The Last Seance

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Yes?’ said Poirot.

  ‘You see, M. Poirot. I think that it is really not so much wickedness as a craving for excitement! My life has unfortunately been very humdrum. The—er—campaign of the Pekinese dogs, I sometimes feel, was the only time I really lived. Very reprehensible, of course, but, as my book says, one must not turn one’s back on the truth. I came to you, M. Poirot, because I hoped it might be possible to—to sublimate that craving for excitement by employing it, if I may put it that way, on the side of the angels.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Poirot. ‘It is then as a colleague that you present yourself?’

  Miss Carnaby blushed.

  ‘It is very presumptuous of me, I know. But you were so kind—’

  She stopped. Her eyes, faded blue eyes, had something in them of the pleading of a dog who hopes against hope that you will take him for a walk.

  ‘It is an idea,’ said Hercule Poirot slowly.

  ‘I am, of course, not at all clever,’ explained Miss Carnaby. ‘But my powers of—of dissimulation are good. They have to be—otherwise one would be discharged from the post of companion immediately. And I have always found that to appear even stupider than one is, occasionally has good results.’

  Hercule Poirot laughed. He said:

  ‘You enchant me, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Oh dear, M. Poirot, what a very kind man you are. Then you do encourage me to hope? As it happens, I have just received a small legacy—a very small one, but it enables my sister and myself to keep and feed ourselves in a frugal manner so that I am not absolutely dependent on what I earn.’

  ‘I must consider,’ said Poirot, ‘where your talents may best be employed. You have no idea yourself, I suppose?’

  ‘You know, you must really be a thought reader, M. Poirot. I have been anxious lately about a friend of mine. I was going to consult you. Of course you may say it is all an old maid’s fancy—just imagination. One is prone, perhaps, to exaggerate, and to see design where there may be only coincidence.’

  ‘I do not think you would exaggerate, Miss Carnaby. Tell me what is on your mind.’

  ‘Well, I have a friend, a very dear friend, though I have not seen very much of her of late years. Her name is Emmeline Clegg. She married a man in the North of England and he died a few years ago leaving her very comfortably off. She was unhappy and lonely after his death and I am afraid she is in some ways a rather foolish and perhaps credulous woman. Religion, M. Poirot, can be a great help and sustenance—but by that I mean orthodox religion.’

  ‘You refer to the Greek Church?’ asked Poirot.

  Miss Carnaby looked shocked.

  ‘Oh no, indeed. Church of England. And though I do not approve of Roman Catholics, they are at least recognized. And the Wesleyans and Congregationalists—they are all well-known respectable bodies. What I am talking about are these odd sects. They just spring up. They have a kind of emotional appeal but sometimes I have very grave doubts as to whether there is any true religious feeling behind them at all.’

  ‘You think your friend is being victimized by a sect of this kind?’

  ‘I do. Oh! I certainly do. The Flock of the Shepherd, they call themselves. Their headquarters is in Devonshire—a very lovely estate by the sea. The adherents go there for what they term a Retreat. That is a period of a fortnight—with religious services and rituals. And there are three big Festivals in the year, the Coming of the Pasture, the Full Pasture, and the Reaping of the Pasture.’

  ‘Which last is stupid,’ said Poirot. ‘Because one does not reap pasture.’

  ‘The whole thing is stupid,’ said Miss Carnaby with warmth. ‘The whole sect centres round the head of the movement, the Great Shepherd, he is called. A Dr Andersen. A very handsome-looking man, I believe, with a presence.’

  ‘Which is attractive to the women, yes?’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ Miss Carnaby sighed. ‘My father was a very handsome man. Sometimes, it was most awkward in the parish. The rivalry in embroidering vestments—and the division of church work . . .’

  She shook her head reminiscently.

  ‘Are the members of the Great Flock mostly women?’

  ‘At least three quarters of them, I gather. What men there are, are mostly cranks! It is upon the women that the success of the movement depends and—and on the funds they supply.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘Now we come to it. Frankly, you think the whole thing is a ramp?’

  ‘Frankly, M. Poirot, I do. And another thing worries me. I happen to know that my poor friend is so bound up in this religion that she has recently made a will leaving all her property to the movement.’

  Poirot said sharply:

  ‘Was that—suggested to her?’

  ‘In all fairness, no. It was entirely her own idea. The Great Shepherd had shown her a new way of life—so all that she had was to go on her death to the Great Cause. What really worries me is—’

  ‘Yes—go on—’

  ‘Several wealthy women have been among the devotees. In the last year three of them, no less, have died.’

  ‘Leaving all their money to this sect?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Their relations have made no protest? I should have thought it likely that there might have been litigation.’

  ‘You see, M. Poirot, it is usually lonely women who belong to this gathering. People who have no very near relations or friends.’

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Miss Carnaby hurried on:

  ‘Of course I’ve no right to suggest anything at all. From what I have been able to find out, there was nothing wrong about any of these deaths. One, I believe, was pneumonia following influenza and another was attributed to gastric ulcer. There were absolutely no suspicious circumstances, if you know what I mean, and the deaths did not take place at Green Hills Sanctuary, but at their own homes. I’ve no doubt it is quite all right, but all the same I—well—I shouldn’t like anything to happen to Emmie.’

  She clasped her hands, her eyes appealed to Poirot.

  Poirot himself was silent for some minutes. When he spoke there was a change in his voice. It was grave and deep.

  He said:

  ‘Will you give me, or will you find out for me, the names and addresses of these members of the sect who have recently died?’

  ‘Yes indeed, M. Poirot.’

  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!’

  ‘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 hankypanky. Mrs Lloyd died of broncho-pneumonia. 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 Labour 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.”!’

  ‘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.

&
nbsp; 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.

  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.’