Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

Hubert flicked Rowland’s torch into a corner where Lenin was tied to a trough. The dog seemed to have settled to sleep. “He’s been keeping me company on and off… goes goofy when you scratch his belly… ugly mutt but he’s got a great smile.”

  “What are you doing here, Hu?” Rowland asked, stretching gingerly.

  “Hiding.”

  “From the police.”

  “Them too… they think I killed Charlie.”

  “He’s not dead… not quite. Why’d you set me up with that meeting at The Manor?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “My housekeeper took… you didn’t call…” Rowland groaned in realisation.

  “No—it wasn’t me, pal.” Van Hook sat down on an upturned urn. “Look Rowly, I recognised someone the other day… I didn’t say anything ’cause I thought every man’s got a right to move on and it could have been just a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “That he should turn up now when Theosophists are being popped off. I knew him a long time ago.”

  Rowland nodded. “I know—Arthur Urquhart—Father Matthew Bryan is Arthur Urquhart.”

  Van Hook was visibly shocked. “When did you figure that out?”

  “Just now, actually,” Rowland replied. “It was something Ed said about me looking like my brother… I started looking carefully at the photos she took on the ship… there’s a resemblance when you’re looking for it. I suppose I can’t blame him for not wanting people to know… particularly now he’s with the Church.”

  “There’s more to it than that, pal.”

  Rowland nodded. “I was afraid of that. What do you know, Hu?”

  “The dirtbag tried to kill me.”

  “You don’t say? When?”

  “The day he belted you with that statue—I tried to warn you. Art asked me to meet him at the church there that morning, but I was late. He heard me shout out to you… I saw his eyes, Rowly old buddy. He meant to kill you and meant to kill me… I punked out—got the hell outta there.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I tried to call you—I wanted to talk to you before I went to the police with some crazy story about a homicidal priest.”

  Rowland nodded, remembering the messages from Van Hook. He hadn’t returned the phone calls. “I’m sorry, old man—I thought you were just calling to warn me that Leadbeater planned to name me his flaming messiah.”

  “You couldn’t have called me back anyway, pal, I was on the lam… calling you from wherever I could.”

  “I don’t understand, Hu… you’re a lawyer… surely…?”

  Van Hook took a deep breath. “I’ll level with you, Rowly. I knew you had contacts, and I was hoping you could help me sort this out real quiet like. My clients back home ain’t the type of fellas you bring home to meet mother, and they ain’t going to be happy that their mouthpiece is mixed up with some crazy spiritual movement… Geez, my wife doesn’t even know that I do work for the Theosophists.”

  “Your wife… you’re married?”

  “Left Lucy and the girls in London for a few months.”

  “The girls?”

  “I’ve got two… real little sweethearts.” Van Hook took a photograph from his pocket.

  Rowland looked at the picture and shook his head.

  “What…? What’s wrong with them?” Van Hook challenged.

  “Nothing at all,” Rowland said quickly. “They’re perfectly charming. I just can’t believe you’ve never mentioned you had a family before.”

  “It’s like this, Rowly…” Van Hook scratched his head trying to find the words to explain. “I’ve moved on from the movement in a lot of ways… but you know I love Annie and Jiddu’s like a brother to me, so every now and then I sort some things for them, catch up, meditate… that sort of thing… call it penance for past misdeeds… but I keep it separate. Lucy—my wife, she’s not a member… in fact she thinks the Theosophists are “dangerous heathens”. She’d probably leave me if she knew I was involved with them again.”

  “So you live a double life?”

  “Don’t we all, pal… to some extent at least?”

  “This is a bit extreme, Hu.”

  “Not really. When Lucy decided she’d take the girls to London for the Season, I figured it’d be a good chance to sort out the Society’s affairs. I’d be back in Chicago before they got home and no-one would be the wiser.”

  “So now you’re hiding in a shed,” Rowland said dusting himself off. “Look, Hu, the police have been looking into your background… they found some stuff about you and Leadbeater.”

  “Oh that.” Van Hook’s voice was flat.

  “It’s true, then?” Rowland asked uncomfortably.

  Van Hook studied him, and then sighed. “I was Charlie’s prophet for a while and, yes, I made the allegations of indecency.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Bloody hell, Hu, I would have wanted to kill him.”

  “Well I didn’t,” Van Hook replied. “The allegations weren’t mine.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Van Hook rubbed his face. “You gotta understand Rowly, we were just kids. Art was my best friend—never took to Orville—but Art was good people back then. And Charlie was always a bit queer… you’ve met him.”

  “But he didn’t…”

  “Not me… but Art… maybe… probably. Art couldn’t say anything. His parents believed completely in Charlie.”

  “So you made the allegations for him?”

  “Art convinced me that it didn’t matter who made the allegations… we just had to do something about Leadbeater.” Van Hook shrugged. “We were kids.”

  “What happened?” Rowland asked.

  “Orville Urquhart spoke up for Charlie, called me a liar.” Van Hook laughed ruefully. “I guess I was.”

  “Christ, what a dashed mess.”

  “Art went to live with his grandmother soon after that. He’s changed a bit… I only just recognised him the other day on the ferry… he used to wear peepers—couldn’t see much without them.”

  “Peepers?… Oh you mean spectacles.” Rowland recalled the boy in Delaney’s photo whom Orville Urquhart was jostling aside. Spectacles—of course. That’s why Bryan was such a hopeless shot.

  “Good grief, Hu, why didn’t you take all this to the police?”

  “When I finally worked up the guts to go to the cops without you, they were looking for me. My word against a priest,” Van Hook’s voice became bitter. “And considering my past… I’m an attorney remember… I know how the cops work… it’ll be much easier to close the case on me than to start messing with the Church.”

  “So you came here?”

  “Thought your joint was so big I could hide out till I figured out my next move… the cops wouldn’t look for me here—nor would Art.”

  “Why does he want to kill you?”

  “He’s got it into his head that I’m helping the Society to steal his inheritance.”

  Rowland chewed his lower lip, digesting Van Hook’s revelations.

  “I suppose it’s no great surprise that he shot Leadbeater.”

  “Lots of reasons to kill Charlie,” Van Hook agreed, “and the money as well… Charlie was one of the Urquhart trustees.”

  “And me?”

  “Beats me, pal. I thought you fellas were buddies.”

  “Do you think he killed the others?”

  “Frannie maybe.”

  “Mrs. Waterman? Why?”

  “She might have recognised him—they were tight back then.”

  Rowland stood up. The string of murders, improbable accidents and misfortunes upon the Aquitania were all falling into place. With his brother dead, Arthur Urquhart was the sole heir to the Urquhart fortune—provided the trustees were out of the way. Charles Leadbeater and Annie Besant. Edna had mentioned the deacon would go to India soon. But Isobel—she would not have known who he was, she was no threat to him… unless… Isobel’s child… could it have been
the deacon’s?

  “Come on then,” he said, moving towards the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the house.” Rowland checked his watch. It was one o’clock. “I’ll call Delaney at the first decent hour. It’ll be rather more than just your word—in the meantime you can stop living like a stray cat.”

  Van Hook grabbed Rowland’s hand, shaking it gratefully. “Thanks, pal. I’m in a tight spot.”

  Rowland smiled. “Don’t mention it, Hu… we prophets should stick together.”

  “Rowly?” Clyde turned on the lamp when he heard the door open. “What the… Hu!” Clyde sat up, still too sleepy to respond appropriately to the fact that a wanted murderer had walked into the room.

  “Shhh,” Rowland warned as he came in after Van Hook. “You’ll wake everybody.”

  Milton now sat up too, gaping dumbly at the two of them.

  “Why don’t you take my bed, Hu,” Rowland sat down in the armchair and loosened his tie.

  “Are you going to tell us why you’re giving your bed to a criminal?” Milton asked groggily.

  Van Hook didn’t seem offended, his attention caught instead by the nude of Edna which now leant against the far wall after being expelled from Roburvale.

  “Shoot Rowly, how do you expect me to sleep with that in here? … Cripes!” Van Hook stared at the painting. “So this is what you do?… No wonder you’re not short of a clam.”

  Rowland shook his head, affronted by the reduction of his art in such a way. “Philistine,” he muttered.

  He brought Clyde and Milton up to date, quickly and briefly. It was the poet who reacted violently.

  “Is Ed back yet?” he demanded, suddenly bolt upright.

  Rowland shook his head, not sure why Milton thought Edna needed to know about this now.

  Milton jumped out bed, swearing furiously as he dragged on his trousers.

  “Milt… what?”

  Milton cursed again. “Ed’s with him, Rowly… Bryan, Urquhart… whoever the hell he is. He was supposed to be talking to her about some kind of religious sculpture for the church. She went to meet him.”

  Rowland paled. He stood. “Where were they going?”

  “No bloody idea… a church of some sort… I don’t know.” Milton was starting to panic.

  Clyde was now also fumbling for clothes.

  Rowland checked the time. One-thirty. He opened the door, no longer concerned about his sleeping guests and ran down the stairs. He called Delaney at home.

  It took a little time to make the Detective understand. Admittedly, Rowland was becoming progressively more desperate.

  Milton, Clyde and Van Hook had followed him down.

  “Look, Rowly—just stay put,” Delaney said finally. “I’ll brief the superintendent and get some men out straight away and then I’ll be over. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Rowland hung up.

  “What the blazes!” Wilfred had been woken by the noise and had come down to investigate. He gathered almost immediately that this was not some late-night bohemian revelry. There was a sense of genuine dread in the room.

  Rowland paced, agitated.

  “Rowly,” Wilfred said again. “What’s happened?”

  “Ed’s with some bastard who’s murdered at least three people, and we have no bloody idea where they are,” Rowland replied shaking his head. He was scared cold.

  “You’ve called the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right,” Wilfred said evenly. “So we wait. Rowly—sit down.” He turned to Milton, who was swearing continuously. “Mr. Isaacs, I understand that you are distressed. Nevertheless, there are women and children in the house.”

  Rowland ignored his brother, pacing distractedly. His mind was working furiously—where could they have gone? Edna would stand out at St Patrick’s—he wouldn’t take her there. The sculptress was meeting him to talk about a commission—a religious statue. For what? A church—is that where she’d met him? He turned to the poet. “Milt, think! What was the name of the church?”

  Milton sat with his face in his hands. “I don’t know, Rowly. She didn’t say—it was just some church that needed a statue.”

  “Did she say anything about the statue?”

  “An angel—she was excited about it—some kind of avenging angel.”

  “An archangel?”

  “Yes, that was it.”

  Rowland’s eyes were bright, the blue seemed to intensify. Rookwood… where the clergyman had tried to kill him. The chapel. It had to be. “St Michael the Archangel,” he said slowly.

  “Yes—that’s him.”

  Clyde moved towards the door. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Go? Where the blazes are you going?” Wilfred was startled.

  “Rookwood,” Rowland replied, already at the front door. “Wil, wait here for Delaney, will you. Hu, you too. You can tell Delaney exactly where to go.”

  “What in the King’s name is going on here?” Roger Castlemaine blundered down the steps in his robe and nightcap. “Have we been burgled? Are they still here… where do you keep your guns, boy?”

  Suddenly, the entire related gaggle of Sinclairs was descending the staircase all shouting at once.

  Wilfred stood between them and his brother, abandoning all thoughts of convincing Rowland to wait. Any such endeavours would be fruitless anyway.

  “Right then—we’ll manage things here. Be careful, Rowly—don’t do anything stupid.”

  38

  THE CONFESSION

  Tonight will be the last of the William Anderson dramatic season at the Tivoli Theatre, the production being James Hilleck Keid’s powerful drama, “The Confession”. The chief theme of the play is the secrecy of the confessional, and the agony of mind endured by a priest, who, having heard a confession of a murderer, has to stand aside.

  The Advertiser

  Edna attempted to breathe evenly, trying to control the shaking. Her joints screamed and cramped. She’d been bound for hours now, incapacitated as much by terror as by the ropes knotted tightly into her flesh. The small confessional was airless. It was black—she could see nothing but she was aware of the knife. He pressed it against her cheek occasionally to remind her, swearing he’d cut her face first if she made a sound.

  The mourners had saved her. For a while, at least. What made them seek solace in the chapel so late, Edna did not know. She suspected they were a little drunk, on some post-wake pilgrimage to a graveside. But it forced him to retreat into the confessional, until they had gone. One of them had even come into the cubicle, completely unaware that on the other side of the partition, the kindly priest confessor held a blade at the throat of a young woman.

  Edna lay on the ground at his feet, her tears silenced by an icy consuming fear. He was calm, patient, coldly ruthless.

  He placed the point of the knife at her temple as the voices of the inebriated mourners faded. They were going. The sobs came now, convulsing, hacking gasps.

  Bryan kicked her in the back and called her “a whore”. But she couldn’t stop. She cried.

  He used the knife, cutting the bonds at her ankles, running his hand lewdly along the length of her leg. She choked and begged him to leave her alone.

  “Matthew… please.”

  Bryan slapped her.

  “Shut up—I know what you are.”

  He dragged her to her feet. She stumbled—her legs were numb after being bound for so long.

  Bryan seized a handful of hair, dragging back her head. He stopped as a silver glint caught his eye. He snatched the locket, enraged. The chain snapped.

  “This is Isobel’s locket, you thieving harlot!” He flung it away and forced her up. “Come on, Miss Higgins, it’s time you apologised.”

  Edna was confused, dazed. Bryan pushed her onto her knees before a pew and placed paper and a pencil onto the bench in front of her. The chapel was lit only by the candles the mourners had struck in remembrance. The soft light cast Bryan’s shadow
long, a dark giant on the wooden floor. His layman’s clothes only added to her bewilderment, her disorientation. He cut the bonds on her wrists and shoved the pencil into her swollen fingers.

  “Now write!” he barked taking the knife back to her temple. He brought his face close to hers. “You can write, can’t you? You’re an educated whore aren’t you? Surely, Sinclair wouldn’t take on some illiterate piece. He’s a man of means and breeding I’m told.”

  Edna didn’t know how to respond. How could she not have known he despised her so?

  “Darling Rowly,” Bryan said, “Go on—write—Darling Rowly!”

  Edna wrote. She didn’t understand. Was this a ransom note? Was she writing her own ransom note?

  “I was jealous,” Bryan dictated. “I’m sorry—write! I must pay for what I did to Isobel Hanrahan… Now, sign it… sign it!

  He folded the finished note and placed it into his pocket. The knife, he put at her spine. “Now, Miss Higgins, we’re going for a walk. We’re not likely to see anyone, but if we do, you will remember that any move that displeases me will be your last.” Bryan pushed the point of the blade against her skin.

  The prick of steel seemed to calm her, bring her back from pure terror. Her only chance was to keep her wits.

  They walked out of the chapel, his arm around her as if they were lovers. Bryan was right. The cemetery was deserted. The midsummer moon was only just waning but the way was barely visible away from the chapel.

  Edna gathered herself, collecting the remains of her shredded will. There would be a time to fight. She would wait for it.

  Bryan took her to the newer section of the cemetery, the point of the knife constant at the base of her neck. They stopped at the simple cross that marked a fresh grave. The flowers that lay there had been recently placed, the petals wilted but not brittle. This was where Isobel Hanrahan lay.

  Edna thought quickly. Did the deacon think she killed the bishop’s niece? Was he taking revenge for her death?

  “Matthew,” she said, her voice hoarse and forced. “I didn’t hurt Isobel, I promise you…”

  Bryan laughed. “I know full well you didn’t,” he said quietly, scornfully. “But someone has to take responsibility. You can blame your precious Rowly for this. If he’d let it be, if he hadn’t started nosing around with his connections and his lackey policemen, Isobel could have been quietly forgotten, and you wouldn’t have to account for her death.”