“Look here,” said Maurice Pringle suddenly. “I’m damned if I can see why we should be herded about like a mob of sheep. What has happened? Is she murdered?”

“Very probably,” said Alleyn coolly. “Nobody is going to herd you, Mr. Pringle. You are going to wait quietly and reasonably while we make the necessary investigations. Off you go.”

“But—”

“I knew,” cried Mrs. Candour suddenly. “I knew something dreadful would happen. M. de Ravigne, didn’t I tell you?”

“If you please, madame!” said de Ravigne with great firmness.

“All that sort of thing should have been kept out,” said little Miss Wade. “It should never—”

“I think we had better follow instructions,” interrupted Father Garnette loudly. “Will you all follow me?”

They trooped away, escorted by the largest of the constables.

“Lumme!” ejaculated Alleyn when the altar door had shut. “As you yourself would say, Fox, ‘quelle galère’.”

“A rum crowd,” agreed Fox, “and a very rum place too, seemingly. What’s happened, sir?”

“A lady has just died of a dose of cyanide. There’s the body. Your old friend Mr. Bathgate will tell you about it.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox mildly. “You’ve found something else in our line, have you?”

“It was at the climax of the ceremony,” began Nigel. “A cup was passed round a circle of people, these people whom you have just seen. This woman stood in the middle. The others knelt. A silver jug holding the wine was handed in turn to each of them and each poured a little into the cup. Then the priest, Father Garnette, gave her the cup. She drank it and — and fell down. I think she died at once, didn’t she?”

He turned to Dr. Kasbek.

“Within twenty seconds I should say.” The doctor looked at the divisional surgeon.

“I would have tried artificial respiration, sent for ferrous sulphate and a stomach tube and all the rest of it but” — he grimaced — “there wasn’t a dog’s chance. She was dead before I got to her.”

“I know,” said the divisional surgeon. He lifted the drapery and bent over the body.

“I noticed the characteristic odour at once,” added Kasbek, “and so I think did Mr. Bathgate.”

“Yes,” agreed Nigel, “that’s why I butted in.”

Alleyn knelt by the fallen cup and sniffed.

“Stinks of it,” he said. “Bailey, you’ll have to look at this for prints. Not much help if they all handled it. We’ll have photographs first.”

The man with the camera had already begun to set up his paraphernalia. He took three flashlight shots, from different viewpoints, of the body and surrounding area. Alleyn opened the black bag, put on a pair of rubber gloves and took out a small bottle and a tiny funnel. He drained off one or two drops of wine from the cup. While he did this Nigel took the opportunity to relate as much of the conversation of the Initiates as he could remember. Alleyn listened, grunted, and muttered to himself as he restored the little bottle to his bag. Detective-Sergeant Bailey got to work with an insufflator and white chalk.

“Where’s the original vessel that was handed round by one of those two hothouse flowers?” asked Alleyn. “Is this it?” He pointed to a silver jug standing in a sort of velvet-lined niche on the right side of the chancel.

“That’s it,” said Nigel. “Claude must have kept his head and put it there when — after it happened.”

“Is Claude the black orchid or the red lily?”

“The black orchid.”

Alleyn sniffed at the silver jug and filled another bottle from it.

“Nothing there though, I fancy,” he murmured. “Let me get a picture of the routine. Miss Quayne stood in the centre here and the others knelt round her. Mr. Garnette — I really cannot bring myself to allude to the gentleman as ‘Father’ — Mr. Garnette produced the cup and the — what does one call it? Decanter is scarcely the word. The flagon, perhaps. He gave the flagon to Master Ganymede Claude, passed his hand over the cup and up jumped a flame. A drop of methylated spirits perhaps.”

“I suppose so,” said Kasbek, looking amused.

“Well. And then the cup was passed from hand to hand by the kneeling circle and each took the flagon from Claude and poured in a libation.”

“Each of them uttered a single word,” interrupted Nigel. “I really have no idea what some of them were.”

“The name of a deity, I understand,” volunteered Kasbek. “I am not a member of the cult, but I’ve been here before. They pronounce the names of six deities. ‘Hagring,’ ‘Haco,’ ‘Frigga,’ and so on. Garnette is Odin and the Chosen Vessel is always Frigga. The idea is that all the godheads are embodied in one godhead and that the essence of each is mingled in the cup. It’s a kind of popular pantheism.”

“Oh, Lord!” said Alleyn. “Now then. The cup went round the circle. When it got to the last man, what happened?”

“He handed it to the acolyte, who passed it on to the priest, who gave it to Miss Quayne.”

“Who drank it.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Kasbek, “who drank it, poor thing.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I said ‘when it got to the last man’ — it was a man you said? Yes, I know we’ve been over this before, but I want to be positive.”

“I’m sure it was,” said Nigel. “I remember that Mr. Ogden knelt at the top of the circle, as it were, and I seem- to remember him giving the cup to the acolyte.”

“I believe you’re right,” agreed the doctor.

“That agrees with the positions they took up just now.”

“Was there any chance of Miss Quayne herself dropping anything into the cup?”

“I don’t think so,” Nigel said slowly. “It so happens that I remember distinctly she took it in both hands, holding it by the stem. I’ve got a very clear mental picture of her, standing there, lit by the torch. She had rings on both hands and I remember I noticed that they reflected the light in the same way as the jewels on the cup. I feel quite certain she held it like that until she drank.”

“I’ve no such recollection,” declared the doctor.

“Quite sure, Bathgate?”

“Yes, quite sure. I–I’d swear to it.”

“You may have to,” said Alleyn. “Dr. Kasbek, you say you are not one of the elect. Perhaps, in that case, you would not object to telling me a little more about this place. It is an extremely unusual sort of church.”

He glanced round apologetically. “All this intellectual sculpture. Who is the lowering gentleman with the battle-ax? He makes one feel quite shy.”

“I fancy he is Wotan, which is the same as Odin. Perhaps Thor. I really don’t know. I imagine the general idea owes something to some cult in Germany, and is based partly on Scandinavian mythology, though as you see it does not limit itself to one, or even a dozen, doctrines. It’s a veritable olla podrida with Garnette to stir the pot. The statues were commissioned by a very rich old lady in the congregation.”

“An old lady!” murmured Alleyn. “Fancy!”

“It is rather overwhelming,” agreed Kasbek. “Shall we move into the hall? I should like to sit down.”

“Certainly,” said Alleyn. “Fox, will you make a sketch-plan of the chancel? I won’t be more than two minutes and then we’ll start on the others. Run a line of chalk round the body and get the bluebottle in there to ring for the mortuary-van. Come along with us, won’t you, Bathgate?”

Nigel and Dr. Kasbek followed the inspector down to the front row of chairs. These were sumptuously upholstered in red embossed velvet.

“Front stalls,” said Alleyn, sitting down.

“There are seven of them, as you see. They are for the six Initiates and the Chosen Vessel. These are selected from a sort of inner circle among the congregation, or so I understand.”

Dr. Kasbek settled himself comfortably in his velvet pew.

He was a solid shortish man of about fifty-five with dark hair worn en brosse, a rather fleshy and pale face, and small, intelligent eyes.