A gush of brash leaped into Ellery’s mouth, and he had to swallow the burning stuff before he could say: “So we have established that the Teacher had opportunity to kill the Storesman ― that is, that he was here; and that he had the means ― that is, that his hand grasped the hammer.
“Now we must weigh the third and last measure of guilt ― Motive.”
And Ellery said:
“In stealing the Teacher’s key to the sanquetum door and from it making a duplicate key, Storicai sinned in intent. But, having made the key, he proceeded to sin in fact. He committed three acts of offense against Quenan and the Teacher who had taught him.
“Storicai entered the holy house without ringing the bell and without being admitted by the Teacher ― this was the first offense. He entered the forbidden room, which the Teacher alone among you has the right to enter ― this was the second offense. And he laid greedy hands on the treasure ― and this was his third offense.
“So, in the space of five shameful minutes, Storicai the Storesman offended against you, his brothers in Quenan, in general, and against his and your Teacher, in particular. Surely you can understand that the Teacher, venerable and wise and revered though he is, is still a man of flesh and blood, subject to the same weaknesses that beset us all? That, catching Storicai in the act of committing three sins against the laws and customs of Quenan, your Teacher was seized with a great wrath and rose up against the transgressor with whatever instrument lay at hand ― a prayer jar, a hammer ― and struck down him who had wrought blasphemy upon the Wor’d?”
He looked up and down the two lines of faces, sure that now, at last, he would see agreement written there, even relief. But he saw only the same confused and fearful people.
What was the matter?
Ellery said in muttered, cracking tones, “And now I really cannot hold off any longer asking the question ― the question of questions.” And the Teacher said, “Seek the truth and we shall be ― ” There was a word after “be,” but Ellery was not sure he had heard it correctly. Had the old man said “safe”? Or was it “saved”?
Well. No matter. Now for it. Ellery braced himself.
“Teacher. Did you slay Storicai the Storesman?” The patriarch replied instantly, and his reply staggered Ellery… made him reach for the table, and support himself.
The rich voice of the Teacher said, “It is you who say it.” They had been gathered at the foot of the long table in a group, deliberating, praying, debating in low voices, for a long time. A final disagreement, apparently irreconcilable, sent the Chronicler as spokesmen to the Superintendent, to whisper in his ear.
That dry man immediately nodded and approached Ellery.
“I am asked to tell you, Elroi, that some of the Crownsil are confused by the pictures on the hammer, what you call the fingerprints. These persons say: Elroi says that the fingerprints on the hammer are the very same as the Teacher’s fingerprints on the paper, but we could not be sure that all those little lines and loops are the same in both, so how can he? In a matter as grave as this, there must be no doubt.
This is what they have asked the Chronicler to ask me to ask you, and this is what I ask you now.”
Ellery turned wearily to the Successor, who had sat like a piece of petrified wood throughout most of the procedure.
“Will you please bring me some paper?” He had to repeat his question, for the Successor seemed as deaf as stone, too; but then the young man roused with a start, blushed deeply, and scuttled to the scriptorium to return in a moment with the paper.
Ellery distributed the paper, one sheet to each member of the Crownsil. They were only ten now, for the Slave had been returned to his house, too ill to remain longer in the meeting hall.
After going around the table from member to member, taking the prints of each, Ellery said, “Each person at the table now has before him a sheet of paper on which are impressed the prints of his own fingers. I ask you to do the following: Each of you is to write on his paper, beneath his fingerprints, a secret mark. It may be anything you choose ― a circle, a little tree, a crossmark, anything you wish. Do not tell me or show me which mark you are making. “He dipped into his kit and tossed a few pencils on the table. “You may pass the pencils among you. Now I shall turn my back, so that I cannot see what you are doing.” He turned his back. “Now do you all make your secret marks on your papers, and be sure you remember which mark you have made.”
He stood there patiently, in a sort of exhausted wonder at the extraordinary situation in which he found himself. Behind him arose a sound made of shuffling feet, heavy breathing, and the rustling of clothes.
“Is it done?”
There was a little added confusion. Then the voice of the Superintendent said, “It is done.”
Ellery did not turn around. “Now, Superintendent, do you collect the papers.”
After a moment the superintendent said, “It is done. I have collected the papers.”
“You will now shuffle them, Superintendent, placing them in random order, so that I cannot possibly guess from their order which paper belongs to whom.”
After a few moments the Superintendent said, “And that is done, Elroi.”
Ellery turned around; the ten sheets lay in a neat pile at the head of the table. Under their puzzled eyes he pulled the stool over, sat down, and took from his pocket the fifteen sets of fingerprints he had recorded the day before, each labeled with the title of the official whose prints it bore.
He picked up the top sheet of the unidentified set he had just taken, and compared it with the top sheet of the identified set. They did not match, and he went on to the second sheet of the identified set. Then to the third. The fourth sheet of the old set was the one he was looking for.
He held up the sheet of unidentified prints with the secret mark. For effect, he did not speak at once. They were all watching his lips breathlessly.
“I have here a paper bearing fingerprints and a secret mark. The secret mark is an arrangement of eight lines, forming a square within a square. I say to you, without any doubt, that the fingerprints on this paper were made by” ― and he turned suddenly to a pair of startled female eyes ― ”you, Weaver! Is it so? Tell it aloud, Weaver ― are these your prints?”
“Yes,” the woman breathed, “for the square within a square is the secret mark I made.”
A murmur of amazement arose from the long table. Ellery stilled it with a gesture.
“I have only begun,” he said; and he began comparing the second sheet from the secret-mark pile with his master set. Again the holding of breaths. Again his deliberate prolongation of the suspense. And then Ellery said, holding up the sheet, “The prints on this paper are marked with a wavy line such as children draw when they wish to represent water.
The maker of this water sign is trying to mislead me, I fear. For one would expect the secret mark of water to be made by the Waterman. But it was not. It was made by you, Chronicler. Tell it! These are your fingerprints, I say.”
And the Chronicler, scratching his beard as if caught in a sly joke, nodded. “They are mine, Elroi, even as you say.” After that, there was nothing to it. The Waterman had drawn a little house; the Growther had put down two interlocking circles; the Potter had made three Xs; the Miller had scratched the outline of an animal Ellery guessed was intended as a cow only because of its enormous udders; and so on.
“So you may see,” he said, when he had finished, “that there can be no mistake when the fingerprints are compared by the eye of one who knows how to read them. The fingerprints on the hammer came from the hand of the Teacher.”
They were convinced. He did not look at the patriarch, who had sat in total silence throughout the demonstration.
Once again they withdrew to their deliberations, closing in together at the other end of the table. Once again Ellery looked at them through clouded eyes, his face supported by trembling hands. Presently the Weaver began to cry. And then the Chronicler rose and with a reluctant
gesture beckoned the Superintendent. He spoke in so low a voice that the man had to stoop to hear.
The Superintendent slowly, very slowly, returned to Ellery, and as the pale man stood before him Ellery forced himself to speak.
“What is their verdict?” he asked. “If they have reached one.” For in that moment it seemed to him the ultimate folly to imagine that they would find against their leader. It had all been a futile farce.
“They have reached a verdict,” said the Superintendent hoarsely. His eyes were starting from his head. “It is the verdict of all, with no nay-sayers. The Teacher is guilty of the death of Storicai the Storesman.” His self-control wilted suddenly. And he crouched and slapped his hands over his face, rocking and crying.
Like a signal, it touched off a remarkable demonstration. The two women of the Crownsil, the Weaver and the ancient female of the pair of Elders, burst into wails, the old woman tearing at her hair and beating her breasts with her withered fists. Tears sprang from the eyes of the men and fell into their beards. Some laid their heads on the table, clawing at it with both hands while they wept.
But of the entire company it was the young Successor who sobbed most heart-brokenly. His sturdy body twitched and jumped as if nothing, nothing in this world or the next could ever make him whole again.
And it was the Teacher who consoled him, who laid a gently urgent hand on the boy’s racked shoulder, who then stroked his hair and murmured in his ear, making little soothing sounds as if to a terror-stricken child. And gradually the Successor’s sobs lessened, and became a whimper, and the whimper died; and Ellery looked around to find that all had fallen silent.
And he turned again to the Superintendent. “And the sentence? The judgment?”
The man peered through red, swimming eyes. “Although the decision of the Crownsil, once made, may not be revoked, it can pass neither sentence nor judgment.”
“Then who ―?” Ellery began stupidly.
The Superintendent whispered, “Only the Teacher.” My God, he thought, my God. He had forgotten!
And the Teacher straightened and faced them; and the others rose as one; and the Teacher made a gesture of benediction, and they took their seats once more. And there was silence.
“Blessed is the Wor’d,” began the old man, “over all the earth and unto all mankind that dwell hereon. Very many have been the blessings of the Wor’d unto me. My years have been long, my wives and children and children’s children many. But even had I not enjoyed such riches, I would be rich still. For, blessed be the Wor’d, I have enjoyed other riches beyond number ― the rain and the rainbow; the sun and the stars; the holy breath that is the wind. Blessed be the Wor’d for the sight and sound of birds; for the song in the voices of women; for the sweat on the bodies of men earned through toil; for the antelope in its flight and the smiling talk of friends; for the scent of grasses and the feel of watered earth; for the upturned faces of suckling lambs, and the peace that comes from prayers, and the grain that makes good bread; for the thousand perfumes of the flowers, and their thousand colors; for the shade of trees, and the happy agony of birth, and for children’s voices.
“Blessed be the Wor’d,” said the Teacher, and his voice rang through the meeting room, “for I say to you that no man can abide upon the earth so long as to grow weary of its riches. The moon must wane in its time, and vanish; but after the darkness comes the new moon, glorious.” And the old man paused. And then he said, in quite a different voice,
“This is my judgement, this is my sentence that I pass upon myself:
“Tomorrow, at the sun’s setting, I shall be caused to cease from among you” ― did that quiet voice falter just a little? ― ”according to the manner decreed by the law.”
For a second ― one second of bottomless horror during which Ellery felt that he must surely burst, and everything whistled before his eyes in great and roaring circles ― for one second no one made a sound.
But then the Successor cried out, “No!” in fearful disbelief, and again,
“No!” And the womanly voice of the Weaver joined in anquished lamentation. “Stop now, do you now stop at once, for you trouble not yourselves alone, but me.” And the utterance, so firmly and gently said, silenced them more quickly than a shout. “Do not grieve,” the Teacher said “for it must be. It is thus written, and only thus it is written, and as it is written so must it come to pass. Blessed is the Wor’d.” For weeks, months, Ellery had been starved for rest. But that night he could not sleep even for a moment. Something was wrong ― every cell in his exhausted brain told him so. And yet he could not see what, he could not think where. Had the very simplicity of the case made him careless?
Blindly unable to see the forest for the trees?
He tossed and shivered and perspired while the deep-seated pain settled deeper.
At the bottom it became a choice between the little bottle of red capsules and giving up. He gave up.
He crawled from the pallet, and switched on his flashlight, and then decided to save the battery; so he lit the candles in the earthenware candlesticks ― salt-glazed, he noticed, grimacing at the detail.
Detail, detail ― somewhere existed a detail he had overlooked. It gnawed away at him like the fox at the Spartan boy’s belly. He had to organize, he had to organize his thoughts. Something about the trial, the end of the trial… no, not the end exactly, but toward the end… something there; that was what was bothering him. While he was talking about motive? Had his primer exposition of motivation been faulty? Had he left something out? Was that it?
As he continued to think about it, pulling on a jacket against the chilly desert night, tucking his feet back under the blanket, Ellery’s heart sank even lower. For, granted that Storicai had been guilty of great sins against Quenan; granted that the Storesman had committed the community’s first crime in almost two generations; granted also that religious belief sometimes assumed sudden spasmodic forms of fanaticism (a pilgrim to Mecca had only recently been torn to pieces by maddened worshipers for having, in a fit of sickness, vomited on the holy Kaaba): granted, granted, granted.
Still… would the Teacher have so lost command of himself ― that most patient and disciplined of men ― as to yield to an impulse of violence? The Teacher guilty of violence? ― that saintliest of the brothers?
As for the possibility that the old man had struck, not in a fit of rage, but with coldly predetermined intention, Ellery could not for a moment credit it.
But certainly he had here got to the root of his hag-mounted doubts: the motive, which had seemed so utterly convincing during the trial, was now not convincing at all. The Teacher was a man whose nature excluded a resort to violence; who would not, who could not, have struck Storicai with the prayer jar. The prayer jar! How could Ellery have believed for a moment that the holy man would desecrate a sacred vessel, even to smite a sinner?
And the hammer ― would the Teacher have been capable of swinging it at even the meanest of his flock? Not once, but twice? A hammer, a skull-crushing hammer? Even in self-defense? Even to save the life that he himself had condemned to be taken tomorrow?
Unthinkable. It was unthinkable.
Think it through again, think it through…
And the questions came crowding, elbowing one another, in their release from the dark cell in which he had imprisoned them.
Why had the Teacher left such a plain trail to himself? For that was what he had done:
Ten minutes after Storicai’s death the old man had shown up at the Potter’s shed to ask for a new scroll jar.
Fifteen minutes later he had gone openly to the Weaver to have his
“lost” ― his unique, his identifiable ― button replaced.
And how was it that, having meticulously swept up the fragments of the broken jar in the sanquetum, the Teacher had overlooked one shard?
A shard that Ellery had seen almost at once…
And the manner of his responses to the direct questions. Asked if h
e had gone straight from the Slave’s house to the Holy Congregation House, the old man had answered, It is so. Asked if he had been in the holy house just before Storicai was stuck down, he had answered, It is so. Asked if the button found in the dead man’s hand had come from his garment he had answered, It is so. Asked if it was he who had gathered together the broken pieces of the prayer jar, if it was he who had gone from the holy house after the killing to the Potter’s for a replacement jar, the old man had answered, It is so. Asked if it was his hand that had held the hammer, he had answered, It is so.
But asked if he had killed the Storesman, he had not answered, It is so.
He had answered: It is you who say it!
It is you who say it was not at all the same as It is so. The Teacher did not lie ― no, as the Elders had both cried out, not even to save his life. It is you who say it had been the equivocation of a man who could not lie, but who at the same time did not want to tell the truth, the whole truth.
Therefore… therefore (and Ellery shivered in the cold room, made colder by his thoughts) the whole truth has not yet been told. He would have to begin again.
The moment he re-examined the button, with its mystic N in the candlelight, Ellery saw what he had failed to see before, and cursed himself for his blindness.
The ends of the thread on the button were not raggedly torn, as they would have been had they been ripped away in a struggle. Instead, under the lens they showed up sharp and clean. They had been severed from the garment with a knife or scissors.
He turned the button over. The lens immediately showed him another proof of his carelessness ― criminal carelessness, he told himself bitterly.
There was a fresh-looking little gash where the oxidized surface of the soft metal had suffered a recent scratch, as if a sharp-edged instrument had slipped while cutting the thread.
My God, Ellery said to himself wildly, I investigate what I think is a primitive crime in a primitive setting of primitive people, and I find a sophisticated frame-up! The button was deliberately cut from the Teacher’s robe! The button was deliberately planted in the dead man’s hand!
And on the Eighth Day Page 14