The Labours of Hercules

by Agatha Christie

  Poirot said slowly:

  “Mademoiselle, I think you are a woman of great courage and determination. You have good histrionic powers. Would you be willing to undertake a piece of work that may be attended with considerable danger?”

  “I should like nothing better,” said the adventurous Miss Carnaby.

  Poirot said warningly:

  “If there is a risk at all, it will be a grave one. You comprehend—either this is a mare’s nest or it is serious. To find out which it is, it will be necessary for you yourself to become a member of the Great Flock. I would suggest that you exaggerate the amount of the legacy that you recently inherited. You are now a well-to-do woman with no very definite aim in life. You argue with your friend Emmeline about this religion she has adopted—assure her that it is all nonsense. She is eager to convert you. You allow yourself to be persuaded to go down to Green Hills Sanctuary. And there you fall a victim to the persuasive powers and magnetic influence of Dr. Andersen. I think I can safely leave that part to you?”

  Miss Carnaby smiled modestly. She murmured:

  “I think I can manage that all right!”

  II

  “Well, my friend, what have you got for me?”

  Chief Inspector Japp looked thoughtfully at the little man who asked the question. He said ruefully:

  “Not at all what I’d like to have, Poirot. I hate these long-haired, religious cranks like poison. Filling up women with a lot of mumbo jumbo. But this fellow’s being careful. There’s nothing one can get hold of. All sounds a bit batty but harmless.”

  “Have you learned anything about this Dr. Andersen?”

  “I’ve looked up his past history. He was a promising chemist and got chucked out of some German University. Seems his mother was Jewish. He was always keen on the study of Oriental Myths and Religions, spent all his spare time on that and has written various articles on the subject—some of the articles sound pretty crazy to me.”

  “So it is possible that he is a genuine fanatic?”

  “I’m bound to say it seems quite likely!”

  “What about those names and addresses I gave you?”

  “Nothing doing there. Miss Everitt died of ulcerative colitis. Doctor quite positive there was no hanky-panky. Mrs. Lloyd died of bronchopneumonia. Lady Western died of tuberculosis. Had

  suffered from it many years ago—before she even met this bunch. Miss Lee died of typhoid—attributed to some salad she ate somewhere in the north of England. Three of them got ill and died in their own homes, and Mrs. Lloyd died in a hotel in the south of France. As far as those deaths go, there’s nothing to connect them with the Great Flock or with Andersen’s place down in Devonshire. Must be pure coincidence. All absolutely O.K. and according to Cocker.”

  Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

  “And yet, mon cher, I have a feeling that this is the tenth Labor of Hercules, and that this Dr. Andersen is the Monster Geryon whom it is my mission to destroy.”

  Japp looked at him anxiously.

  “Look here, Poirot, you haven’t been reading any queer literature yourself lately, have you?”

  Poirot said with dignity:

  “My remarks are, as always, apt, sound, and to the point.”

  “You might start a new religion yourself,” said Japp, “with the creed: ‘There is no one so clever as Hercule Poirot, Amen, D.C. Repeat ad lib.’!”

  III

  “It is the peace here that I find so wonderful,” said Miss Carnaby, breathing heavily and ecstatically.

  “I told you so, Amy,” said Emmeline Clegg.

  The two friends were sitting on the slope of a hillside overlooking a deep and lovely blue sea. The grass was vivid green, the earth and the cliffs a deep, glowing red. The little estate now known as Green Hills Sanctuary was a promontory comprising about six acres. Only a narrow neck of land joined it to the mainland so that it was almost an island.

  Mrs. Clegg murmured sentimentally:

  “The red land—the land of glow and promise—where threefold destiny is to be accomplished.”

  Miss Carnaby sighed deeply and said:

  “I thought the Master put it all so beautifully at the service last night.”

  “Wait,” said her friend, “for the festival tonight. The Full Growth of the Pasture!”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Miss Carnaby.

  “You will find it a wonderful spiritual experience,” her friend promised her.

  Miss Carnaby had arrived at Green Hills Sanctuary a week previously. Her attitude on arrival had been: “Now what’s all this nonsense? Really, Emmie, a sensible woman like you—etc., etc.”

  At a preliminary interview with Dr. Andersen, she had conscientiously made her position quite clear.

  “I don’t want to feel that I am here under false pretences, Dr. Andersen. My father was a clergyman of the Church of England and I have never wavered in my faith. I don’t hold with heathen doctrines.”

  The big, golden-haired man had smiled at her—a very sweet and understanding smile. He had looked indulgently at the plump, rather belligerent figure sitting so squarely in her chair.

  “Dear Miss Carnaby,” he said. “You are Mrs. Clegg’s friend, and as such welcome. And believe me, our doctrines are not heathen. Here all religions are welcomed, and all honoured equally.”

  “Then they shouldn’t be,” said the staunch daughter of the late Reverend Thomas Carnaby.

  Leaning back in his chair, the Master murmured in his rich voice: “In my Father’s House are many mansions . . . Remember that, Miss Carnaby.”

  As they left the presence, Miss Carnaby murmured to her friend: “He really is a very handsome man.”

  “Yes,” said Emmeline Clegg. “And so wonderfully spiritual.”

  Miss Carnaby agreed. It was true—she had felt it—an aura of unworldliness—of spirituality. . . .

  She took a grip upon herself. She was not here to fall a prey to the fascination, spiritual or otherwise, of the Great Shepherd. She conjured up a vision of Hercule Poirot. He seemed very far away, and curiously mundane. . . .

  “Amy,” said Miss Carnaby to herself. “Take a grip upon yourself. Remember what you are here for. . . .”

  But as the days went on, she found herself surrendering only too easily to the spell of Green Hills. The peace, the simplicity, the delicious though simple food, the beauty of the services with their chants of Love and Worship, the simple moving words of the Master, appealing to all that was best and highest in humanity—here all the strife and ugliness of the world was shut out. Here was only Peace and Love. . . .

  And tonight was the great summer Festival, the Festival of the Full Pasture. And at it, she, Amy Carnaby, was to become initiated—to become one of the Flock.

  The Festival took place in the white, glittering, concrete building, called by the Initiates the Sacred Fold. Here the devotees assembled just before the setting of the sun. They wore sheepskin cloaks and had sandals on their feet. Their arms were bare. In the centre of the Fold on a raised platform stood Dr. Andersen. The big man, golden-haired and blue-eyed, with his fair beard and his handsome profile had never seemed more compelling. He was dressed in a green robe and carried a shepherd’s crook of gold.

  He raised this aloft and a deathly silence fell on the assembly.

  “Where are my sheep?”

  The answer came from the crowd.

  “We are here, O Shepherd.”

  “Lift up your hearts with joy and thanksgiving. This is the Feast of Joy.”

  “The Feast of Joy and we are joyful.”

  “There shall be no more sorrow for you, no more pain. All is joy!”

  “All is joy . . .”

  “How many heads has the Shepherd?”

  “Three heads, a head of gold, a head of silver, a head of sounding brass.”

  “How many bodies have the Sheep?”

  “Three bodies, a body of flesh, a body of corruption, and a body of light.”

  “
How shall you be sealed in the Flock?”

  “By the Sacrament of Blood.”

  “Are you prepared for that Sacrament?”

  “We are.”

  “Bind your eyes and hold forth your right arm.”

  The crowd obediently bound their eyes with the green scarves provided for the purpose. Miss Carnaby, like the rest, held her arm out in front of her.

  The Great Shepherd moved along the lines of his Flock. There were little cries, moans of either pain or ecstasy.

  Miss Carnaby, to herself, said fiercely:

  “Most blasphemous, the whole thing! This kind of religious hysteria is to be deplored. I shall remain absolutely calm and observe the reactions of other people. I will not be carried away—I will not. . . .”

  The Great Shepherd had come to her. She felt her arm taken, held, there was a sharp, stinging pain like the prick of a needle. The Shepherd’s voice murmured:

  “The Sacrament of Blood that brings joy . . .”

  He passed on.

  Presently there came a command.

  “Unveil and enjoy the pleasures of the spirit!”

  The sun was just sinking. Miss Carnaby looked round her. At one with the others, she moved slowly out of the Fold. She felt suddenly uplifted, happy. She sank down on a soft, grassy bank. Why had she ever thought she was a lonely, unwanted, middle-aged woman? Life was wonderful—she herself was wonderful! She had the power of thought—of dreaming. There was nothing that she could not accomplish!

  A great rush of exhilaration surged through her. She observed her fellow devotees round her—they seemed suddenly to have grown to an immense stature.

  “Like trees walking . . .” said Miss Carnaby to herself reverently.

  She lifted her hand. It was a purposeful gesture—with it she could command the earth. Cæsar, Napoleon, Hitler—poor, miserable, little fellows! They knew nothing of what she, Amy Carnaby, could do! Tomorrow she would arrange for world peace, for International Brotherhood. There should be no more Wars—no more Poverty—no more Disease. She, Amy Carnaby, would design a New World.

  But there need be no hurry. Time was infinite . . . Minute succeeded minute, hour succeeded hour! Miss Carnaby’s limbs felt heavy, but her mind was delightfully free. It could roam at will over the whole universe. She slept—but even as she slept she dreamt . . . Great spaces . . . vast buildings . . . a new and wonderful world. . . .

  Gradually the world shrank, Miss Carnaby yawned. She moved her stiff limbs. What had happened since yesterday? Last night she had dreamt. . . .

  There was a moon. By it, Miss Carnaby could just distinguish the figures on her watch. To her stupefaction the hands pointed to a quarter to ten. The sun, as she knew, had set at eight-ten. Only an hour and thirty-five minutes ago? Impossible. And yet—

  “Very remarkable,” said Miss Carnaby to herself.

  IV

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “You must obey my instructions very carefully. You understand?”

  “Oh yes, M. Poirot. You may rely on me.”

  “You have spoken of your intention to benefit the cult?”

  “Yes, M. Poirot. I spoke to the Master—excuse me, to Dr. Andersen myself. I told him very emotionally what a wonderful revelation the whole thing had been—how I had come to scoff and remained to believe. I—really it seemed quite natural to say all these things. Dr. Andersen, you know, has a lot of magnetic charm.”

  “So I perceive,” said Hercule Poirot drily.

  “His manner was most convincing. One really feels he doesn’t care about money at all. ‘Give what you can,’ he said smiling in that wonderful way of his, ‘if you can give nothing, it does not matter. You are one of the Flock just the same.’ ‘Oh, Dr. Andersen,’ I said, ‘I am not so badly off as that. I have just inherited a considerable amount of money from a distant relative and though I cannot actually touch any of the money until the legal formalities are all complied with, there is one thing I want to do at once.’ And then I explained that I was making a will and that I wanted to leave all I had to the Brotherhood. I explained that I had no near relatives.”

  “And he graciously accepted the bequest?”

  “He was very detached about it. Said it would be many long years before I passed over, that he could tell I was cut out for a long life of joy and spiritual fulfilment. He really speaks most movingly.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Poirot’s tone was dry. He went on:

  “You mentioned your health?”

  “Yes, M. Poirot. I told him that I had had lung trouble, and that it had recurred more than once, but that a final treatment in a Sanatorium some years ago had, I hoped, quite cured me.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Though why it is necessary for me to say that I am consumptive when my lungs are as sound as a bell I really cannot see.”

  “Be assured it is necessary. You mentioned your friend?”

  “Yes. I told him (strictly in confidence) that dear Emmeline, besides the fortune she had inherited from her husband, would inherit an even larger sum shortly from an aunt who was deeply attached to her.”

  “Eh bien, that ought to keep Mrs. Clegg safe for the time being!”

  “Oh, M. Poirot, do you really think there is anything wrong?”

  “That is what I am going to endeavour to find out. Have you met a Mr. Cole down at the Sanctuary?”

  “There was a Mr. Cole there last time I went down. A most peculiar man. He wears grass-green shorts and eats nothing but cabbage. He is a very ardent believer.”

  “Eh bien, all progresses well—I make you my compliments on the work you have done—all is now set for the Autumn Festival.”

  V

  “Miss Carnaby—just a moment.”

  Mr. Cole clutched at Miss Carnaby, his eyes bright and feverish.

  “I have had a Vision—a most remarkable Vision. I really must tell you about it.”

  Miss Carnaby sighed. She was rather afraid of Mr. Cole and his Visions. There were moments when she was decidedly of the opinion that Mr. Cole was mad.

  And she found these Visions of his sometimes very embarrassing. They recalled to her certain outspoken passages in that very modern German book on the Subconscious Mind which she had read before coming down to Devon.

  Mr. Cole, his eyes glistening, his lips twitching, began to talk excitedly.

  “I had been meditating—reflecting on the Fullness of Life, on the Supreme Joy of Oneness—and then, you know, my eyes were opened and I saw—”

  Miss Carnaby braced herself and hoped that what Mr. Cole had seen would not be what he had seen the last time—which had been, apparently, a Ritual Marriage in ancient Sumeria between a god and goddess.

  “I saw”—Mr. Cole leant towards her, breathing hard, his eyes looking (yes, really they did) quite mad—“the Prophet Elijah descending from Heaven in his fiery chariot.”

  Miss Carnaby breathed a sigh of relief. Elijah was much better, she didn’t mind Elijah.

  “Below,” went on Mr. Cole, “were the altars of Baal—hundreds and hundreds of them. A Voice cried to me: ‘Look, write and testify that which you shall see—’ ”

  He stopped and Miss Carnaby murmured politely: “Yes?”

  “On the altars were the sacrifices, bound there, helpless, waiting for the knife. Virgins—hundreds of virgins—young beautiful, naked virgins—”

  Mr. Cole smacked his lips, Miss Carnaby blushed.

  “Then came the ravens, the ravens of Odin, flying from the North. They met the ravens of Elijah—together they circled in the sky—they swooped, they plucked out the eyes of the victims—there was wailing and gnashing of teeth—and the Voice cried: ‘Behold a Sacrifice—for on this day shall Jehovah and Odin sign blood brotherhood!’ Then the Priests fell upon their victims, they raised their knives—they mutilated their victims—”

  Desperately Miss Carnaby broke away from her tormentor who was now slavering at the mouth in a kind of sadistic fervour:

&nbs
p; “Excuse me one moment.”

  She hastily accosted Lipscomb, the man who occupied the Lodge which gave admission to Green Hills and who providentially happened to be passing.

  “I wonder,” she said, “if you have found a brooch of mine. I must have dropped it somewhere about the grounds.”

  Lipscomb, who was a man immune from the general sweetness and light of Green Hills, merely growled that he hadn’t seen any brooch. It wasn’t his work to go about looking for things. He tried to shake off Miss Carnaby but she accompanied him, babbling about her brooch, till she had put a safe distance between herself and the fervour of Mr. Cole.

  At that moment, the Master himself came out of the Great Fold and, emboldened by his benignant smile, Miss Carnaby ventured to speak her mind to him.

  Did he think that Mr. Cole was quite—was quite—

  The Master laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “You must cast out Fear,” he said. “Perfect Love casteth out Fear. . . .”

  “But I think Mr. Cole is mad. Those Visions he has—”

  “As yet,” said the Master, “he sees Imperfectly . . . through the Glass of his own Carnal Nature. But the day will come when he shall see Spiritually—Face to Face.”

  Miss Carnaby was abashed. Of course, put like that—She rallied to make a smaller protest.

  “And really,” she said, “need Lipscomb be so abominably rude?”

  Again the Master gave his Heavenly Smile.

  “Lipscomb,” he said, “is a faithful watchdog. He is a crude—a primitive soul—but faithful—utterly faithful.”

  He strode on. Miss Carnaby saw him meet Mr. Cole, pause, put a hand on Mr. Cole’s shoulder. She hoped that the Master’s influence might alter the scope of future visions.

  In any case, it was only a week now to the Autumn Festival.

  VI

  On the afternoon preceding the Festival, Miss Carnaby met Hercule Poirot in a small teashop in the sleepy little town of Newton Woodbury. Miss Carnaby was flushed and even more breathless than usual. She sat sipping tea and crumbling a rock bun between her fingers.

  Poirot asked several questions to which she replied monosyllabically.

  Then he said:

  “How many will there be at the Festival?”