But in the perilous situation which had now arisen, he had been forced to discuss with Sid Arkwright the full details of what he had just overheard. Luckily Sid had a retentive memory and he had been able to put in, so to speak, a verbatim report. Eustace had carefully written down the phrases as Sid recalled them.

  It was this sheet of paper he was now studying.

  Three troubling facts were immediately evident to him; (a) that Penelope had kept the letters with which he had so foolishly bombarded her (b) that she had told Penpeti about these letters (c) that they obviously intended to use these letters to defame his good name inside the Movement. The motive for this unchristian desire was not far to seek. Hansford Boot’s original reading of Penpeti’s character had been correct. The man was ambitious, determined, relentless—no doubt about that. He was in league with Penelope and together they were conspiring to undermine his position as High Prophet. It was, perhaps, Penelope’s attitude in this sorry affair that most upset him. He realised now that for all these months of apparent friendliness, Penelope had really been a snake in the grass. It was a sad and sobering thought!

  And who was this man that Penpeti had met in the lane? How did he enter into this shabby conspiracy? Sid had been able to tell him little about this mysterious and furtive individual. He had described him as “about the same height and build as Mr. Penpeti, same dark sort of skin”. Sid had not overheard a single word of what he had said and was thus unable to gauge the relationship existing between the two men. This much he was prepared to say: “Seems that Mr. Penpeti was sort of scared by the other chap—like as if he’d got some sort of hold over him.” But this sort of vague generalisation, Eustace realised, did little to clarify the enigma of this clandestine meeting.

  In any case, wasn’t this a mere collateral to the single overwhelming fact that Penelope still possessed his letters and was threatening to show them to Alicia. And since Alicia was already furious with him for his refusal to sponsor a production of her Nine Gods of Heliopolis, once she’d read those letters he could expect no quarter. Only the letters mattered. By hook or by crook he must recover them. Somehow he must persuade Penelope to give them up. He must go to her without delay, appeal to her better nature and throw himself on her mercy. Humiliating but unavoidable. Once the letters were destroyed, Penpeti could do nothing.

  “But what,” thought Eustace in a panic, “if Penelope refuses to hand them over?”

  He couldn’t take them from her by force. For one thing he didn’t know where she concealed them and, for another, she probably kept them under lock and key. And when he recalled some of the more impassioned interludes in the later notes, the complete verbal abandonment, the pleadings, the pledges, the avowals and compliments of his unbridled infatuation—yes, when he thought of all this he broke out into a cold sweat and closed his eyes against the dizziness which suddenly overpowered him.

  “By Geb!” he thought, employing the single mild, yet satisfactory oath he allowed himself. “I’ve got to get them back! I’ve got to! I must see her at once. Yes, directly after breakfast to-morrow Sid must drive me over to the Dower House.”

  II

  But poor Eustace at the very outset was destined to suffer an unexpected set-back. When he sent in his name via Hilda, the parlour-maid, she returned in a few seconds with the information that Miss Parker was sorry but she couldn’t see him. Eustace blustered on the doorstep like a tongue-tied schoolboy. But it was impossible! He must see her. It concerned an important and urgent matter. Hilda must go to her mistress again and explain just how vital it was that he should see her. This time, to his enormous relief, Penelope consented to come down into the hall. But much to Eustace’s chagrin she made no attempt to ask him into the house.

  She asked in an uneasy voice:

  “Good gracious, what is the matter, Eustace? An urgent and important matter, you say?”

  “I must see you alone,” exclaimed Eustace, adding meaningly: “It’s not only urgent and important, but a highly delicate and private matter.”

  “We’re quite private here. You can talk to me quite freely.”

  “I should prefer to come in.”

  “I’m sorry, Eustace. Please be good enough to tell me what you want here and now. I’ve a very busy day in front of me.”

  “You’re sure we can’t be overheard?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Eustace took a quick look round and lowered his voice.

  “It’s about those letters,” he said.

  “Letters?”

  “The letters I’ve been writing to you.”

  “Well, what of them?”

  “I want them back. I must have them back. Please, Penelope. Every one of them. Now, at once!”

  Penelope looked at him in amazement. The request had startled her considerably. How had Eustace found out about the letters?

  “Really, Eustace—what has come over you? Why this sudden anxiety? Surely you’re not ashamed of all the frank and charming compliments you’ve paid me? Oh I know I’m quite unworthy of—”

  “It’s something that I’ve heard,” broke in Eustace sharply. “Something highly unpleasant. Something so disagreeable that I had the greatest difficulty in persuading myself that it was true.”

  “Something you’ve heard?” demanded Penelope with a flash of anxiety. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “Something about you and Peta showing those letters to Alicia, with the deliberate intention of…of…”

  “What ridiculous nonsense! I haven’t even kept the letters. I destroyed them, one by one, as I received them.”

  “You’ve destroyed them?” gasped Eustace. “But…but…”

  “And after such unforgivable innuendoes I should take it as a favour if you’d kindly stay away from the Dower House in the future. I can’t imagine how this wicked rumour has reached your ears. Even less can I imagine how you came to believe it!”

  “But…but…”

  “I’d rather not hear any more about it, thank you.” Her slim hand had already reached out for the ornate handle of the door. “I shall give the servants strict orders that you’re not to be admitted—not on any account. Understand, Eustace?”

  “Yes,” he said meekly, his mind in a whirl.

  “Then we’ll consider this highly disagreeable interview as closed,” rapped out Penelope. “And kindly don’t refer to the matter again. It’s upset me terribly. It’s made me feel quite ill. I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Never! Never!”

  And the next instant Mr. Mildmann found himself staring blankly at the massive oak door which Penelope, as a final expression of her indignation, had slammed tempestuously in his face.

  III

  Two minutes later Penelope was on the phone to The Leaning Man. Penpeti sounded annoyed.

  “Indiscreet, my dear? Yes, I know it is, but I’m frantically worried. Something really extraordinary has happened. Eustace in some astounding manner has found out. No. About the letters. Yes—that I’ve kept the letters. Oh, I can’t possibly say. He was here just now. What? The use to which we were going to put them? That’s just what I’m trying to say, my darling. He knows about it. No, of course not. I can’t imagine how he…You’ll come over at once? Yes, do. I shall feel much, much happier when
we’ve had a little chat. Just walk in as usual. The servants know you’ve carte blanche to drop in just when you like. Au revoir, darling. And don’t waste any time!”

  Penpeti obeyed her injunctions to the letter. During his stay at The Leaning Man he had arranged for the garage opposite to have a car and driver always at his disposal. Fifteen minutes later, therefore, he was ringing the bell at the Dower House. Hilda let him in without comment and he raced upstairs to Penelope’s private retiring room on the second floor. Glasses and sherry decanter were set ready on a small inlaid table. Penpeti’s worried expression gave way to a gleam of approval.

  “Most thoughtful. Most thoughtful,” he said, giving her an absent-minded kiss. “I need a little stimulant. This news of yours is puzzling and upsetting, to say the least of it.” He took up the decanter and held it with a look of enquiry over one of the glasses. Penelope nodded. “Personally, I think it must be mere guesswork. A shot in the dark on Eustace’s part.” He raised his glass to hers. “There’s no need for undue alarm, my dear.”

  “Frankly, Peta, I’m frightened. How could this have leaked out? You haven’t been talking out of turn, I trust?”

  “Me? Don’t be absurd! Of course not.”

  “You’ve never mentioned those letters to a soul?”

  “Never!” he contested, with a bland expression.

  After all, how could he tell her about his secret rendezvous with the ubiquitous Yacob? What lay between him and Yacob was none of her business. And besides, how could his little talk with Yacob in the deserted lane have reached Eustace’s ears. It was utterly impossible that the leakage had occurred then.

  “Then, if you’ve said nothing,” went on Penelope, bewildered, “how on earth has the wretch found out? It’s queer.”

  “As I said before—a shot in the dark. He’s probably been worrying about these letters for weeks and plucking up courage to come and ask for them back. Knowing damn well, my dear, that if Alicia or any other of the high-placed members of the Movement happened to see them, he’d be very much in the soup.”