“He meant that Mrs. Candour was jealous of Miss Quayne and that Mr. Garnette had kept it quiet?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“But not that Mrs. Candour was so jealous that — he didn’t mean that. Please, please don’t think that. It was nothing. Maurice was hysterical. He sees everything in an exaggerated light. You do believe me, don’t you? Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” said Alleyn. “I think you are understating things, you know.”

“I’m not. Oh, why did I say anything! I won’t answer any more questions. Let me go.” Janey’s voice shook. She stood up, her hands clenched, her pupils dilated.

“Of course you may go, Miss Jenkins,” said Alleyn very quietly. “You have had a wretched experience and it’s unnerved you. Believe me, you need not reproach yourself for anything you have told me. Really. If only people would understand that in these cases they are under a moral obligation to help the police, that by keeping things back they may actually place an innocent man or woman in the gravest danger! However, I grow pompous and in a minute I might become facetious. Save yourself, Miss Jenkins, and go home.”

Janey managed a smile and brushed her hand across her face.

“Oh dear,” she whispered.

“You’re done up,” said Alleyn quickly. “Bathgate, dodge out and get a taxi for Miss Jenkins, will you?”

“I think I’d better wait for Maurice, please.”

“Do you? Would you like some of Mr. Garnette’s brandy?”

“No thank you. I’ll just wait in the back pews if I may.”

“Of course you may. If it wouldn’t bother you too much the wardress will run over you. Have you ever been searched?”

“Never. It sounds beastly, but I suppose I must.”

“That’s very sensible. Inspector Fox will take you to the wardress. I’ll see your young man now.”

Janey walked firmly down the aisle with Fox and disappeared into the shadows. Fox returned and Bailey produced Maurice Pringle.

Maurice looked quickly about him, and stopped like a pointer when he saw Alleyn. At the inspector’s suggestion he came into the hall but refused to sit down. He thrust his hands into his pockets and seemed unable to stand still.

“Now then, Mr. Pringle,” began Alleyn cheerfully.

“Where’s Janey? Miss Jenkins?” demanded Maurice.

“Waiting for you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me that’s to the purpose.”

Maurice was silent. Alleyn asked about the smell and heard about the incense. He read Maurice’s previous statement from his notebook.

“What were you going to say when I came in?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you usually speak in half-phrases, Mr. Pringle?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You said: ‘I’m going to tell them that—’ and then you know I walked in and you stopped.”

Maurice snatched his left hand out of his pocket and bit at one of his fingers.

“Come. What did you mean by retribution? What would Mrs. Candour have had so willingly from Miss Quayne? What had Mr. Garnette kept quiet? What were you going to tell them?”

“I refuse to answer. It’s my affair.”

“Very good. Fox!”

“Sir?”

“Will you tell Miss Jenkins that Mr. Pringle does not wish to make any statements at present and that I think she need not wait? See that she gets a taxi, will you? She’s a bit done up.”

“Very good, sir.”

“What do you mean?” said Maurice angrily. “I’m taking her home.” Fox paused.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay a little longer,” said Alleyn.

“My God, how I hate officials! Sadism at its worst.”

“Off you go, Fox.”

“Stay where you are,” said Maurice. “I’ll — what’s the damn’ phrase — I’ll talk.”

Alleyn smiled and Fox blandly returned to his pew.

“You are interested in psychoanalysis, Mr. Pringle?” asked Alleyn politely.

“What’s that got to do with it?” rejoined Maurice, who seemed to have set himself some impossible standard of discourtesy. “I should have thought the British Police Force scarcely knew how to pronounce the word judging by results.”

“Someone must have told me about it,” said Alleyn vaguely.

Maurice looked sharply at him and then turned red.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This filthy show’s got me all jumpy.”

“Well it might. I only asked you if you were interested in psychoanalysis because you used that password to the intelligentsia—‘sadism.’ I don’t suppose you know what it means. What are your views on crowd psychology?”

“Look here, what the hell are you driving at?”

“On the psychology of oratory, for instance? What do you think happens to people when they come under the sway of, shall we say, a magnetic preacher?”

“What happens to them! My God, they are his slaves.”

“Strong,” said Alleyn. “Would you describe this congregation as Mr. Garnette’s slaves?”

“If you must know — yes. Yes. Yes. Yes!”

“Yourself included?”

The boy looked strangely at Alleyn as though he was bringing the inspector into focus. His lips trembled.

“Look,” he said.

Alleyn walked up to him, looked steadily in his face, and then murmured, so quietly that Nigel did not hear, a single word. Maurice nodded.

“How did you guess?”

“You told me to look. It’s your eyes, you know. Contracted pupils. Also, if you’ll forgive me, your bad manners.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I suppose not. Is this Mr. Garnette’s doing?”

“No. I mean somebody gets them for him. He — he gave me special cigarettes. Quite mild really. He said it helped one to become receptive.”

“No doubt.”

“And it does! It’s marvellous. Everything seems so clear. Only — only—”

“It’s more than mild cigarettes now, I think.”

“Don’t be so bloody superior. Oh, God, I’m sorry!”

“Do the other Initiates employ this short cut to spiritual ecstasy?”

“Janey doesn’t. Janey doesn’t know. Nor does Ogden. Don’t tell Janey.”

“I won’t if I can help it. All the others?”

“No. Cara Quayne had begun. The Candour does. She did before Father Garnette found her. Ogden and de Ravigne don’t. At least I’m not sure about de Ravigne. I want him to try. Everyone ought to try and you can always leave off.”

“Can you?” said Alleyn.

“Of course. I don’t mean to go on with it.”

“Did you all meet here in Mr. Garnette’s rooms and— smoke his cigarettes.”

“At first. But lately those two — Mrs. Candour and Cara — came at separate times.” Maurice put his hand to his mouth and pulled shakily at his under lip. “And then — then Cara began to make her preparations for Chosen Vessel and she came alone.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t see. You don’t know. Only I know.” He now spoke rapidly and with great vehemence as though driven by an intolerable urge. “It was one afternoon about three weeks ago when I came in to see him. No one in the church. So I went straight up here — past here — up to the door, his door. I spoke: ‘Are you there, Father?’ They couldn’t have heard. I went in — half in — they didn’t see me. Oh, God! Oh, God! Frigga and Odin. The Chosen Vessel!” He gave a screech of laughter and flung himself into one of the chairs. He buried his face in his arm and sobbed quite loudly with an utter lack of restraint.

Inspector Fox strolled across the nave and stared with an air of calm appreciation at a small effigy of a most unprepossessing Nordic god. Nigel, acutely embarrassed, bent over his notebook. Detective-Sergeant Bailey emerged from his retreat, cast a glance of weary disparagement at Maurice, and went back again.

“So that is what you meant by retribution,” said Alleyn. Pringle made a sort of shuddering movement, an eloquent assent.

A little figure appeared out of the shadows at the end of the hall.

“Have you quite finished, Inspector Alleyn?” asked Janey.

She spoke so quietly that it took Nigel a second or two to realise how furiously angry she was.

“I’ve quite finished,” said Alleyn gravely. “You may both go home.”