War in Heaven (14 page)

“You're sure you saw it?” he asked. “Have you gone to the police?”

“No,” the Archdeacon said. “If you don't think I saw it, would the police be likely to?”

“I do, I do,” Kenneth said hastily. “But why should he want it?”

“I haven't any idea,” the priest answered. “That's what baffles me too. Why should anyone want anything as much as that? And certainly why should anyone want the Graal—if it is the Graal? He talked to me about being a collector, which makes me pretty sure he isn't.”

Kenneth got up and walked up and down. There was a silence for a few minutes, then the Archdeacon said: “However, we needn't worry over it. What about me and the League of Nations?”

“Yes,” Kenneth said absently, sitting down again. “Oh, well, Stephen simply leapt at it. I read it, and I told him about it, and I suggested sending it to one of our tame experts—only I couldn't decide between the political expert and the theological. At least, I was going to suggest it, but I didn't have time. ‘By an Archdeacon? By an orthodox Archdeacon? Oh, take it, take it by all means, by all manner of means.' He positively tangoed at it.”

“This is very gratifying,” the Archdeacon answered, “and the haste is unexpected.”

“Stephen,” Kenneth went on, “has a weakness for clerical books; I've noticed it before. Fiction is our stand-by, of course; but he takes all the manuscripts by clergymen that he decently can. I think he's a little shy of some parts of our list, and likes to counterbalance them. We used to do a lot of occult stuff; a particular kind of occult. The standard work on the Black Mass and that sort of thing. That was before Stephen himself really got going, but he feels vaguely responsible, I've no doubt.”

“Who ran it then?” the Archdeacon asked idly.

“Gregory,” Mornington answered. He stopped suddenly, and the two looked at one another.

“Oh, it's all nonsense,” Mornington broke out. “The Black Mass, indeed!”

“The Black Mass is all nonsense, of course,” the Archdeacon said; “but nonsense, after all, does exist. And minds can get drunk with nonsense.”

“Do you really mean,” Mornington asked, “that a London publisher sold his soul to the devil and signed it away in his own blood and that sort of thing? Because I'm damned if I can see him doing it. Lots of people are interested in magic, without doing secret incantations under the new moon with the aid of dead men's grease.”

“You keep harping on the London publisher,” the other said. “If a London publisher has a soul—which you're bound to admit—he can sell it if he likes: not to the devil, but to himself. Why not?” He considered. “I think perhaps, after all, I ought to try and recover that chalice. There are decencies. There is a way of behaving in these things. And the Graal, if it is the Graal,” he went on, unusually moved, “was not meant for the greedy orgies of a delirious tomtit.”

“Tomtit!” Mornington cried. “If it could be true, he wouldn't be a tomtit. He'd be a vulture.”

“Well, never mind,” the priest said. “The question is, can I do anything at once? I've half a mind to go and take it.”

“Look here,” said Mornington, “let me go and see him first. Stephen thought it would look well if I called, being down here. And let me talk to Lionel Rackstraw.” He spoke almost crossly. “Once a silly idea like this gets into one's mind, one can't see anything else. I think you're wrong.”

“I don't see, then, what good you're going to do,” the Archdeacon said. “If I'm mad——”

“Wrong, I said,” Kenneth put in.

“Wrong because being hit on the head has affected my mind and my eyes—which is almost the same thing as being mad. If I'm demented, anyhow—you won't be any more clear about it after a chat with Mr. Persimmons on whatever he does chat about. Nor with Mr. Rackstraw, whoever he may be.”

Kenneth explained briefly. “So, you see, he's really been a very decent fellow over the cottage,” he concluded.

“My dear man,” the Archdeacon said, “if you had tea with him and he gave you the last crumpet, it wouldn't prove anything unless he badly wanted the crumpet, and not much even then. He might want something else more.”

This, however, was a point of view to which Kenneth, when that evening he walked over to the cottage, found Lionel not very willing to agree. Gregory, so far as the Rackstraws were concerned, had been nothing but an advantage. He had lent them the cottage; he had sent a maid down from Cully to save Barbara trouble; he had occupied Adrian for hours together with the motor and other amusements, until the child was very willing for his parents to go off on more or less extensive walks while he played with his new friend. And Lionel saw no reason to associate himself actively—even in sympathy—with the archidiaconal crusade; more especially since Mornington himself was torn between scepticism and sympathy.

“In any case,” he said, “I don't know what you want me to
do
. Anyone that will take Adrian off my hands for a little while can knock all the Archdeacons in the country on the head so far as I am concerned.”

“I don't want you to do anything,” Kenneth answered, “except discuss it.”

“Well, we're going up to tea at Cully to-morrow,” Lionel said. “I can talk about it there, if you like.”

Kenneth arrived at Cully on the Sunday afternoon, after having heard the Archdeacon preach a sermon in the morning on “
Thou shall not covet thy neighbour's house,
” in which, having identified “thy neighbour” with God and touched lightly on the text “
Mine are the cattle upon a thousand hills,
” he went off into a fantastic exhortation upon the thesis that the only thing left to covet was “thy neighbour” Himself. “Not His creation, not His manifestations, not even His qualities, but Him,” the Archdeacon ended. “This should be our covetousness and our desire; for this only no greed is too great, as this only can satisfy the greatest greed. The whole universe is His house, the soul of thy mortal neighbour is His wife, thou thyself art His servant and thy body His maid—a myriad oxen, a myriad asses, subsist in the high inorganic creation. Him only thou shalt covet with all thy heart, with all thy mind, with all thy soul, and with all thy strength. And now to God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be ascribed, as is most justly due, all honour …” The congregation searched for sixpences.

Lionel, Barbara, and Adrian were with Persimmons and Sir Giles on the terrace behind the house when Kenneth arrived, and had already spoken of his probable visit. Gregory welcomed him pleasantly enough, as one of the staff who had originally worked under him. But Kenneth's mind was already in a slight daze, for, as he had been conducted by the maid through the hall, he had seen on a bracket about the height of his head from the ground, in a corner near the garden door, an antique cup which struck him forcibly as being very like the one the Archdeacon had described to him. It seemed impossible that, if the priest's absurd suspicions were right, Persimmons should so flaunt the theft before the world—unless, indeed, it were done merely to create the impression of impossibility. “There is no possible idea,” Kenneth thought as he came on to the terrace, “to which the mind of man can't supply some damned alternative or other. Yet one must act. How are you, Mr. Persimmons? You'll excuse this call, I know.”

The conversation rippled gently round the spring publishing season and books in general, with backwaters of attention in which Adrian immersed himself.

It approached, gently and unobserved by the two young men, the question of corrections in proof, and it was then that Sir Giles, who had until then preserved a sardonic and almost complete silence, said suddenly: “What I want to know is, whether proofs are or are not private?”

“I suppose they are, technically,” Lionel said lazily, watching Adrian. “Subject to the discretion of the publisher.”

“Subject to the discretion of the devil,” Sir Giles said. “What do you say, Persimmons?”

“I should say yes,” Gregory answered. “At least till they are passed for press.”

“I ask,” Sir Giles said pointedly, “because my last proofs were shown to an outsider before the book was published. And if one of these gentlemen was responsible I want to know why.”

“My dear Tumulty, it doesn't matter,” Gregory in a quiet, soothing tone put in. “I asked you not to mention it, you know.”

“I know you did,” Sir Giles answered, “and I said—that I felt I ought to. After all, a man has a right to know why a mad clergyman is allowed to read paragraphs of his book which he afterwards cancels. I tell you, Persimmons, we haven't seen the last of your … Archdeacon yet.”

It was evident that Barbara's presence was causing Sir Giles acute difficulty in the expression of his feelings. But this was unknown to Kenneth, who, realizing suddenly what the other was talking about, said, leaning forward in his chair, “I'm afraid that's my fault, Sir Giles. It was I showed the Archdeacon your proofs. I'm extremely sorry if it's inconvenienced you, but I don't think I agree that proofs are so entirely private as you suggest. Something must be allowed to a publisher's need for publicity, and perhaps something for the mere accidents of a publishing house. There was no special stipulation about privacy for your book.”

“I made no stipulation,” Sir Giles answered, staring hostilely at Kenneth, “because I didn't for an instant suppose I should find it being read in convocation before my final corrections were made.”

“Really, really, Tumulty,” Gregory said. “It's unfortunate, as it's turned out, but I'm sure Mornington would be the first to deplore a slight excess of zeal, a slight error of judgement, shall we say?”

“Error of judgement?” Sir Giles snarled. “It's more like a breach of common honesty.”

Kenneth came to his feet. “I admit no error in judgement,” he said haughtily. “I was entirely within my rights. What is the misfortune you complain of, Mr. Persimmons?” He moved so as to turn his back on Sir Giles.

“I don't complain,” Gregory answered hastily. “It's just one of those things that happen. But the Archdeacon, owing to your zeal, my dear Mornington, has been trying to saddle me with the responsibility for the loss of this chalice Sir Giles was writing about. I do wish he'd never seen the proofs. I think you must admit they ought to be treated as private.”

“It's exactly like reading out a private letter from the steps of St. Paul's,” Sir Giles added. “A man who does it ought to be flung into the gutter to starve.”

“Now, now, Tumulty,” Gregory put in, as the enraged Kenneth wheeled round, and Barbara and Lionel hastily stood up, “it's not as bad as that. I think perhaps strict commercial morality would mean strict privacy, but perhaps we take a rather austere view. The younger generation is looser, you know—less tied—less dogmatic, shall we say?”

“Less honest, you mean,” Sir Giles said. “However, it's your affair more than mine, after all.”

“Let's say no more about it,” Gregory said handsomely.

“But I will say more about it,” Kenneth cried out. “Do you expect me to be called a thief and a liar and I don't know what, because I did a perfectly right thing, and then be forgiven for it? I beg your pardon, Barbara, but I can't stand it, and I won't.”

“You can't help it,” Sir Giles said, grinning. “What will you do? We've both forgiven you, my fine fellow, and there it stops.”

Kenneth stamped his foot in anger. “I'll have an apology,” he said. “Sir Giles, what is the importance of this beastly book of yours?”

Barbara moved forward and slipped her arm in his. “Kenneth dear,” she murmured; and then to Gregory, “Mr. Persimmons, I don't quite know what all this is about, but couldn't we do without forgiving one another?” She smiled at Sir Giles. “Sir Giles has had to forgive so many people, I expect, in different parts of the world, that he might spare us this time.”

Lionel came to her help. “It's my fault more than Mornington's,” he said. “I was supposed to be looking after the proofs, and I let an uncorrected set out of my keeping. It's me you must slang, Sir Giles.”

“In the firm is one thing,” Sir Giles said obstinately, “one risks that. But an outsider, and a clergyman, and a mad clergyman—no.”

“Mad clergyman be——” Kenneth began, and was silenced by Barbara's appealing, “But what
is
it all about? Can you tell me, Mr. Persimmons?”

“I can even show you,” Gregory said pleasantly. “As a matter of fact, Adrian's seen it already. We had a game with it this morning. It's a question of identifying an old chalice.” He led the way into the hall, and paused before the bracket. “There you are,” he said, “that's mine. I got it from a Greek, who got it from one of his countrymen who fled before the Turkish recovery in Asia Minor. It comes, through Smyrna, from Ephesus. Old enough and interesting, but as for being the Graal——Unfortunately, after the Archdeacon had read this paragraph about which we've all been behaving so badly, three things happened. I did ask him if he had a chalice to spare for a friend of mine who has a very poor parish; thieves made an attempt on the church over there; and the Archdeacon was knocked on the head by a tramp. He seems to think that this proves conclusively that I was the tramp and that this is his missing chalice. At least, he says it's missing.”

“How do you mean, sir—says it's missing?” Lionel asked.

“Well, honestly—I dare say it's mere pique—but we none of us really
know
the Archdeacon, do we?” Gregory asked. “And some of the clergy aren't above turning an honest penny by supplying American millionaires with curios. But it looks bad if it does happen to come out—so if the thing
can
disappear by means of a tramp or an unknown neighbour …”