Death Makes a Prophet

by John Bude

“Oh hell!” thought Meredith, suddenly feeling tired and depressed. “Where the deuce do I go from here?”

  II

  The next morning June came into her own again with a shimmering blue sky and the dew lying late on the grass, with the birds in full song and distant cuckoos calling to each other over a countryside rich with the scent of a new-washed earth and foliage. As Meredith gazed from his wide-open window into the village street below, his overnight depression vanished. After all, hadn’t he been expecting a little too much of providence? A complicated case is not to be broken wide open in a mere twenty-four hours. Experience had taught him that a major crime was usually cleared up only after weeks, even months of patient, hum-drum work.

  Over a substantial breakfast in the low-ceilinged dining-room Meredith began once more to turn over the circumstantial evidence and the peculiarly tricky problems which the lay-out of the crime had postulated. Perhaps the most difficult aspect of the case was his inability to state with any conviction just what type of crime he was investigating. Was it a double murder? A murder plus suicide? A double suicide? Or a couple of deaths from misadventure? During the course of the previous day he had reviewed all these possibilities, analysed the pros and cons in each instance and gone to bed with an open mind. There was, however, one set-up he had so far failed to consider. Remiss of him but, in the rush of events, perhaps excusable. It was this. Had Penelope Parker, by any chance, murdered Eustace Mildmann and then taken her own life?

  It was a new slant that definitely demanded exploration. Motive? Well, suppose Penelope were violently in love with this queer fish, Penpeti, and suppose it had occurred to her that once Mildmann were out of the way, Penpeti would become the top-side prophet of the Movement? Perhaps the position carried a worth-while stipend, which would put an even keener edge on her motive! And the modus operandi? Well, the poisoning of the sherry must have been more of a spontaneous act than a deliberate piece of malice-aforethought. After all, Penelope didn’t know that Mildmann was to visit her that evening. On the other hand there was a feasible reconstruction of events.

  Mildmann gets into her room by means of the Penpeti trick, and once there demands the return of his somewhat impulsive love-letters. Penelope refuses to hand them over. Whereupon Mildmann draws out his wooden revolver (Arkwright’s evidence) and frightens her into revealing where the letters are kept. While he’s busy at the desk, Penelope seizes the chance to poison the sherry, suggests in a sporting sort of way that he’s the winner and what about having a drink to celebrate his cleverness. Whereupon Mildmann—

  Meredith shook his head. Good God! The theory was riddled with holes. He mentally tabulated them. (1) If Penelope were frightened into handing over the letters, she would have saved him the trouble of breaking open her desk by handing him the key. (2) How did she come to have a phial of prussic acid all ready and waiting on her person? (3) Could she have persuaded Mildmann, who was a strict teetotaller, to have joined her in a drink? (4) Finally accepting the above motive, what was the point of taking her own life? Could she have acted with such altruistic fervour even if she were desperately in love with Penpeti? After all, the idea of Penpeti becoming High Prophet would surely include her participation in the event?

  Meredith hastily finished his last cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. As he did so, a neat black “sports” swished into the commodious inn-yard and a figure in uniform jumped out. Meredith called out through the open window.

  “Sergeant from Chichester, eh?”

  “Yes, sorr.”

  “Good. Come on in. Door there on your left. I’m Inspector Meredith.”

  One glance at Sergeant O’Hallidan and Meredith knew that Rokeby had picked him a winner. Irish, tough, blue-eyed, broad humorous mouth, and a lilt in his voice that would have made poetry of the telephone directory. The inspector nodded to him to be seated and, since the dining-room was at that moment deserted, he quickly outlined the salient factors in the case. When he had concluded, O’Hallidan chuckled.

  “An’ it’s meself the Sooper has seen fit to send to you in your throuble, sorr. If iver there was a more bemusing case then Oi’ve to meet it! Accident, suicide, murther—’tis even money on any of ’em. Sure an’ it’s a case demanding the patience o’ Job an’ the determination o’ Hercules. But, by the Holy, sorr, an’ ’tis ourselves that won’t rest until we’re through with it.”

  “An echo of my own sentiments, O’Hallidan!” laughed Meredith. “Now I tell you what I—” He suddenly broke off with a warning nod over the sergeant’s shoulder. “Tsst! Take a careful look round, Sergeant. This, if I’m not mistaken, is a gentleman in whom we have a very natural interest. Must be staying here. I’d no idea.”

  Cautiously O’Hallidan edged round in his seat and eyed the eccentric figure that had just occupied a table in a far corner of the room. The bearded, slightly sinister features, the fez and the caftan—he had no difficulty in recognising the man from Meredith’s description.

  “Will ye take a look at that now!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “If ’tisn’t the craytur ye suspect to be in love with the dead girl, sorr. And, by the Holy, ’tis himself looks more like a murtherer than a ladies’ man!”

  “Well, whatever he looks like,” commented Meredith, sotto voce, “I’ve no doubt by now he’s the High Prophet elect of this mumbo-jumbo crowd in the park. I’ve wanted to have a word with him, and as there’s no time like the present…”

  Meredith rose and took up his attaché-case. “Stay here a minute. I’ll try and get a line on the fellow.”

  With a casual air the inspector sauntered across the dining-room. Penpeti glanced up sourly as Meredith, with an affable nod, greeted him with:

  “Good morning, Mr. Penpeti. I’ve been hoping to run into you. My name’s Meredith. Detective-Inspector Meredith. I’ve no need to tell you why I’m down here in Tappin Mallet.”

  “It’s easy to imagine,” retorted Penpeti, waving Meredith ungraciously into a vacant chair. “A tragic, unsavoury affair. I suppose it’s out of order for me to ask if you’ve made any progress in solving the mystery?”

  Meredith grinned.

  “Well, I’m not allowed to talk out of turn, you know. Miss Parker was a very close friend of yours, eh, Mr. Penpeti?”

  “She was a staunch colleague of mine inside the Movement,” corrected Penpeti acidly. “I have, as you can imagine, many close friends inside the Movement.”

  “Is it premature of me to congratulate you on your promotion? Mrs. Hagge-Smith—hinted to me yesterday—”

  Penpeti inclined his head.

  “I was informed of the honour late last night after an Extraordinary Meeting of the Inmost Temple. But it grieves me to think that I should have been elected to this high office in such tragic circumstances.”

  “You’ve heard, of course, that Mr. Mildmann adopted a disguise in order to get into the Dower House? Miss Parker had, I understand, refused him admittance.”

  “Yes—I’d heard that.”

  “And you realise the nature of his disguise?”

  “Yes.”

  “The point I’m trying to make is this, Mr. Penpeti.” Meredith had already exchanged his easy friendliness for a more official attitude. He sensed that Penpeti was watchful, on the defensive. “Mr. Mildmann disguised himself to look like you because his chauffeur had found out from the domestic staff at the Dower House that they had orders to admit you without question at any time of the day or night. This rather suggests that Miss Parker was a close friend of yours, doesn’t it? A very close friend. That you had a privileged place in her private life, eh?”

  “Well, as a fellow member of the executive committee of—”

  Meredith broke in sharply:

  “Good heavens, Mr. Penpeti! Why the devil can’t you be frank with me? I happen to know that you and Miss Parker were on terms of the greatest intimacy. Why trouble to hedge?”

 
A fleeting expression of uneasiness crossed Penpeti’s swarthy features. He snapped out:

  “I really can’t see what this has to do with your investigations. May I be allowed to finish my breakfast in peace? I’ve an extremely busy day in front of me, as you can imagine.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Penpeti. But I can’t let anything stand in the way of my duty. I’m investigating a very serious case. Now, on the night of the tragedy, where were you exactly?”

  “You’re not suggesting—?” began Penpeti with a truculent look.

  “I’m not suggesting anything!” commented Meredith. “I want to know just what you did, say, between the hours of eight and ten last Thursday evening.”

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, Inspector,” sneered Penpeti, “but whatever your suspicions, I’m afraid I must disillusion you. I had dinner as usual at the Manor and left there about ten minutes to nine. I then walked through the park to the Chinese summer-house.”

  “A minute.” Meredith drew out his sketch-map, studied it closely for a second or so and placed his finger on a small blacked-in circle near the point where the main drive forked into the subsidiary drives that led to the Manor and the Dower House respectively. “You mean this building just here, eh?”

  Penpeti glanced at the map and nodded.

  “Mrs. Hagge-Smith has had the place converted into a temple. During the convention we have organised what we call an Unbroken Chain of Meditation. Members have pledged themselves to attend the temple and give themselves up to an hour’s meditation on certain aspects of our faith.”

  “You mean a roster has been drawn up for the whole fortnight of the convention?”

  “Precisely. And it so happened that one of my promised hours of attendance occurred between nine and ten on Thursday evening.”

  “So you left the Manor, walked down the drive to the temple and stayed there until ten o’clock?” Penpeti nodded. “You were alone in the temple?”

  “No. We have our official times of attendance but anybody is free to make use of the temple at any time of the day or night. As far as I can recall there were at least half-a-dozen other members present when I arrived that evening. Some only stayed for a short period—others were still at their meditations when I was officially relieved at ten by my successor on the roster.”

  “From whom did you take over at nine o’clock?”

  Penpeti hesitated.

  “Really, Inspector, I can’t be expected to…No—wait a minute. It was a member from one of our north London temples—a Mr. Abingdon. But, if you consider all these details relevant to your investigations, why not consult the official list? I’m certain our camp-commandant, Mr. Boot, would only be too happy to assist you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Penpeti.” Meredith rose. “A most useful pow-wow. You’re staying at The Leaning Man for the duration of the conference, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve been so frank and concise in your information.”

  “Is there any point,” asked Penpeti with a sardonic smile, “in being otherwise, Inspector? I have, over a long period of time, been able to develop considerable psychical powers. But I can assure you that I’ve had no cause to exercise those powers during the last ten minutes. My common-or-garden savoir faire has been more than sufficient to reveal to me just what was in your mind. When you sat down at this table, you rather suspected that I might have had some connection with the tragic events at the Dower House. But I warned you that you would be disillusioned. Good morning, Inspector.”

  III

  Once outside, seated in the police-car, Meredith said:

  “Drive towards the park, O’Hallidan. When we find a nice secluded spot, draw in off the road. I want to consider our immediate plan of action.”

  Some five minutes later, O’Hallidan swung the car on to the broad verge under the shade of some overhanging elms and shut off the engine. Meredith pulled out his pouch and slowly filled his pipe.

  “A queer devil,” he observed. “A pretty cool and callous customer, too, when you come to think of it.”

  “Mr. Penpeti, sorr?”

  Meredith nodded.

  “According to Arkwright’s evidence Penpeti was in on this ramp to blacken Mildmann’s character by making public these letters of his. I’ll bet you a penny to the Bank of England that he put the Parker girl up to that nasty little game. Yet to hear him talk just now you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth! Has it occurred to you, Sergeant, that it’s Penpeti who has benefited most from Mildmann’s death? Particularly if this new office of his carries a good salary.”

  “Oi suppose it’s not the murtherer you’re making him out to be, sorr?” asked O’Hallidan with a knowing glance.

  “I admit that idea was chasing through my mind when I questioned him just now. But he seems to have got his alibi all right. A seamless alibi, eh?”

  “But ye’ve only got his word to go on, sorr.”

  “No—you’re wrong there. Arkwright told me when I first interviewed him that Mildmann had chosen the time and date of his visit to coincide with Penpeti’s official period of attendance in that temple. As Arkwright said, they couldn’t risk Penpeti showing up at the Dower House that night or accompanying Miss Parker back from the Manor. For all that, we’ll check up at once. Penpeti mentioned the camp-commandant. Suppose we make his H.Q. our first port of call?”

  “Sure an’ you’re still not convinced, sorr.”

  “Frankly, Sergeant, I’m not! I don’t see how Penpeti could have murdered either Mildmann or the girl. In the latter case I don’t see why he should want to, considering that he was obviously very friendly with her. But I’ve got a sort of hunch about that fellow. And my hunch tells me that he’s a rotten egg. I mentioned that queer meeting of his with an unknown man when I first primed you with the main facts of the case?” O’Hallidan nodded. “Well, the few phrases Arkwright was able to overhear are suggestive of shady business. No doubt about it.” Meredith drew out his notebook and consulted it. “Yes—here we are. ‘Parker girl’s all right, though…’ ‘Mildmann will take the rap’ and so on. That’s all in reference to the letters, of course. Needs absolutely no explanation. But now listen to this. ‘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…’ Not much to go on, but surely enough from which to draw a few plausible conclusions?”

  “’Tis blackmail you’re hinting at?”

  “Looks remarkably like it.”

  “With Penpeti in the divil of a tight corner?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And himself onable to pay the blood-money at all an’ his blackmailer a-turning the screw.”

  “A situation,” pointed out Meredith, “that he hoped to rectify the moment he was promoted to Mildmann’s position in this confounded Movement. Which suggests, O’Hallidan, that this High Prophetship, or whatever they call it, carries a money prize, eh?”

  “Sure an’ that seems the way of it, sorr.”

  “And then there’s another thing,” went on Meredith. “You notice the wording of Penpeti’s phrases? The use of the colloquialisms ‘O.K.’, ‘Safe bet’, and ‘In clover’ and so on. Well, that wasn’t the kind of phraseology he used a few minutes back. If anything, I thought he was rather pedantic. As for that touch of the foreign accent, Arkwright said he seemed to have dropped it entirely. The point is this, when in private he appears to use this slangy sort of speech. In other words, the man’s a poseur, a fake, two-faced. With Penpeti the Prophet as the least natural of his two selves.” Meredith pushed away his notebook. “At any rate, we’re now going to check up on the fellow’s movements and find out a little more about this office of High Prophet. Suppose you drive me now to the camp-commandant.”

  Chapter XVIII

  The Poison Puzzle

 
I

  During the last few weeks there had been a profound change in Hansford Boot—not only a physical but a psychological change. The threat of exposure which Penpeti held over his head was a Damoclean sword that had undermined his sense of security and screwed up his nerves to breaking-point. He paid his blood-money without a murmur. Quite. But the threat remained. At any minute Penpeti might turn ugly. He might go to the police. And from that instant he would be doomed. There was no eluding the fact that it would mean a stretch in “stir”, probably a long stretch. The useful, interesting, respectable life he was now leading would be over and done with. He’d never recapture it.

  It was easy to imagine Hansford’s feelings, therefore, when Meredith, followed by the uniformed sergeant, walked into his office as camp-commandant. He scrambled to his feet with a little grunt of alarm and stood facing the two officials with an expression of the wildest anxiety.

  “Morning,” he jerked out in his peculiar shorthand English. “Anything I can do? Something you want? An enquiry to make? Eh?”

  Meredith introduced himself and quietly explained the reason for his visit. Hansford appeared to relax a little, though Meredith had been quick to note his reaction to their sudden appearance. But his readiness to help was undeniable. In no time he had produced the “Chain of Meditation” roster for Meredith’s inspection and sent a runner round the camp to find Mr. Abingdon, whose hour of meditation had preceded Penpeti’s, and Miss Mummery, who had taken over from him at ten o’clock. While the messenger was away, Meredith wasted no time in digging out a little more information.

  “You’re on the executive committee of this movement, Mr. Boot?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you can probably tell me all I want to know about this office of High Prophet. Does it carry a stipend?”

  “It does.”

  “How much?”

  “Considerable amount. D’you want it exact? Sub rosa, really. But if you insist…”

  “I’m afraid I must.”

  “Five thousand a year.”