“I think we had better go back,” said Nigel.

“I’d much rather stay here. I’m afraid. Did you ever see anything so perfectly dreadful as Miss Quayne’s face? Please do tell me — do you think it’s suicide?”

“I don’t know. Are you coming?”

“Very well. You seem to be a terrifically resolute sort of person. I’ll turn the light out. Isn’t Father Garnette marvellous? You’re new, aren’t you?”

Nigel dived out of the door.

He found the Initiates grouped round the American gentleman, who seemed to be addressing them in a whisper.

He was a type that is featured heavily in transatlantic publicity, tall, rather fat and inclined to be flabby, but almost incredibly clean, as though he used all the deodorants, mouth washes, soaps and lotions recommended by his prototype who beams pep from the colour pages of American periodicals. The only irregularities in Mr. Ogden were his eyes, which were skewbald — one light blue and one brown. This gave him a comic look and made one suspect him of clowning when he was most serious.

To Nigel’s astonishment the organ was playing and from beyond the curtains came a muffled sound of singing. Father Garnette’s voice was clearly distinguishable. Someone, the doctor perhaps, had covered the body with a piece of gorgeously embroidered satin.

When he saw Nigel the American gentleman stepped forward.

“It appears to me we ought to get acquainted,” he said pleasantly. “You kind of sprang up out of no place and took over the works. That’s O.K. by me, and I’ll hand it to you. I certainly appreciate prompt action. My name’s Samuel J. Ogden. I guess I’ve got a card somewhere.” The amazing Mr. Ogden actually thrust his hand into his breast pocket.

“Please don’t bother,” said Nigel. “My name is Bathgate.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bathgate,” said Mr. Ogden, instantly shaking hands. “Allow me to introduce these ladies and gentlemen. Mrs. Candour, meet Mr. Bathgate. Miss Wade, meet Mr. Bathgate, Mr. Bathgate, Miss Janey Jenkins. Monsieur de Ravigne, Mr. Bathgate. Dr. Kasbek, Mr. Bathgate. Mr. Maurice Pringle, Mr. Bathgate. And these two young gentlemen are our acolytes. Mr. Claude Wheatley and Mr. Lionel Smith, meet Mr. Bathgate.”

The seven inarticulate Britishers exchanged helpless glances with Nigel. M. de Ravigne, a sleek Frenchman, gave him a scornful bow.

“Well now—” began Mr. Ogden with a comfortable smile.

“I think, if you don’t mind,” said Nigel hurriedly, “that someone should go down to the front door. Inspector Alleyn is on his way here, and as things are at the moment he won’t be able to get in.”

“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Ogden. “Maybe one of these boys—”

“Oh, do let me go,” begged Claude.

“Fine,” said Mr. Ogden.

“I’ll come with you, Claude,” said the red-headed acolyte.

“There’s no need for two, honestly, is there Mr. Ogden?”

“Oh, get to it, Fauntleroy, and take little Eric along!” said Mr. Ogden brutally. Nigel suddenly felt that he liked Mr. Ogden.

The acolytes, flouncing, disappeared through the curtain. The sound of organ and voices was momentarily louder.

“Do acolytes have to be that way?” inquired Mr. Ogden of nobody in particular.

Somebody laughed attractively. It was Miss Janey Jenkins. She was young and short and looked intelligent.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn’t mean to laugh, only Claude and Lionel are rather awful, aren’t they?”

“I agree,” said Nigel quickly.

She turned, not to him, but to Maurice Pringle, the young man who had spoken so strangely to the priest. He now stood apart from the others and looked acutely miserable. Miss Jenkins went and spoke to him, but in so low a voice that Nigel could not hear what she said.

“Dr. Kasbek,” said the little spinster, whom Mr. Ogden had called Miss Wade, “Dr. Kasbek, I am afraid I am very foolish, but I do not understand. Has Cara Quayne been murdered?”

This suggestion, voiced for the first time, was received as though it was a gross indecency. Mrs. Candour, a peony of a woman, with ugly hands, uttered a scandalised yelp; M. de Ravigne hissed like a steamboiler; Mr. Ogden said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute”; Pringle seemed to shrink into himself, and Janey Jenkins took his hand.

“Surely not, Miss Wade,” said Dr. Kasbek. “Let us not anticipate such a thing.”

“I only inquired,” said Miss Wade. “She wasn’t very happy, poor thing, and she wasn’t very popular.”

“Miss Wade — please!” M. de Ravigne looked angrily at the little figure. “I must protest — this is a — a preposterous suggestion. It is ridiculous.” He gesticulated eloquently. “Is it not enough that this tragedy should have arrived? My poor Cara, is it not enough?”

The voice of Father Garnette could be heard, muffled but sonorous, beyond the curtains.

“Listen to him!” said Pringle. “Listen! He’s keeping them quiet. He’s kept us all quiet. What are we to believe of him?”

“What are you talking about?” whispered Mrs. Candour savagely.

“You know well enough. You’d have taken her place if you could. It’s not his fault — it’s yours. It’s all so — so beastly—”

“Maurice,” said Miss Jenkins softly.

“Be quiet, Janey. I will say it. Whatever it is, it’s retribution. The whole thing’s a farce. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to tell them—”

He broke away from her and ran towards the curtains. Before he reached them they parted and a tall man came through.

“Oh, there you are, Bathgate,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn. “What’s the trouble?”

The entrance of Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn had a curious effect upon the scene and upon the actors. It was an effect which might be likened to that achieved by the cinema when the camera is shifted and the whole scene presented from a different viewpoint. Nigel had felt himself to be involved in a nightmare, but it now seemed to be someone else’s nightmare of which he was merely the narrator. He wondered wildly whether he should follow Mr. Ogden’s example and embark on an elaborate series of introductions. However, he avoided this complication and in as few words as possible, told Alleyn what had happened. The others remained silent, eyeing the inspector. Janey Jenkins held Pringle’s hand between her two hands; Miss Wade kept a handkerchief pressed against her lips; M. de Ravigne stood scornfully apart; Mrs. Candour had collapsed into a grand-opera throne on the left of the altar; Mr. Ogden looked capable and perturbed and the two acolytes gazed rapturously at the inspector. Alleyn listened with his curious air of detachment that always reminded Nigel of a polite faun. When Nigel came to the ecstatic frenzy, Alleyn made a slant-wise grimace. Speaking so quietly that the others could not overhear him, Nigel repeated as closely as he could remember them the exclamations made by Pringle, Miss Wade and de Ravigne. Alleyn asked for the names of persons who should be informed. Beyond Miss Quayne’s servants there seemed to be nobody. Miss Jenkins, appealed to, said she had overheard Miss Quayne saying that her staff were all out on Sunday evening. She volunteered to ring up and find out and retired to Father Garnette’s room to do so. She returned to say there was no answer. Alleyn took the number and said he would see the house was informed later. As soon as he had learnt the facts of the case, Alleyn lifted the satin drapery aside to Dr. Kasbek, and then addressed them all quietly. At this moment Father Garnette, having set his congregation going on another hymn, returned to the group. Nigel alone noticed him. He stood just inside the curtains and never took his eyes off the inspector.

Alleyn said: “There is, I think, no reason why you should not know what has happened here. This woman has probably died of poisoning. Until we know more of the circumstances and the nature of her death I shall have to take over the case on behalf of the police. From what I have heard I believe that there is nothing to be gained in keeping the rest of the congregation here.” He turned slightly and saw the priest.