War in Heaven by Charles Williams (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

might be one of the American chalices,” the inspector submitted.

“It might,” the other said. “But we should have been warned of the theft from New York, probably. It might also be the Holy Graal, which Ribblestone-Ridley says, according to some traditions, came from Ephesus.”

“The Holy Graal,” the inspector said doubtfully. “Hadn’t that something to do with the Pope?”

“It’s supposed to be the cup Christ used at the Last Supper—so I suppose you might say so,” the Assistant Commissioner answered almost as doubtfully. “However, as that Cup, if it ever existed, isn’t likely to exist now, we needn’t really worry about that. No, Colquhoun, I lean to Kieff. I wonder whether the Duke would tell me anything.” He looked at the inspector. “Would you like to go and ask him?” he finished.

“Well, sir, I’d rather you did,” Colquhoun said. “I like to have some hold on people when what I’m asking them is as vague as all that—it seems to help things on.”

The Assistant Commissioner looked at the telephone. “I wonder,” he said. “We don’t know much, do we? A chalice and a Bible and a clergyman. What an infernally religious case this is getting! And an Archdeacon on the outskirts.

“Perhaps Persimmons has killed the Archdeacon by now,” he added hopefully as he took off the receiver.

The Duke, it appeared, when he got through to the butler, was not in London. He had been up for two nights, but had returned to the country on Wednesday? yesterday—morning. He had been accompanied (this when it was understood who was inquiring) by the Archdeacon of Fardles and a Mr. Mornington. They had both returned with the Duke. Should Mr. Thwaites be called to the telephone? Mr. Thwaites was—no, not his Grace’s secretary; no, nor his Grace’s valet; a sort of general utility man to his Grace, in the best sense, of course.

The Commissioner hesitated, but he didn’t want to seem to be asking questions about the Duke, and decided to try Ridings Castle first. He asked for the trunk call, and sat back to wait for it.

“It all seems to be mixed up together, sir,” Colquhoun said. “There was a Mr. Mornington at those publishing offices; it may be another man, of course—but there’s a Persimmons and a Mornington there, and a Persimmons and a Mornington here.”

“And a Bible all written over with Persimmons there, and a chalice that Persimmons stole or had stolen here,” the other said. “Yes. It’s odd. And a corpse there. We only want a corpse here to make a nice even pattern.”

Scotland Yard not being usually kept waiting for its trunk calls, they had not broken the few minutes’ silence by any further remarks before the housekeeper at Castle Ridings had been notified that she was wanted at the telephone. No, the Duke was not in the country. He and Mr. Mornington had left for London last night. By train—the car had been away for a day for some minor repairs. No, nothing was known of his Grace’s return. He had said he should be at Grosvenor Square. What had the Duke’s movements been yesterday? He and Mr. Mornington had arrived, unexpectedly, for lunch. They had gone out walking in the afternoon, and the Duke had said they might not be back. Where had they gone? She did not know; she had heard the Duke say something about a Mrs. Rackstraw to Mr. Mornington after he had told her they might not be back. Yes, Rackstraw. Could she give any message?

The Assistant Commissioner rang off and looked at the inspector, who was in a state of some excitement.

“That damned Rackstraw,” he said. “He’s always coming in. He lunches out with Sir Giles Tumulty and a man gets killed in his room. The Duke goes out to call on his wife and the Duke disappears.”

“I wonder if we’ve got the other corpse,” his chief said. “I think, Colquhoun, we might go and see what this Thwaites fellow can tell us. It’s all right, no doubt, but I don’t seem quite to like it.”

Thwaites, when at Grosvenor Square he was summoned to the presence, seemed at first, if not recalcitrant, at least reluctant. He disclaimed any knowledge of the Duke’s whereabouts; he thought his Grace would not be at all pleased if they were brought into publicity. Why? Well, he had an idea that his Grace wished for privacy. Yes, he admitted gradually, he had seen a chalice in the Duke’s possession on Monday. Considering that on the Monday night he had been awakened to watch in front of it after the other three had retired, content to believe the Archdeacon’s assertion that the attack had failed, this was a restrained way of putting it. But it had been indicated to him that the Duke desired secrecy, and secrecy Thwaites was trying to maintain. But he became anxious when he heard of the disappearance, or at least of the non-appearance, of his master and admitted more than he altogether meant. He admitted that the chalice was not now in London; the Duke and his friends had taken it with them on the Wednesday. This was Thursday, he pointed out, to himself as well as the visitors, so the Duke’s absence had not yet lasted for much over twelve hours—not so very long.

“Say four o’clock to twelve—twenty,” the inspector said.

“Well, not twenty-four,” Thwaites answered. “Only a night, you might say. Not so long but what, if his Grace was busy with something, he mightn’t easily be away.”

“Does the Duke often stay away without warning?” the Assistant Commissioner asked.

Not often, Thwaites admitted, but it had been known. He had gone for a sort of a joy-ride once and not been back for the whole twenty-four hours. Still, his Grace had been very anxious about something, something private, he didn’t know what, but something to do with the chalice, on the Monday and Tuesday.

The Duchess, Thwaites thought, had not been told, since the Duke was not much in the habit of telling his aunt anything; and he very strongly dissuaded the visitors from making any inquiries there. Her Grace, he hinted, was a notorious chatterbox, and the incidents they were investigating would be discussed in a thousand drawing-rooms. If inquiry must be made, let it be conducted by the police along their own channels.

It was, however, exactly the method of conducting it which was annoying the Assistant Commissioner. He exhorted Thwaites to let him know immediately the Duke returned, or if news of him arrived, and to report to him by telephone every two hours if the Duke had not returned. He then withdrew with the inspector.

“Well,” he said when they were in the street again, “I think you’d better go back to Fardles, Colquhoun, and see if you find out anything there. You might, in the circumstances, have a chat with the Archdeacon, and keep an eye on Persimmons’s movements. I’ll send another man down to help you. There’s only one other thing that occurs to me. When Colonel Conyers was up on Monday he asked about the Duke and the Archdeacon and the others, and also about some North London Greek who had got Persimmons this accursed chalice. I’ll put a man on to him. Ring me up later and tell me what’s happened.”

Towards evening the Assistant Commissioner received three telephone reports. The first was Thwaites, with the usual “Nothing has happened, sir. His Grace has not returned and we have received no information.” This time, however, he added, “The Duchess is becoming anxious, sir. She is talking of consulting the police. Shall I put her through to you, sir?”

“No, for God’s sake,” the Commissioner said hastily. “Tell her something, anything you like. Tell her to ring up the nearest police station… No, she won’t do that as she knows me. All right, Thwaites, put her through.”

The Duchess was put through, and the Commissioner extracted from her what he really wanted—permission to investigate. He then pretended to be cut off.

It was some minutes later that he received a call from Colquhoun.

“The Archdeacon isn’t here, sir,” the inspector reported. “He left for London just before lunch, about when we were at the Duke’s. They don’t know when he’ll be back. Mr. Persimmons also left, just after lunch. I must have passed him in the train. Rackstraw is here and his wife, in a cottage in Persimmons’s grounds. They apparently have a small boy, but he’s been taken to London by a maid of Persimmons’. I knew Rackstraw was in it somehow.”

“Family man, Persimmons,” the Assistant Commissioner said. “Pity you couldn’t have let us know he was coming, and I really think we’d have had him covered.”

“Well, sir, both he and the Archdeacon were away before I got down here,” the inspector said forbearingly. “Shall I come back?”

“No, I think not,” his chief said. “Stop to-day, anyhow, and let me hear to-morrow if there’s anything fresh. I’ve sent Pewitt to Finchley Road, but he’s not reported yet. It’s all pure chance. We really don’t know what we’re looking for.”

“I thought we were trying to find out why Persimmons murdered Pattison, sir,” the inspector answered.

“I suppose we are,” his chief said, “but we seem rather like sparrows hopping round Persimmons on the chance of a crumb. Well, carry on; see if you can pick one up and let us guzzle it to-morrow. Goodbye.”

He sat back, lit a cigarette, and turned to other work, till, somewhere about half-past eight, Pewitt also rang up. Pewitt was a young fellow who was being tried on the mere mechanics of this kind of work, and he had been sent up to the Finchley Road not more than two hours earlier, having been engaged on another job for most of the day. His voice now sounded depressed and worried.

“Pewitt speaking,” he said, when the Commissioner had announced himself. “I’m—I’m in rather a hole, sir. I—we—can’t find the house.”

“Can’t what?” his chief asked.

“Can’t find the house, sir,” Pewitt repeated. “I know it sounds silly, but it’s the simple truth. It doesn’t seem to be there.”

The Assistant Commissioner blinked at the telephone. “Are you mad or merely idiotic, Pewitt?” he asked. “I did think you’d got the brains of a peewit, anyhow, if not much more. Have you lost the address I gave you or what?”

“No, sir,” Pewitt said, “I’ve got the address all right—Lord Mayor’s Street. It was a chemist’s, you said. But there doesn’t seem to be a chemist’s there. Of course, the fog makes it difficult, but still, I don’t think it is there.”

“The fog?” the Commissioner said.

“It’s very thick up here in North London,” Pewitt answered, “very thick indeed.”

“Are you sure you’re in the right street?” his chief asked.

“Certain, sir. The constable on duty is here too. He seems to remember the shop, sir, but he can’t find it, either. All we can find, sir, is—”

“Stop a minute,” the Commissioner interrupted. He rang his bell and sent for a Directory; then, having found it, he went on. “Now go ahead. Where do you begin?”

“George Giddings, grocer.”

“Right.”

“Samuel Murchison, confectioner.”

“Right.”

“Mrs. Thorogood, apartments.”

“Damn it, man,” the Commissioner exploded, “you’ve just gone straight over it. Dimitri Lavrodopoulos, chemist.”

“But it isn’t, sir,” Pewitt said unhappily. “The fog’s very thick, but we couldn’t have missed a whole shop.”

“But Colonel Conyers has been there,” the Commissioner shouted, “been there and talked with this infernal fellow. Good God above, it must be there! You’re drunk, Pewitt.”

“I feel as if I was, sir,” the mournful voice said, “groping about in this, but I’m not. I’ve looked at the Directory myself, sir, and it’s all right there. But it’s not all right here. The house has simply disappeared.”