On seeing this dreadful face, the Initiates who had gathered round drew back quickly, some with exclamations, some silently. The elderly drab lady, Miss Wade, uttered a stifled yelp in which there was both terror and, oddly enough, a kind of triumph.

“Dead! I told you she was dead! Oh! Father Garnette!”

“Cover it up for God’s sake,” said the tall young man.

The doctor knelt down. He sniffed twice at the rigid lips and then opened the front of the dress. Nigel could see his hand pressed firmly against the white skin. He held it there for some time, seconds that seemed like minutes. Still bent down, he seemed to be scrutinising the woman’s face. He pulled the hat forward again.

“This is turrible, turrible. This certainly is turrible,” murmured the commercial-looking gentleman, and revealed himself an American.

“You’d better get rid of your congregation,” said the doctor abruptly. He spoke directly to the priest.

Father Garnette had said nothing. He had not moved. He still looked a striking enough figure, but the virtue had gone out of him. He did not answer.

“Will you tell them to go?” asked Dr. Kasbek.

“Wait a moment.”

Nigel heard his own voice with a sensation of panic. They all turned to him, not in surprise, but with an air of bewilderment. He was conscious of a background of suppressed murmur in the hall. He felt as though his vocal apparatus had decided to function independently.

“Has this lady died naturally?” he asked the doctor.

“As you see, I have only glanced at her.”

“Is there any doubt?”

“What do you mean?” demanded the priest suddenly, and then: “Who are you?”

“I was in the congregation. I am sorry to interfere, but if there is any suspicion of unnatural death I believe no one should—”

“Unnatural death? Say, where d’you get that idea?” said the American.

“It’s the mouth and eyes, and — and the smell. I may be wrong.” Nigel still looked at the doctor. “But if there’s a doubt I don’t think anybody should leave.”

The doctor returned his look calmly.

“I think you are right,” he said at last.

They had none of them raised their voices, but something of what they said must have communicated itself to the congregation. A number of people had moved out into the center aisle. A murmur had swelled. Several voices rang out loudly and suddenly a woman screamed. There was a movement, confused and indeterminate, towards the chancel.

“Tell them to sit down,” said the doctor.

The priest seemed to pull himself together. He turned and walked quickly to the steps into the pulpit. Nigel felt that he was making a deliberate effort to collect and control the congregation and to bend the full weight of his personality upon it.

“My friends,” — the magnificent voice rang out firmly — “will you all return to your seats and remain quiet? I believe, that the great rushing powers of endless space have chosen this moment to manifest themselves. Their choice has fallen upon our beloved sister in ecstasy, Cara Quayne.” The voice wavered a little, then dropped a tone. “We must strengthen our souls with the power of the Word. I call upon you to meditate upon the word “Unity.” Let there be silence among you.”

He was at once obeyed. A stillness fell upon the hall. The rustle of his vestments sounded loudly as he came down the steps from the pulpit. To Nigel he seemed a fabulous, a monstrous creature.

He turned to the two acolytes, who stood, the one mechanically swinging his censer, the other holding the jug of wine.

“Draw the chancel curtains,” whispered Father Garnette.

“Yes, Father,” lisped the red-headed acolyte.

“Yes, Father,” minced the dark acolyte.

A rattle of brass, the sweep of heavy fabric, and they were swiftly shut away from the congregation by a wall of thick brocade. The chancel became a room, torch-lit and rather horribly cosy.

“If we speak low,” said Father Garnette, “they cannot hear. The curtains are interlined and very thick.”

“For Gard’s sake!” said the American. “This is surely a turrible affair. Doctor, are you quite certain she’s gone?”

“Quite,” answered the doctor, who had again knelt down by the body.

“Yes, but there’s more in it than that,” began the young man. “What’s this about no one leaving? What does it mean?” He swung round to Nigel. “Why do you talk about unnatural death, and who the hell are you?”

“Maurice,” said Father Garnette. “Maurice, my dear fellow!”

“This woman,” the boy went on doggedly, “had no business here. She had no right to the Cup. She was evil. I know you — Father Garnette, I know.”

“Maurice, be quiet.”

“Can it, Pringle,” said the American.

“I tell you I know— ” The boy broke off and stared at the priest with a sort of frantic devotion. Father Garnette looked fixedly at him. If there was some sort of conflict between them the priest won, for the boy suddenly turned aside and walked away from them.

“What is it?” Nigel asked the doctor. “Is it poison?”

“It looks like it, certainly. Death was instantaneous. We must inform the police.”

“Is there a telephone anywhere near?”

“I believe there’s one in Father Garnette’s rooms.”

“His rooms?”

“Behind the altar,” said the doctor.

“Then — may I use it?”

“Is that absolutely necessary?” asked the priest.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Kasbek. He looked at Nigel. “Will you do it?”

“I will if you like. I know a man at the Yard.”

“Do. What about the nearest relative? Anybody know who it is?”

“She lives alone,” said a girl who had not spoken before. “She told me once that she had no relations in England.”

“I see,” said Dr. Kasbek. “Well, then, perhaps you”—he looked at Nigel—“will get straight through to the police. Father Garnette, will you show this young man the way?”

“I had better return to my people, I think,” replied Father Garnette. “They will need me. Claude, show the way to the telephone.”

“Yes, Father.”

In a kind of trance Nigel followed the dark acolyte up the sanctuary steps to the altar. The willowy Claude drew aside a brocaded curtain to the left of the altar and revealed a door which he opened and went through, casting a melting glance upon Nigel as he did so.

“Nasty little bit of work,” thought Nigel, and followed him.

Evidently Father Garnette lived behind the altar. They had entered a small flat. The room directly behind was furnished as a sort of mythological study. This much he took in as Claude glided across the room and snatched up something that looked like a sacramental tea-cosy. A telephone stood revealed.

“Thank you,” said Nigel, and hoped Claude would go away. He remained, gazing trustfully at Nigel.

Sunday evening. Unless he had an important case on hand, Alleyn ought to be at home. Nigel dialled the number and waited, conscious of his own heartbeat and of his dry mouth.

“Hullo!”

“Hullo — May I speak to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn? Oh, it’s you. You are in, then. It’s Nigel Bathgate here.”

“Good evening, Bathgate. What’s the matter?”

“I’m ringing from a hall, the — the House of the Sacred Flame in Knocklatchers Row off Chester Terrace, just opposite my flat.”

“I know Knocklatchers Row. It’s in my division.”

“A woman died here ten minutes ago. I think you’d better come.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“You wretched young man, what’s the matter with you? Is the lady murdered?”

“How should I know?”

“Why the devil didn’t you ring the Yard? I suppose I’d better do it.”

“I think you ought to come. I’m holding the congregation. At least,” added Nigel confusedly, “they are.”

“You are quite unintelligible. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Nigel hung up the receiver.

“Fancy you knowing Alleyn of Scotland Yard,” fluted Claude. “How perfectly marvellous! You are lucky.”