by John Creasey
Already, there are signs that this may be happening. Hosts of ordinary people, our fellow men, are forming vigilante committees, as it were, to guard their churches, the places where they worship. Such spontaneous action is admirable. The only danger is that in their determination to stop the outrages, the authorities might overlook the first essential - which is to find the evil men who are committing these crimes against God and Man.
The more popular Globe said:
The public is shocked, and the public conscience is shocked. These are good things. So is the immediate reaction of the police and the official bodies of the church, in preparing and carrying out a plan of defence. Time may have been lost in the past; none is being lost now.
No outrage was committed last night, but this must not persuade anyone concerned to relax their vigilance for a single moment. Until the perpetrators of the outrages are caught, no church can be safe.
And when we say this we are fully aware that we can envisage danger to our great historic churches and cathedrals, part of the British as well as the Christian heritage. Imagine the cry of horror that would rise if the ancient Coronation Chair were damaged at Westminster Abbey; or the portions of the Bayeux Tapestry were burned. The bones of Edward the Confessor, the Abbey’s founder, would lie uneasily indeed.
Or imagine the fine mosaic decorations of the ceilings of the Choir at St. Paul’s being ruined; or the noise which would reverberate round the world if there were an explosion in the whispering gallery in St. Christopher Wren’s noble edifice.
The danger to these, and to every sacred building in the nation, will remain until the criminals are caught.
The organizer of those criminals read through these and other editorials until he had as clear a picture as a man could have of the defences and forces ranged against him. He showed no triumph, no egotistical delight at being the root and cause of nationwide attention. Indeed, there were minutes when his face seemed so still that it was hard to see whether he was breathing.
Presently he put all the papers aside and placed his elbows on the desk, the tips of his fingers together in an attitude almost of prayer. No one could deny that he had the face of an ascetic, even if the expression was touched with a chilling arrogance. No warmth, no troubled doubt emanated from him, and in this statuesque pose he stayed for some time. When eventually he broke it, it was with a sharp intake of breath, which heralded a change in his manner. He became alert and quick-moving. Animation returned to his face, expression to his eyes. He lifted a telephone, dialled, and when he was answered said crisply, “I wish to see the Committee of Three in half an hour.”
A man said, with the quietness of humility, “We shall be here, sir.”
18: THE COMMITTEE OF THREE
The man who had telephoned the curt message was Hector Marriott, who described himself as a Professor of Languages and who as such had once given private tuition. That was some time ago, before he had inherited his father’s money. He was in fact a millionaire, although few were aware of it; so many of his stocks were managed by trusts, so many of his properties were owned under different names. He had for many years managed his affairs skilfully and successfully, making more and more money, although its amassing appeared to give him little pleasure. He was an ascetic. He was also a man with a mission. And he was a man who had visions.
A great many men have visions; only those who believe them to be inspired are likely to be dangerous. Marriott was absolutely convinced of that inspiration; he felt that no vision would ever direct him along the wrong path.
For many years he had worshiped in an ordinary Anglican church, a member but not active in his membership or one of whom much notice was taken. Mr. Marriott, it was said, preferred to keep himself to himself. He did not resent this, but it did nothing to endear him to his fellow members.
During the war the church received a direct hit and was utterly destroyed. The parishioners, such as were left at home, built a wooden shack by their own endeavours, made a wooden altar, fashioned a wooden cross, and worshiped there. The simplicity of the place of worship and the friendliness of the people did a thing which was unique in Marriott’s experience. Together, they warmed him. He actually began to like people and to stop thinking that all they wanted was his money. He had never known happiness in the true sense of the word - he had never been in love, although he had had the normal, occasional relationships of the average man - but during the wooden hut period he had been nearer to happiness and contentment than ever before. After a while, however, some of the other church members had become restless, wanting something more materially worthy in which to worship, and a rebuilding fund had been launched.
Marriott had subscribed cautiously; he had even agreed to serve on the Rebuilding Fund committee.
Before long, arguments had started. The target crept higher, more and more expense was incurred on gold, on silver, on rich embroideries, on rare woods. Gradually, the fund drove away all thought of worship. There were quarrels. There were jealousies. There were refusals to give to deserving charities. There was even quarrelling about ritual.
Hector Marriott resigned, simply, and without verbal protest.
The time came when the new church was built and the first service was held, and in spite of his doubts Marriott had attended. That was the day when, in a church notice, these words, under the name of the vicar, appeared:
“I have good news for all of us, especially for those who have laboured so long in preparation for this beautiful new House of God. The site on which our old church stood and where our hut now stands has been sold to very great advantage. We shall now be able to adorn the altar and the pulpit, the choir stalls and the windows, in a way which is worthy of their high purpose.”
Hector Marriott, unaware that he was already mad, left the church determined never to set foot in it or in any other so-called place of worship again. Next day, passing the end of the street, he saw a cloud of dust or smoke and went to see what it was. The little hut which he had so loved, not knowing that it was love, was a smoke-filled ruin, the sides split, the roof off, the door torn from its hinges. The demolition contractors on the site simply stated, “It wasn’t worth saving - we had to blow it up.”
Hatred overflowed in Hector Marriott’s heart.
Still not knowing - to his last day not knowing - that he was insane, he had gone home and sunk to his knees, calling upon God to strike down the destroyers. And that night, in his dreams, he had had a vision: that the new church itself should be destroyed in the pride of its idolatry. At first he had believed that the church would destroy itself, that his dream would be fulfilled in that way, but he had other dreams - that he himself should be the instrument of such destruction.
He began to daydream.
He was an ascetic, he hated war, he did not know the love of a woman or love for a woman, he was a psychopath, he had millions of pounds to do what he liked with - but the only desire he felt was to desecrate and eventually destroy what others, in the name of worship, had built up.
How?
He waited for a “vision” and one came: in a dream, he saw himself and other men standing amid the smoke-rimmed debris of a church. So he must not do this alone. He did not feel any sense of urgency, simply one of purpose; and so he studied books and records of other religious rebels, especially those who had rebelled against the pomp and ceremony of the church, from Luther to Billy Graham, across the centuries and across the world. A study of strange and out-of-the-way religions began to fascinate him, and he went to services of little-known sects, even crossing the Atlantic in his search for information that would nourish his vision.
There he found the sex sects, the worshipers of Baal and of Osiris. He found the Doukhobors who wrestled - as he wrestled - with the spirit, so as to purify its doctrines, and who flagellated themselves and each other in their lust for purification. He felt drawn toward the Shakers in their belief in a celibacy which would destroy themselves, toward the Amanas who had the same horror o
f sex. He was revolted by the cult of voodoo, half Christian, half black magic, with its awful rituals and terrifying superstitions. He visited the hills of Tennessee where the snake worshipers prayed in the name of Christ; he traversed the high mountains of Utah into the hinterland where some still practiced polygamy, convinced it was the will of God because the Prophet, Joseph Smith, had seen a vision - as he, Hector Marriott, had seen visions.
But his were true.
In the course of these travels and meetings he found other men who had the same ascetic tendencies as himself, the same resentment toward the wealth of the churches, the finery, the jewellery, the objets d’art. In time he found himself their leader, for he possessed those two great things which move mountains - wealth and faith in his destiny.
Their sect evolved slowly. A chance phrase which Marriott himself used led to their adoption of the name, The Simple Brethren. The main difference between them and other Christian sects was the fact that they were a secret society, and that they were all pledged to desecrate and destroy idolatry, pomp and show, and all but the simplest of altars and buildings. In the beginning, the word “destroy” was not used literally, although in Marriott’s mind there was always a vision of the ultimate destruction he and others were to bring about one day - and for that day he felt an inexorable lust and yearning. But there was no hurry, no sense of urgency; the time must be ripe, and the perpetrators prepared.
The membership of The Simple Brethren was strictly controlled. Before one could become an associate, papers of extreme erudition in matters of idolatry and rare and strange religions had to be read and approved. Cromwell became a hero, almost a godhead. All Christian sects that worshiped with an absolute minimum of ritual won approval, but none of this was enough. Marriott and his closer associates began to practice more and more rigorous forms of asceticism and self-denial. They had fast days, days of silence, days of flagellation, days of penitence. More and more was demanded of them. They eschewed the pleasures of life almost entirely, even the pleasures of eating and drinking. They denied themselves all forms of sexual indulgence. They eschewed theatres, cinemas, all games, all activities but those of earning their daily living and of worshiping.
Those who were married left their wives and families, though not without support; for Hector Marriott supplied each family’s needs, except those for the husband and the father.
Those who had been engaged to marry broke their engagements.
There was no love but their love for one another and, they said and believed, the love of God.
Gradually, the weaker Brethren dropped out of the circle. Only those who could withstand the rigour of such self-discipline and such abnegation before the Lord and before themselves stayed. Over the years there were nearly five hundred who quit for one reason or another, but a hundred and two remained. Now and again a new Brother was admitted to the sect, and there were times when some, deeply awed by Marriott, saw him as the Father of the movement.
To designate him Father Marriott was too reminiscent of the Roman Catholic Church, so they called him Elder Brother.
These were strange men, each clever and competent in his way, each with his own particular gifts, each with the deep conviction that the worship of God should be in the simplest form and in the barest of houses, that the heirlooms of the churches were gifts from the Devil, and that all outward signs of wealth, all insignia, all holy objects which were bejewelled, or of gold, should be destroyed. They saw the church as an enemy of God, and they believed that the enemies of God should be utterly annihilated.
Slowly, painfully, Marriott the Elder Brother trained these men, converting them to his own beliefs, his own visions, almost to believe in his own divinity. They did not worship him but they worshiped through him, and so they worshiped through his madness, becoming one with it.
He had taken to himself three advisers: these were the Committee of Three. But it was Marriott who made the decisions, and he had timed the explosions to coincide with the tenth anniversary of the destruction of the little wooden shed. And it was he who had decided that on each night of action the number of churches attacked would double that of the previous attack. It was a purely arbitrary decision, and inherent in it was the realization that, once launched, the campaign of destruction must quickly reach crescendo to ensure the maximum amount of damage being done before successful methods were put in train to stop the conspirators.
The Committee of Three met in an office in Victoria Street, only five minutes’ walk from Marriott’s flat. On the hall staircase there was a painted notice: “The Brothers Bible Society - Third Floor”. Marriott owned the building, letting it off in offices. He himself occupied three rooms in all, in which he ran a Bible and tract distributing business with a genuine trade. The Committee met, as always, in a room at the back, quietly and unobserved.
When Marriott arrived, the others were waiting, standing by their places at a round table. One, Joliffe, was tall, lean, melancholy. The second, Abbotsbury, was of medium height, thin, sad-looking. The third, Dennison, was sturdier and actually had a little colour in his cheeks.
Each was dressed in clerical grey.
Each stood silent until at last the Elder Brother said, “Amen.”
All of them sat down.
“You will have seen the effect of what we have done already,” said the Elder Brother. “It has been highly successful, the hand of God aiding our endeavours. It will not be so easy in future, however, and so our preparations must be well-considered. Do we all agree?”
There were three murmurs of assent, sounding as one.
“These houses of idolatry are being closely guarded and as closely searched, but we shall be blessed if we overcome our difficulties and cursed if we fail to rise to the opportunities. As you well know, we contemplated the possibility that the police would aid the churches and so we made our plans. Are we all aware of those plans?”
Again a single murmur of unified assent hummed through the room.
“As we are aware, yesterday I sent to sixteen of our Brethren the directive; each knows which house is to be visited next. None must fail.”
Assent greeted him.
“If one is apprehended by the police it is possible that he will betray, wittingly or unwittingly, the existence and the dedicated purpose of The Simple Brethren. Since no one knows where I live, and since this office is unknown except to us, we have nothing to fear.”
“Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear.”
“Nevertheless, we will not come here and we will not meet again until I summon you. I will send the directives out as they become necessary. If our efforts are blessed, none of the Brethren will be detected and we shall strike again the night after tomorrow. If, on the other hand, the forces of evil should assert themselves and we cannot foregather, each of us knows the final task.”
“I know.”
“I know.”
“I know.”
“Each of us has sworn to accomplish that task, at the risk of his life.”
“Each of us has.”
“Each of us has.”
“Each of us has.”
“I will ask each of you to remind himself of his obligation, and to repeat it, under solemn oath. Brother Joliffe.”
The tall, lean man said in a frail but steady voice, “I hereby swear by solemn oath of allegiance to The Simple Brethren and to God that at risk to myself, even unto death, I will destroy the house of idolatry known in this land as the Cathedral of Westminster.”
“Ah-men.”
“Brother Abbotsbury.”
“I hereby swear by solemn oath of allegiance to The Simple Brethren and to God that at risk to myself, even unto death, I will destroy the house of idolatry known in this land as the Synagogue of London.”
“Ah-men.”
“Brother Dennison.”
In a firm, clear voice, the third member of the Committee declared: “I hereby swear by solemn oath of allegiance to The Simple Brethren and to God t
hat at risk to myself, even unto death, I will destroy the house of idolatry known in this land as the Abbey of Westminster.”
“Ah-men.”
There was a pause, which became prolonged. Tension crept stealthily round the room, to be broken by the voice of the Elder Brother, speaking with the slow and frightening clarity of the utterly possessed.
“I hereby swear in solemn oath of allegiance to The Simple Brethren and to God that at risk to myself, even unto death, I will destroy the house of idolatry known in this land as St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
“Ah-men.”
“Ah-men.”
“Ah-men.”
19: HOBBS v LEMAITRE
“Everyone thought the same,” said Lemaitre to Gideon. “They all think we’re dealing with a lot of cranks and crackpots. Ordinary methods won’t do any good, we’ve got to out-think a bunch of weirdies. What a hope!”
In a quiet voice, Alec Hobbs asked, “You don’t view our chances very favourably then?”
“I view our chances of stopping most of the baskets very favourably indeed, but not of finding out who they are,” Lemaitre said. He was still a little awkward in Hobbs’s company, and rather dogmatic. He did not know about Hobbs’s wife but he could see the glassy-eyed look and the evidence of strain in the other’s manner, and he wondered what it was all about. When Hobbs gave no answer, Lemaitre took silence for implied criticism and went on almost stridently, “If they have another go tonight at several churches we ought to catch one or two of them, and if we can make them talk, then bob’s your uncle.”
“Don’t you think we can make them talk?” asked Hobbs.
Again, Lemaitre took this to imply criticism: you can’t, I can, but not in so many words. He became wary, even more conscious of his position. He was still Hobbs’s equal in rank but the official promotion to Deputy Commander was due in a matter of days; from then on Hobbs’s superiority would be established. Lemaitre thought, if this so-and-so expects me to call him “sir”, he’s got another think coming.