“Oh,” said Claude rolling a languishing eye at Alleyn, “You are marvellous, Inspector. Oh, I would so very much rather not be sick. Good-bye.”

“Good night.”

Claude, under escort, walked with small steps into the vestry where they could hear him talking in a sort of feeble scream to the officer who searched him.

“Oh,” cried Inspector Fox suddenly in a falsetto voice, “oh, Inspector, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“And well you might be,” said Nigel, grinning.

“What a loathly, what a nauseating, what an unspeakable little dollop.”

“Horrid, wasn’t it?” agreed Alleyn absently. “Damn that incense,” he added crossly. “Sweet almond too, just the very thing—” he paused and stared thoughtfully at Fox. “Let’s have Lionel,” he said.

Lionel was produced. His manner was a faithful reproduction of Claude’s and he added nothing that was material to the evidence. He was sent into the vestry, whence he and Claude presently emerged wearing, the one, a saxe-blue and the other, a pinkish-brown suit. They fussed off down the aisle and disappeared. Alleyn sent for Mrs. Candour.

Mrs. Candour had wept and her tears had blotted her make-up. She had dried them and in doing so had blotted her make-up again. Her face was an unlovely mess of mascara, powder and rouge. It hung in flabby pockets from the bone of her skull. She looked bewildered, frightened and vindictive. Her hands were tremulous. She was a large woman born to be embarrassingly ineffectual. In answer to Alleyn’s suggestion that she should sit on one of the chairs, she twitched her loose lips, whispered something, and walked towards them with that precarious gait induced by excessive flesh mounted on French heels. She moved in a thick aura of essence of violet. Alleyn waited until she was seated before he gave her the customary information that she was under no obligation to answer any questions. He paused, but she made no comment. She simply stared in front of her with lacklustre eyes.

“I take it,” said Alleyn, “that you have no objection. Was Miss Cara Quayne a personal friend of yours?”

“Not a great friend.”

“An acquaintance?”

“Yes. We — we only met here.” Her voice was thin and faintly common. “At least, well, I did go to see her once or twice.”

“Have you got any ideas on the subject of this business?”

“Oh my God!” moaned Mrs. Candour. “I believe it was a judgment.”

“A judgment?”

Mrs. Candour drew a lace handkerchief from her bosom.

“What had Miss Quayne done,” asked Alleyn, “to merit so terrible a punishment?”

“She coveted the vow of Odin.”

“I’m afraid I do not know what that implies.”

“That is how I feel about it,” said Mrs. Candour, exactly as if she had just finished a lucid and explicit statement. “Father Garnette is above all that sort of thing. He is not of this world. He had told us so, often and often. But Cara was a very passionate sort of woman.” She dropped her voice and added with an air of illicit relish: “Cara was dreadfully over-sexed. Pardon me.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. Of course I know that ecstatic union is blessed, but ecstatic union is one thing and—” Here Mrs. Candour stopped short and looked frightened.

“Do you mean,” said Alleyn, “that—?”

“I don’t mean anything definite,” interrupted Mrs. Candour in a hurry. “Please, please don’t attach any importance to what I’ve just said. It was only my idea. I’m so dreadfully upset. Poor Cara. Poor, poor Cara.”

“Mr. Claude Wheatley tells me—”

“Don’t you believe anything that little beast says, Mr. — er— Inspector— er—”

“Inspector Alleyn, Madam.”

“Oh— Inspector Alleyn. Claude’s a little pig. Always prying into other people’s affairs. I’ve told Father, but he’s so good he doesn’t see.”

“I gather you rather upset Mr. Wheatley by referring to his preparations for the service.”

“Serves him right if I did. He kept on saying it was murder, he knew it was murder, and that Cara was such a lovely woman and everyone was jealous of her. I just said: ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if she was murdered,’ I said, ‘who prepared the goblet and the flagon?’ And then he fainted. I thought it looked very queer.”

“Miss Quayne was a very beautiful woman, I believe?” said Alleyn casually.

“I never could see it. Of course, if you admire that type. But just because that M. de Ravigne went silly over her — I mean everyone knows what foreigners are like. If you give them any encouragement, that is. Well, I myself — I suppose Claude told you that — about her looks, I mean. Or was it Father Garnette? Was it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” said Alleyn.

Mrs. Candour jerked her chin up. For a second her face was horrible. “Cara doesn’t look very pretty now,” she said softly.

Alleyn turned away.

“I mustn’t keep you any longer,” he said. “There’s only one other point. You were the first, after Mr. Garnette, to take the cup. Did you notice any peculiar smell?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. No, I don’t think so.”

“I see. Thank you. That is all, I think.”

“I may go home?”

“Certainly. There is a wardress in the lobby. Would you object to being examined?”

“Searched!”

“Just looked over, you know. It’s the usual thing.”

“Oh, yes, please — I’d rather — much rather.”

“Thank you. You will be given notice of the inquest.”

“The inquest! Oh, how dreadful! I don’t know how I’m to get over this — I’m so shockingly sensitive. Inspector Alleyn, you’ve been marvellously kind. I always thought that police methods were brutal.” She looked up at him with a general air of feminine helplessness somewhat negatived by a glint of appraisal in her eye. It was a ghastly combination. She held out her hand.

“Good-bye, Inspector Alleyn.”

“Good evening, madam,” said Alleyn.

She wobbled away on her French heels.

“This is a very unsavoury case,” said Nigel.

“It’s murder,” said Inspector Fox mildly.

“Most foul,” added Alleyn, “as at the best it is. But this most foul — yes, I agree with you, Bathgate. Bailey!”

“Here,” said that worthy, rising up from behind the lectern.

“Next, please.”

“Right, sir.”

“What did you make of Mrs. Candour?” asked Alleyn.

“A perfectly appalling old girl,” said Nigel fervently.

“Oh, yes. All that. Almost a pathological case, one might imagine. Still, the exhibition of jealousy was interesting, didn’t you think, Fox?”

“Yes, I did,” agreed Fox. “This Father Garnette seems to be a peculiar sort of man for the ministry.”

“Exactly.”

“When she made that appalling remark about Cara not looking very pretty now,” said Nigel, “she was positively evil. Without a shadow of doubt she loathed the poor woman. I am surprised at your allowing her to escape. She should have been handcuffed immediately, I consider.”

“Don’t show off,” said Alleyn abstractedly.

“I’ll be right there, Ahfficer. Where’s the Chief?” cried Mr. Ogden from afar. He appeared with Bailey by the altar, saw Alleyn, and made straight for him.

“Well, well, well. Look what’s here!” exclaimed Mr. Ogden.

“Yes, look,” said Alleyn. “It’s a pathetic sight, Mr. Ogden. Here we go grubbing along — however.”

“Say, Inspector, what’s the big idea? You look kind of world-weary.”

“Do I, Mr. Ogden, do I?”

“And just when I was congratulating myself on sitting right next the works for an inside survey of British criminal investigation.”

“And now you’ll never talk again about our wonderful police.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m not saying anything.”

“You won’t mind if I ask you a few dreary questions, perhaps? We have to do our stuff, you know.”

“Go right ahead. My, my!” said Mr. Ogden contemplating Alleyn with an air of the liveliest satisfaction. “You certainly are the goods. I guess you’ve got British Manufacture stamped some place where it won’t wear off. All this quiet deprecation — it’s direct from a sure-fire British best-seller. I can’t hardly believe it’s true.”