Death in Ecstasy. Ngaio Marsh

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      â€˜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.

      â€˜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.

      â€˜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 heart-beat and of his dry mouth.

      â€˜Hullo!’

      â€˜Hullo – May I speak to Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn? Oh, it’s you. You are in, then. It’s Nigel Bathgate here.’

      â€˜Good evening, Bathgate. What’s the matter?’

      â€˜I’m ringing from a hall, the – the House of the Sacred Flame in Knocklatchers Row off Chester Terrace, just opposite my flat.’

      â€˜I know Knocklatchers Row. It’s in my division.’

      â€˜A woman died here ten minutes ago. I think you’d better come.’

      â€˜Are you alone?’

      â€˜No.’

      â€˜You wretched young man, what’s the matter with you? Is the lady murdered?’

      â€˜How should I know?’

      â€˜Why the devil didn’t you ring the Yard? I suppose I’d better do it.’

      â€˜I think you ought to come. I’m holding the congregation. At least,’ added Nigel confusedly, ‘they are.’

      â€˜You are quite unintelligible. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

      â€˜Thank you.’

      Nigel hung up the receiver.

      â€˜Fancy you knowing Alleyn of Scotland Yard,’ fluted Claude. ‘How perfectly marvellous! You are lucky.’

      â€˜I think we had better go back,’ said Nigel.

      â€˜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?’

      â€˜I don’t know. Are you coming?’

      â€˜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.

      â€˜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 OK 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.

      â€˜Please don’t bother,’ said Nigel. ‘My name is Bathgate.’

      â€˜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.

      â€˜Well now –’ began Mr Ogden with a comfortable smile.

      â€˜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.’

      â€˜That’s so,’ agreed Mr Ogden. ‘Maybe one of these boys –’

      â€˜Oh, do let me go,’ begged Claude.

      â€˜Fine,’ said Mr Ogden.

      â€˜I’ll come with you, Claude,’ said the red-headed acolyte.

      â€˜There’s no need for two, honestly, is there Mr Ogden?’

      â€˜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.

      â€˜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.

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

      â€˜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.

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