Decline in Prophets (39 page)

“R
owly, Rowly… come on, pal, wake up.”

Rowland groaned. Someone was slapping his face. He opened his eyes.

“Stop hitting me, you idiot!”

Hubert Van Hook sat back, relieved.

“Whew… I was beginning to sweat.”

“What happened?”

“I was trying to make sure you didn’t holler when you saw me, and then you fainted I think.”

Rowland sat up. “I couldn’t breathe,” he said curtly. “That happens when some blasted fool covers your nose and your mouth.”

“Shoot, sorry, pal—I got carried away. I thought you’d panic if you saw me and scream bloody murder.”

Rowland rubbed his face. “No—I’m pretty sure you didn’t try to kill anybody… though you might have smothered me by mistake.”

He looked around. Van Hook had dragged him into the tack shed—it looked like the American had been holed up there for a couple of days. “What have you done with my dog,
Hu?”

Hubert flicked Rowland’s torch into a corner where Lenin was tied to a trough. The dog seemed to have settled to sleep. “He’s been keeping me company on and off… goes
goofy when you scratch his belly… ugly mutt but he’s got a great smile.”

“What are you doing here, Hu?” Rowland asked, stretching gingerly.

“Hiding.”

“From the police.”

“Them too… they think I killed Charlie.”

“He’s not dead… not quite. Why’d you set me up with that meeting at
The Manor
?”

“I didn’t.”

“My housekeeper took… you didn’t call…” Rowland groaned in realisation.

“No—it wasn’t me, pal.” Van Hook sat down on an upturned urn. “Look Rowly, I recognised someone the other day… I didn’t say anything ’cause I
thought every man’s got a right to move on and it could have been just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?”

“That he should turn up now when Theosophists are being popped off. I knew him a long time ago.”

Rowland nodded. “I know—Arthur Urquhart—Father Matthew Bryan is Arthur Urquhart.”

Van Hook was visibly shocked. “When did you figure that out?”

“Just now, actually,” Rowland replied. “It was something Ed said about me looking like my brother… I started looking carefully at the photos she took on the ship…
there’s a resemblance when you’re looking for it. I suppose I can’t blame him for not wanting people to know… particularly now he’s with the Church.”

“There’s more to it than that, pal.”

Rowland nodded. “I was afraid of that. What do you know, Hu?”

“The dirtbag tried to kill me.”

“You don’t say? When?”

“The day he belted you with that statue—I tried to warn you. Art asked me to meet him at the church there that morning, but I was late. He heard me shout out to you… I saw his
eyes, Rowly old buddy. He meant to kill you and meant to kill me… I punked out—got the hell outta there.”

“Why on earth didn’t you go to the police?”

“I tried to call you—I wanted to talk to you before I went to the police with some crazy story about a homicidal priest.”

Rowland nodded, remembering the messages from Van Hook. He hadn’t returned the phone calls. “I’m sorry, old man—I thought you were just calling to warn me that Leadbeater
planned to name me his flaming messiah.”

“You couldn’t have called me back anyway, pal, I was on the lam… calling you from wherever I could.”

“I don’t understand, Hu… you’re a lawyer… surely…?”

Van Hook took a deep breath. “I’ll level with you, Rowly. I knew you had contacts, and I was hoping you could help me sort this out real quiet like. My clients back home ain’t
the type of fellas you bring home to meet mother, and they ain’t going to be happy that their mouthpiece is mixed up with some crazy spiritual movement… Geez, my wife doesn’t
even know that I do work for the Theosophists.”

“Your wife… you’re married?”

“Left Lucy and the girls in London for a few months.”

“The girls?”

“I’ve got two… real little sweethearts.” Van Hook took a photograph from his pocket.

Rowland looked at the picture and shook his head.

“What…? What’s wrong with them?” Van Hook challenged.

“Nothing at all,” Rowland said quickly. “They’re perfectly charming. I just can’t believe you’ve never mentioned you had a family before.”

“It’s like this, Rowly…” Van Hook scratched his head trying to find the words to explain. “I’ve moved on from the movement in a lot of ways… but you
know I love Annie and Jiddu’s like a brother to me, so every now and then I sort some things for them, catch up, meditate… that sort of thing… call it penance for past
misdeeds... but I keep it separate. Lucy—my wife, she’s not a member… in fact she thinks the Theosophists are “dangerous heathens”. She’d probably leave me if
she knew I was involved with them again.”

“So you live a double life?”

“Don’t we all, pal… to some extent at least?”

“This is a bit extreme, Hu.”

“Not really. When Lucy decided she’d take the girls to London for the Season, I figured it’d be a good chance to sort out the Society’s affairs. I’d be back in
Chicago before they got home and no- one would be the wiser.”

“So now you’re hiding in a shed,” Rowland said dusting himself off. “Look, Hu, the police have been looking into your background… they found some stuff about you
and Leadbeater.”

“Oh that.” Van Hook’s voice was flat.

“It’s true, then?” Rowland asked uncomfortably.

Van Hook studied him, and then sighed. “I was Charlie’s prophet for a while and, yes, I made the allegations of indecency.”

Rowland shook his head. “Bloody hell, Hu, I would have wanted to kill him.”

“Well I didn’t,” Van Hook replied. “The allegations weren’t mine.”

“I don’t follow.”

Van Hook rubbed his face. “You gotta understand Rowly, we were just kids. Art was my best friend—never took to Orville—but Art was good people back then. And Charlie was always
a bit queer… you’ve met him.”

“But he didn’t…”

“Not me… but Art… maybe… probably. Art couldn’t say anything. His parents believed completely in Charlie.”

“So you made the allegations for him?”

“Art convinced me that it didn’t matter who made the allegations… we just had to do something about Leadbeater.” Van Hook shrugged. “We were kids.”

“What happened?” Rowland asked.

“Orville Urquhart spoke up for Charlie, called me a liar.” Van Hook laughed ruefully. “I guess I was.”

“Christ, what a dashed mess.”

“Art went to live with his grandmother soon after that. He’s changed a bit… I only just recognised him the other day on the ferry… he used to wear
peepers—couldn’t see much without them.”

“Peepers?… Oh you mean spectacles.” Rowland recalled the boy in Delaney’s photo whom Orville Urquhart was jostling aside. Spectacles—of course. That’s why
Bryan was such a hopeless shot.

“Good grief, Hu, why didn’t you take all this to the police?”

“When I finally worked up the guts to go to the cops without you, they were looking for me. My word against a priest,” Van Hook’s voice became bitter. “And considering my
past… I’m an attorney remember… I know how the cops work… it’ll be much easier to close the case on me than to start messing with the Church.”

“So you came here?”

“Thought your joint was so big I could hide out till I figured out my next move… the cops wouldn’t look for me here—nor would Art.”

“Why does he want to kill you?”

“He’s got it into his head that I’m helping the Society to steal his inheritance.”

Rowland chewed his lower lip, digesting Van Hook’s revelations.

“I suppose it’s no great surprise that he shot Leadbeater.”

“Lots of reasons to kill Charlie,” Van Hook agreed, “and the money as well… Charlie was one of the Urquhart trustees.”

“And me?”

“Beats me, pal. I thought you fellas were buddies.”

“Do you think he killed the others?”

“Frannie maybe.”

“Mrs. Waterman? Why?”

“She might have recognised him—they were tight back then.”

Rowland stood up. The string of murders, improbable accidents and misfortunes upon the
Aquitania
were all falling into place. With his brother dead, Arthur Urquhart was the sole heir to
the Urquhart fortune—provided the trustees were out of the way. Charles Leadbeater and Annie Besant. Edna had mentioned the deacon would go to India soon. But Isobel—she would not have
known who he was, she was no threat to him… unless… Isobel’s child… could it have been the deacon’s?

“Come on then,” he said, moving towards the door.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the house.” Rowland checked his watch. It was one o’clock. “I’ll call Delaney at the first decent hour. It’ll be rather more than just your
word—in the meantime you can stop living like a stray cat.”

Van Hook grabbed Rowland’s hand, shaking it gratefully. “Thanks, pal. I’m in a tight spot.”

Rowland smiled. “Don’t mention it, Hu… we prophets should stick together.”

“Rowly?” Clyde turned on the lamp when he heard the door open. “What the… Hu!” Clyde sat up, still too sleepy to respond appropriately to the fact
that a wanted murderer had walked into the room.

“Shhh,” Rowland warned as he came in after Van Hook. “You’ll wake everybody.”

Milton now sat up too, gaping dumbly at the two of them.

“Why don’t you take my bed, Hu,” Rowland sat down in the armchair and loosened his tie.

“Are you going to tell us why you’re giving your bed to a criminal?” Milton asked groggily.

Van Hook didn’t seem offended, his attention caught instead by the nude of Edna which now leant against the far wall after being expelled from
Roburvale
.

“Shoot Rowly, how do you expect me to sleep with that in here? … Cripes!” Van Hook stared at the painting. “So this is what you do?… No wonder you’re not
short of a clam.”

Rowland shook his head, affronted by the reduction of his art in such a way. “Philistine,” he muttered.

He brought Clyde and Milton up to date, quickly and briefly. It was the poet who reacted violently.

“Is Ed back yet?” he demanded, suddenly bolt upright.

Rowland shook his head, not sure why Milton thought Edna needed to know about this now.

Milton jumped out bed, swearing furiously as he dragged on his trousers.

“Milt… what?”

Milton cursed again. “Ed’s with him, Rowly… Bryan, Urquhart… whoever the hell he is. He was supposed to be talking to her about some kind of religious sculpture for the
church. She went to meet him.”

Rowland paled. He stood. “Where were they going?”

“No bloody idea… a church of some sort… I don’t know.” Milton was starting to panic.

Clyde was now also fumbling for clothes.

Rowland checked the time. One-thirty. He opened the door, no longer concerned about his sleeping guests and ran down the stairs. He called Delaney at home.

It took a little time to make the Detective understand. Admittedly, Rowland was becoming progressively more desperate.

Milton, Clyde and Van Hook had followed him down.

“Look, Rowly—just stay put,” Delaney said finally. “I’ll brief the superintendent and get some men out straight away and then I’ll be over. Don’t go
anywhere.”

Rowland hung up.

“What the blazes!” Wilfred had been woken by the noise and had come down to investigate. He gathered almost immediately that this was not some late-night bohemian revelry. There was
a sense of genuine dread in the room.

Rowland paced, agitated.

“Rowly,” Wilfred said again. “What’s happened?”

“Ed’s with some bastard who’s murdered at least three people, and we have no bloody idea where they are,” Rowland replied shaking his head. He was scared cold.

“You’ve called the police?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” Wilfred said evenly. “So we wait. Rowly—sit down.” He turned to Milton, who was swearing continuously. “Mr. Isaacs, I understand that you are
distressed. Nevertheless, there are women and children in the house.”

Rowland ignored his brother, pacing distractedly. His mind was working furiously—where could they have gone? Edna would stand out at St Patrick’s—he wouldn’t take her
there. The sculptress was meeting him to talk about a commission—a religious statue. For what? A church—is that where she’d met him? He turned to the poet. “Milt, think!
What was the name of the church?”

Milton sat with his face in his hands. “I don’t know, Rowly. She didn’t say—it was just some church that needed a statue.”

“Did she say anything about the statue?”

“An angel—she was excited about it—some kind of avenging angel.”

“An archangel?”

“Yes, that was it.”

Rowland’s eyes were bright, the blue seemed to intensify. Rookwood… where the clergyman had tried to kill him. The chapel. It had to be. “St Michael the Archangel,” he
said slowly.

“Yes—that’s him.”

Clyde moved towards the door. “All right, let’s go.”

“Go? Where the blazes are you going?” Wilfred was startled.

“Rookwood,” Rowland replied, already at the front door. “Wil, wait here for Delaney, will you. Hu, you too. You can tell Delaney exactly where to go.”

“What in the King’s name is going on here?” Roger Castlemaine blundered down the steps in his robe and nightcap. “Have we been burgled? Are they still here… where
do you keep your guns, boy?”