War in Heaven (11 page)

“He's probably dreaming of going away,” Lionel answered softly. “I hope he won't take a dislike to the place or Persimmons or anything.”

“Hush, sweetheart,” Barbara murmured. “All's well. All's well.”

Chapter Seven

ADRIAN

The Archdeacon, as he considered matters, found himself confronted by several dilemmas. As, for example: (1) Was the stolen chalice the Holy Graal or not? (2) Had it or had it not been taken from him on the supposition that it was? (3) Had Mr. Persimmons anything to do with the supposition or with the removal? (4) Ought he or ought he not to take an active interest in retrieving it? (5) If so, what steps ought he to take?

He felt that, so far as the property itself was concerned, he was very willing to let it slip—Graal or no Graal. But he admitted that, if by any ridiculous chance Mr. Persimmons had had to do with its removal, he should have liked the suspicions he already entertained to be clear. On the other hand, it was impossible to call in the police; he had a strong objection to using the forces of the State to recover property. Besides, the whole thing would then be likely to become public.

He was revolving these things in his mind as he strolled down the village one evening in the week after the Rackstraws had occupied the cottage on the other side of Cully. Except that Barbara, in a rush of grateful devotion, had come to the early Eucharist on the Sunday morning, and he had noticed her as a stranger, the Archdeacon knew nothing of their arrival. He had been diplomatically manœuvred by Mr. Batesby into inviting him to stop another week or two. Mr. Batesby thought the Archdeacon ought to go for a holiday; the Archdeacon thought that he would not trouble at present. For he felt curiously reluctant to leave the neighbourhood of Cully and perhaps of the Graal.

As he came to the village he heard a voice calling him and looked up. Coming towards him was Gregory Persimmons, with a stranger. Gregory waved his hand again as they came up.

“My dear Archdeacon,” he said, shaking hands warmly, “I'm delighted to see you about again. Quite recovered, I hope? You ought to go away for a few weeks.”

“I owe you many thanks,” the Archdeacon answered politely, “not only for rescuing me from the road and taking me to the Rectory, but for so kindly and so often inquiring after me. It has really been very thoughtful of you.” He substituted “thoughtful” for “kind” at the last minute with an eye on truth.

“Not a bit, not a bit,” Persimmons said. “So glad you're better. Have you met Sir Giles Tumulty by any chance? Sir Giles, ‘meet' the Archdeacon of Fardles, as they say elsewhere.”

“I hear you have been set on by tramps,” Sir Giles said, as they shook hands. “Many about here?”

As the Archdeacon began to reply, Barbara Rackstraw came along the road with Adrian on their way home, and Persimmons, with a word of apology, skipped aside to meet them. The Archdeacon slurred over the subject of tramps, and proceeded casually: “I have just been reading your last book, Sir Giles. Most interesting.” He became indefinitely more pompous, a slight clericalism seemed to increase in him, “But, you know, that article on the Graal—most interesting, most interesting. And you think, er—m'm, you think
true
?”

“True?” Sir Giles said, “true? What do you mean—true? It's an historical study. You might as well ask whether a book on the Casket Letters was true.”

“Umph, yes,” the Archdeacon answered, exuding ecclesiasticism. “To be sure, yes. Quite, quite. But, Sir Giles, as we happen to have met so pleasantly, I have a confession—yes, a confession to make, and a question to ask. You'll forgive me both, I'm sure.”

Sir Giles in unconcealed and intense boredom stared at the road. Persimmons, Adrian's hand in his, was walking slowly from them, chatting to Barbara. The Archdeacon went on talking, but the next thing that Sir Giles really heard was—“and it seemed most interesting. But it was my fault entirely, only, as I've kept it
quite
secret, I hope you won't mind. And, if you could tell me—in strict confidence, affecting me as it does—why you cut that last paragraph out, it would of course be a very generous act on your part, though I quite realize I have no right to ask it.”

His voice ceased, but by this time Sir Giles was alert. The last paragraph cut out? There was only one last paragraph he had cut out lately. And how did this country clergyman know? His fault entirely, was it? He shook a reluctant head at the Archdeacon. “I'm rather sorry you've seen it,” he said. “But there's no harm done, of course. After all, being your church, you have a kind of claim! But, as far as cutting it out——” He raised his voice. “Persimmons! Persimmons!”

The Archdeacon threw a hand out. “Sir Giles, Sir Giles, he is talking to a lady.”

“Lady be damned,” said Sir Giles. “A country wench, I suppose, or a county wench—it doesn't signify, anyhow. Persimmons!”

Gregory made his farewells to Barbara and Adrian near a turn in the road and returned. “Yes?” he said. “Why such particular excitement?”

Sir Giles grinned. “What do you think?” he said. “The Archdeacon saw that paragraph you made me cut out. So he knew it was his church the Graal was in. And it was Persimmons,” he added to the priest, “who wanted it taken out. He pretended the evidence wasn't good enough, but that was all nonsense. Evidence good enough for anybody.”

From the turn in the road Adrian shouted a final goodbye, and Gregory, remembering his work, turned and waved before he answered. Then he smiled at the Archdeacon, who was looking at him also with a smile. Sir Giles grinned happily, and a bicyclist who passed at the moment reflected bitterly on the easy and joyous time which such people had in the world.

“Dear me,” the Archdeacon said. “And was that the cause of the needy mission church, Mr. Persimmons?”

“Well,” Persimmons said, “I'm afraid it was. I have been something of a collector in my time, and—once I understood from Sir Giles what your old chalice might be—I couldn't resist it.”

“It must be a wonderful thing to be a collector,” the Archdeacon answered gravely. “Apparently you may be seized any time with a passion for anything. Have you a large collection of chalices, Mr. Persimmons?”

“None at all, since I didn't get
that
,” Gregory answered. “To think it's in the hands of some thief now, or a pawnbroker perhaps. Have you put the police on the track yet, Archdeacon?”

“No,” the Archdeacon answered. “I don't think the police would find it. The police sergeant here believes in letting his children run more or less wild, and I feel sure he wouldn't understand my clues. Well, good-day, Sir Giles. Good-day, Mr. Persimmons.”

“Oh, but look here,” Gregory said, “don't go yet. Come up to Cully and have a look at some of my things. You don't bear malice, I'm sure, since I didn't succeed in cheating you.”

“I will come with pleasure,” the Archdeacon said. “Collections are always so delightful, don't you think? All things from all men, so to speak.” And, half under his breath, as they turned towards Cully, he sang to himself, “Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious; for His mercy endureth for ever.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gregory asked at the same moment that Sir Giles said, “Eh?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the Archdeacon said hastily. “Merely an improvisation. The fine weather, I suppose.” He almost smirked at the others, with gaiety in his heart and curving his usually sedate lips. Gregory remembered the way in which the priest's monologue had carried him half over the county, and began almost seriously to consider whether he were not half-witted. Sir Giles, on the other hand, began to feel more interest than hitherto. He glanced aside at Gregory, caught his slight air of bewilderment, and grinned to himself. It appeared that his country visit might be of even more interest than he supposed. He always sought out—at home and abroad—these unusual extremists in religion; they wandered in a borderland, whatever their creed, of metaphysics, mysticism, and insanity which was a peculiarly fascinating spectacle. He had himself an utter disbelief in God and devil, but he found these anthropomorphic conceptions interesting, and to push or delay any devotee upon the path was entertainment to a mind too swiftly bored. The existence and transmission of the magical ointment had become gradually known to him during his wanderings. Of its elements and concoction he knew little; they seemed to be a professional mystery reserved to some remoter circle than he had yet touched. But the semi-delirium which it induced in expectant minds was undoubted, and whenever chance made him acquainted with suitable subjects and he could, without too much trouble to himself, introduce the method, he made haste to do so. Subjects were infrequent; it required a particularly urgent and sadistic nature; he was not at all sure that Persimmons was strong enough. However, it was done now, and he must gain what satisfaction he could from the result.

Of the Graal he thought similarly. That the chalice of Fardles was the Graal he had little doubt; the evidence was circumstantial, but good. He regretted only that the process of time had prevented him from studying its origin, its first user, and his circle, at close quarters. “All martyrs are masochists,” he thought, “but crucifixion is a violent form.” Yet, given in the Jew's mind the delusion that he loved the world, what else was the Passion but masochism? And the passion of the communicant was, of course, a corresponding sadism. Religion was bound to be one of the two; in extreme cases both. The question was, which was the Archdeacon?

The Archdeacon, ignorant that this question was being asked, strolled happily on between his two acquaintances, and with them turned up the drive to Cully. He promised himself opportunities of making clear to Persimmons that he guessed very clearly who had the Graal. He wished that in the early stages of his recovery he had not let out to Mr. Batesby that he had been robbed of the chalice. Mr. Batesby had, of course, passed the information on. If only it were still a secret! But why should anyone want it so much, he wondered. Collecting—well, collecting perhaps.

“Do you collect anything in particular, Mr. Persimmons?” he asked. “Or merely any unconsidered trifles?”

“I have a few interesting old books,” Gregory said. “And a few old vestments and so on. I once took an interest in ecclesiology. But of late I have rather concentrated on old Chinese work—masks, for instance.”

“Masks are always interesting,” the Archdeacon said. “The Chinese mask, I think, has no beard?”

“None of mine have—long mustachios, but no beard,” answered Gregory.

“False beards,” the Archdeacon went on, “are never really satisfactory. A few weeks ago a man called to see me in what I suspect to have been a false beard, I can't imagine why. It seems such a curious thing to wear.”

“I believe that many priesthoods make it a part of their convention not to wear beards,” Gregory said conversationally. “Now what is the reason of that?”

“Obvious enough,” Sir Giles put in. “They have dedicated their manhood to the god—they no longer possess virility. They are feminine to the god and dead to the world. Every priest is a kind of a corpse-woman … if you'll excuse me,” he added after a pause to the Archdeacon, who said handsomely: “I wish it were more largely true.”

“Not
every
priest,” Persimmons said. “There are virile religions, adorations of power and strength.”

“To adore strength is to confess weakness,” Sir Giles said. “To
be
power is
not
to adore it. The very weakest only dream of being powerful. Look at the mystics.”

“Don't, this evening,” Gregory said to the Archdeacon, laughing. “Come in and look at some of my treasures.”

Cully was a large, rambling house, with “the latest modern improvements”. Gregory took his companions up a very fine staircase into a gallery from which his own rooms opened out. In the hall itself were a few noticeable things—a suit of armour, a Greek head, a curious box or two from the Minoan excavations, a cabinet of old china. The gallery was hung with the Chinese masks of which Gregory had spoken, and, having examined them on their way, the visitors were brought at last into their host's sitting-room. It was lined with books, and contained several cabinets and cases; a few prints hung on the walls.

“I suppose,” Sir Giles said, glancing round him, “if you had succeeded in cheating the Archdeacon out of the Graal, you'd have kept it in here.”

“Here or hereabouts,” Gregory said. “The trouble is that in the alterations which earlier inhabitants of the house made the old chapel was converted, at least the upper part of it, into these rooms—my sitting-room, my bedroom, my bathroom, and so on. So far as I can understand, the bathroom—or what is almost the bathroom—is just over where the altar stood; so that to restore the chalice to its most suitable position would be almost impossible.”

“As a matter of manners,” the Archdeacon admitted, “perhaps. But surely not more so than achieving it—if I may say so—by throwing dust in the eyes of its keeper. No, I don't speak personally, Mr. Persimmons; I allude only to an example of comparative morals.”

“What upsets the comparison,” Sir Giles said, “is that in the one case you have a strong personal lust and action deflected in consequence. But in the second action is—comparatively—free.”

“I shouldn't have thought that any action was freer than any other,” the Archdeacon said as he followed Gregory across the room. “Man is free to know his destiny, but not free to evade his destiny.”

“But he can choose his destiny,” Gregory answered, taking a book from the shelves. “He may decide what star or what god he will follow.”

“If you spell destiny and god with capital letters—no,” the Archdeacon said. “All destinies and all gods bring him to One, but he chooses how to know
Him.
”