“You are Mr. Garnette? Will you be good enough to ask your congregation to go home — when they have quite finished singing, of course. I have stationed a constable inside the door. He will take their names. Just tell them that, will you?”

“Certainly,” said Father Garnette and disappeared through the curtains.

They heard him pronounce a benediction of sorts. Beyond the curtains there was a sort of stirring and movement. One or two people coughed. It all died away at last. A door slammed with a desolate air of finality and there was complete silence in the building, save for the slobbering of the torch. Father Garnette returned.

“Phew!” said Alleyn. “Let’s have the curtains drawn back, may we?”

Father Garnette inclined his head. Claude and Lionel flew to the sides of the chancel and in a moment the curtains rattled apart, revealing the solitary figure of the doorkeeper, agape on the lowest step.

“Is there anything I can do, Father?” asked the doorkeeper.

“Lock the front door and go home,” said Father Garnette.

“Yes, Father,” whispered the doorkeeper. He departed, hurriedly pulling the double doors to with an apologetic slam. For a moment there was silence. Then Alleyn turned to Nigel.

“Is there a telephone handy?”

“Yes.”

“Get through to the Yard, will you, Bathgate, and tell them what has happened. Fox is on duty. Ask them to send him along with the usual support. We’ll want the divisional surgeon and a wardress.”

Nigel went into the room behind the altar and delivered this message. When he returned he found Alleyn, with his notebook in his hand, taking down the names and addresses of the Initiates.

“It’s got to be done, you see,” he explained. “There will, of course, be an inquest and I’m afraid you will all be called as witnesses.”

“Oh, God,” said Pringle with a sort of disgust.

“I’d better start with the deceased,” Alleyn suggested. “What is her name, please?”

“She was a Miss Cara Quayne, Inspector,” said Mr. Ogden. “She owned a very, very distinctive residence in Shepherd Market, No. 101. I have had the honour of dining at the Quayne home, and believe me it surely was an aesthetic experience. She was a very lovely-natured woman with a great appreciation of the beautiful—”

“No. 101, Shepherd Market,” said Alleyn. ‘Thank you.“ He wrote it down and then glanced round his audience.

“I will take yours first if I may, Doctor Kasbek.”

“Certainly. Nicholas Kasbek, 189a, Wigmore Street.”

“Right.” He turned to Miss Wade.

“My name is Ernestine Wade,” she said very clearly and in a high voice, as though Alleyn was deaf. “I live at Primrose Court, Kings Road, Chelsea. Spinster.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Jenkins came forward.

“I’m Janey Jenkins. I live in a studio flat in Yeomans Row, No. 99d. I’m a spinster, too, if you want to know.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “just for ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs.’ you know.”

“Now you, Maurice,” said Miss Jenkins.

“Pringle,” said that gentleman as though the name was an offence. “Maurice. I’m staying at 11, Harrow Mansions, Sloane Square.”

“Is that your permanent address?”

“No. Haven’t got one unless you count my people’s place. I never go there if I can help it.”

“The Phoenix Club will always find you, won’t it?” murmured Miss Jenkins.

“Oh, God, yes,” replied Mr. Pringle distastefully.

“Next please,” said Alleyn cheerfully. Mrs. Candour spoke suddenly from the ecclesiastical throne. She had the air of uttering an appalling indecency.

“My name is Dagmar Candour. Mrs. Queen Charlotte Flats, Kensington Square. No. 12.”

“C. a. n—?” queried Alleyn.

“d. o. u. r.”

‘Thank you.”

Mr. Ogden, who had several times taken a step forward and as often politely retreated, now spoke up firmly.

“Samuel J. Ogden, Chief. I guess you’re not interested in my home address. I come from the States — New York. In London I have a permanent apartment in York Square. No. 93, Achurch Court. I just can’t locate my card-case, but — well, those are the works.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Ogden. And now you, if you please, sir.”

Father Garnette hesitated a moment, oddly. Then he cleared his throat and answered in his usual richly inflected voice:

“Father Jasper Garnette.” He spelt it. “I am the officiating priest of this temple. I live here.”

“Here?”

“I have a little dwelling beyond the altar.”

“Extremely convenient,” murmured Alleyn. “And now, these two,” — he looked a little doubtfully at Claude and Lionel — “these two young men.”

Claude and Lionel answered together in a rapturous gush.

“What?” asked Alleyn.

“Do be quiet, Lionel,” said Claude. “We share a flat in Ebury Street: ‘Ebury Mews.’ Well, it isn’t actually a flat, is it, Lionel? Oh dear, I always forget the number — it’s too stupid of me.”

“You are hopeless, Claude,” said Lionel. “It’s 17, Ebury Mews, Ebury Street, Inspector Alleyn, only we aren’t very often there, because I’m in the show at the Palladium and Claude is at Madame Karen’s in Sloane Street and—”

“I do not yet know your names.”

“Lionel, you are perfectly maddening,” said Claude. “I’m Claude Wheatley, Inspector Alleyn, and this is Lionel Smith.”

Alleyn wrote these names down with the address, and added in brackets: “Gemini, possibly heavenly.”

M. de Ravigne came forward and bowed.

“Raoul Honore Christophe Jerome de Ravigne, monsieur. I live at Branscombe Chambers, Lowndes Square. My card.”

“Thank you, M. de Ravigne. And now will you all please show me exactly how you were placed while the cup was passed round the circle. I understand the ceremony took place in the centre of this area.”

After a moment’s silence the priest came forward.

“I stood here,” he said, “with the chalice in my hands, Mr. Ogden knelt on my right, and Mrs. Candour on my left.”

“That is correct, sir,” agreed Ogden and moved into place. “Miss Jenkins was on my right, I guess.”

“Yes,” said that lady, “and Maurice on mine.”

Mrs. Candour came forward reluctantly and stood on Garnette’s left.

“M. de Ravigne was beside me,” she whispered.

“Certainly.” M. de Ravigne took up his position and Miss Wade slipped in beside him.

“I was here,” she said, “between Mr. de Ravigne and Mr. Pringle.”

“That completes the circle,” said Alleyn. “What were the movements of the acolytes.”

“Well you see,” began Claude eagerly, “I came here — just here on Father Garnette’s right hand. I was the Ganymede you see, so I had the jug of wine. As soon as Father Garnette gave Mrs. Candour the cup, I gave her the wine. She holds the cup in her left hand and the wine in her right hand. She pours in a little wine and speaks the first god-name. You are Hagring, aren’t you Mrs. Candour?”

“I was,” sobbed Mrs. Candour.

“Yes. And then I take the jug and hand it to the next person and—”

“And so on,” said Alleyn. “Thank you.”

“And I was censing over here,” struck in Lionel with passionate determination. “I was censing all the time.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn; “and now, I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you all a little longer. Perhaps, Mr. Garnette, you will allow them to wait in your rooms. I am sure you would all like to get away from the scene of this tragedy. I think I hear my colleagues outside.”

There was a resounding knock on the front door.

“Oh, may I let them in?” asked Claude.

“Please do,” said Alleyn.

Claude hurried away down the aisle and opened the double doors. Seven men, three of them constables, came in, in single file, headed by a tall thick-set individual in plain clothes who removed his hat, glanced in mild surprise at the nude statues, and walked steadily up the aisle.

“Hullo, Fox,” said Alleyn.

“Evening, sir,” said Inspector Fox.

“There’s been some trouble here. One of you men go with these ladies and gentlemen into the room at the back there. Mr. Garnette will show you the way. Will you, Mr. Garnette? I’ll keep you no longer than I can possibly help. Dr. Kasbek, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here—”