“Cyanide of potassium I think,” said Alleyn coolly, “but of course that’s not official.”

The embroidery on the wide sleeves quivered slightly.

“But that is a poison,” said Father Garnette.

“One of the deadliest,” said Alleyn.

“I am appalled,” said Father Garnette.

“The possibility of suicide will have to be explored, of course.”

“Suicide!”

“It does not seem likely, certainly. Accident is even more improbable, I should say.”

“You mean, then, that she — that she — that murder has been done!”

“That will be for a jury to decide. There will be an inquest, of course. In the meantime there are one or two questions I should like to ask you, Mr. Garnette. I need not remind you that you are not obliged to answer them.”

“I know nothing of such matters. I simply wish to do my duty.”

“That’s excellent, sir,” said Alleyn politely. “Now as regards the deceased. I’ve got her name and address, but I should like to learn a little more about her. You knew her personally as well as officially, I expect?”

“All my children are my friends. Cara Quayne was a very dear friend. Hers was a rare soul, Inspector — ah?”

“Alleyn, sir.”

“Inspector Alleyn. Hers was a rare soul, singularly fitted for the tremendous spiritual discoverahs to which it was granted I should point the way.”

“Oh, yes. For how long has she been a member of your congregation?”

“Let me think. I can well remember the first evening I was aware of her. I felt the presence of something vital, a kind of intensitah, a — how can I put it? — an increased receptivitah. We have our own words for expressing these experiences.”

“I hardly think I should understand them,” remarked Alleyn dryly. “Can you give me the date of her first visit?”

“I believe I can. It was on the festival of Aeger. December the fifteenth of last year.”

“Since then she has been a regular attendant?”

“Yes. She had attained to the highest rank.”

“By that you mean she was a Chosen Vessel?”

Father Garnette bent his extraordinary eyes on the inspector.

“Then you know something of our ritual, Inspector Alleyn?”

“Very little, I am afraid.”

“Do you know that you yourself are exceedingly receptive?”

“I receive facts,” said Alleyn, “as a spider does flies.”

“Ah.” Father Garnette nodded his head slowly. “This is not the time. But I think it will come. Well, ask what you will, Inspector.”

“I gather that you knew Miss Quayne intimately — that in the course of her preparation for tonight’s ceremony you saw a great deal of her.”

“A great deal.”

“I understand she took the name of Frigga in your ceremony?”

“That is so,” said Father Garnette uneasily.

“The wife of Odin, I seem to remember.”

“In our ritual the relationship is one of the spirit.”

“Ah, yes,” said Alleyn. “Had you any reason to believe she suffered from depression or was troubled about anything?”

“I am certain of the contrarah. She was in a state of tranquilitah and joy.”

“I see. No worries over money?”

“Money? No. She was what the world calls rich.”

“What do you call it, sir?”

Father Garnette gave a frank and dreadfully boyish laugh.

“Why, I should call her rich too, Inspector,” he cried gaily.

“Any unhappy love affair, do you know?” pursued Alleyn.

Father Garnette did not answer for a moment. Then he said sadly:

“Ah, Inspector Alleyn, we speak in different languages.”

“I didn’t realize that,” said Alleyn. “Can you translate my question into your own language, or would you rather not answer it?”

“You misunderstand me. Cara Quayne was not concerned with earthly love; she was on the threshold of a new spiritual life.”

“And apparently she has crossed it.”

“You speak more faithfully than you realise. I earnestly believe she has crossed it.”

“No love affair,” said Alleyn, and wrote it down in his notebook. “Was she on friendly terms with the other Initiates?”

“There is perfect loving kindness among them. Nay, that does not express my meaning. The Initiates have attained to the third place where all human relationships merge in an ecstatic indifference. They cannot hate for there is no hatred. They realise that hatred is maya — illusion.”

“And love?”

“If you mean earthlah love, that too is illusion.”

“Then,” said Alleyn, “if you follow the idea to a logical conclusion, what one does cannot matter as long as one’s actions spring from one’s emotions for if these are illusion — or am I wrong?”

“Ah,” exclaimed Father Garnette, “I knew I was right. We must have a long talk some day, my dear fellow.”

“You are very kind,” said Alleyn. “What did Miss Wade mean when she said: ‘All that sort of thing should have been kept out’?”

“Did Miss Wade say that?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot imagine what she meant. The poor soul was very distressed no doubt.”

“What do you think Mrs. Candour meant when she said she knew something dreadful would happen and that she had said so to M. de Ravigne?”

“I did not hear her,” answered Father Garnette. His manner suggested that Alleyn as well as Mrs. Candour had committed a gross error in taste.

“Another question, Mr. Garnette. In the course of your interviews with Miss Quayne can you remember any incident or remark that would throw any light on this matter?”

“None.”

“This is a very well-appointed hall.”

“We think it beautiful,” said Father Garnette complacently.

“Please do not think me impertinent. I am obliged to ask these questions. Is it supported and kept up by subscription?”

“My people welcome as a privilege the right to share in the hospitalitah of the Sacred Flame.”

“You mean they pay the running expenses?”

“Yes.”

“Was Miss Quayne a generous supporter?”

“Dear soul, yes, indeed she was.”

“Do you purchase the wine for the ceremony?”

“I do.”

“Would you mind giving me the name of this wine and the address of the shop?”

“It comes from Harrods. I think the name is — let me see—‘Le Comte’s Invalid Port’.”

Alleyn repressed a shudder and wrote it down.

“You decant it yourself? I mean you pour it into the silver flagon?”

“On this occasion, no. I believe Claude Wheatley made all the preparations this evening.”

“Would you mind telling me exactly what he would have done?”

“Certainly. He would take an unopened bottle of wine from a cupboard in my room, draw the cork and pour the contents into the vessel. He would then make ready the goblet.”

“Make ready—?”

Father Garnette’s expression changed a little. He looked at once mulish and haughty.

“A certain preparation is necessarah,” he said grandly.

“Oh, yes, of course. You mean the flame that appeared. How was that done? Methylated spirit?”

“In tabloid form,” confessed Father Garnette.

“I know,” cried Alleyn cheerfully. “The things women use for heating curling-tongs.”

“Possiblah,” said Father Garnette stiffly. “In our ritual, Inspector Alleyn, the goblet itself is holy and blessed. By the very act of pouring in the wine, this too becomes sacred — sacred by contact with the Cup. Our ceremony of the Cup, though it embraces the virtues of various communions in Christian churches, is actually entirely different in essentials and in intention.”

“I was not,” said Alleyn coldly, “so mistaken as to suspect any affinity. Having filled the flagon Mr. Wheatley would then put it — where?”

“In that niche over there on our right of the sanctuarah.”

“And what is the procedure with the methylated tablet?”

“Prior to the service Claude comes before the altar and after prostrating himself three times, draws the Sacred Cup from its Monstrance. As he does this he repeats a little prayer in Norse. He genuflects thrice and then rising to his feet he — ah — he—”