Last Ditch

They collected around Alleyn and Fox, gaily chattering as if they had met in the foyer of the Paris Opéra. Julia and Carlotta wore black linen suits with white lawn blouses, exquisite tributes to Mrs. Ferrant’s art as a blanchisseuse de fin.

“Shall we go in?” Julia asked as if the bells had rung for Curtain-Up. “We mustn’t miss anything, must we?” She laid her gloved hand on Alleyn’s arm. “The baskets!” she said. “Should we take them in or leave them in the car?”

“Baskets!”

“You must remember! ‘Ladies a Basket.’ Carlotta and I have brought langouste and mayo

“I’m not sure if the basket arises this time.”

“We must wait and see. If unsuitable we shall wolf them up when we get home. As a kind of hors d’oeuvre. You’re dining, aren’t you? You and Troy? And Mr. Fox, of course?”

“Julia,” Alleyn said, “Fox and I are policemen and we’re on duty and however delicious your langouste sandwiches I doubt if we can accept your kind invitation. And now, like a dear creature, go and assemble your party in the front stalls and don’t blame me for what you are about to receive. It’s through there on your right.”

“Oh dear!” said Julia. “Yes. I see. Sorry.”

He watched them go off and then looked into the police van. Plank and Moss were in the front, Cribbage and a very young constable in the back with Ferrant and Syd Jones attached to them. The police were in civilian dress.

Alleyn said: “Wait until everyone else has gone in and then sit at the back. OK? If there aren’t any seats left, stand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Plank.

“Where are your other chaps?”

“They went in, Mr. Alleyn. As far front as possible. And there’s an extra copper from the mainland like you said. Outside the back door.”

“How are your two treasures in there?”

“Ferrant’s a right monkey, Mr. Alleyn. Very uncooperative. He doesn’t talk except to Jones and then it’s only the odd curse. The doctor came in to see Jones before we left and gave him a reduced fix. The doctor’s here.”

“Good.”

“He says Mr. Harkness called him in to give him something to steady him up but he reckons he’d already taken something on his own account.”

“Where is Doctor Carey?”

“In the audience. He’s just gone in. He said to tell you Mr. Harkness is in a very unstable condition but not incapable.”

“Thank you. We’ll get moving. Come on, Fox.”

They joined the little stream of people who walked around the stables and along the path to the old barn.

A man with a collection plate stood inside the door. Alleyn, fishing out his contribution, asked if he could by any chance have a word with Mr. Harkness and was told that Brother Cuth was at prayer in the back room and could see nobody. “Alleluia,” he added, apparently in acknowledgment of Alleyn’s donation.

Alleyn and Fox found seats halfway down the barn. Extra chairs and boxes were being brought in, presumably from the house. The congregation appeared to be a cross section of Cove and countryside in its Sunday clothes with a smattering of rather more stylish persons who might hail from Montjoy or even be tourists come out of curiosity. Alleyn recognized one or two faces he had seen at the Cod-and-Bottle. And there, stony in the fourth row, with Louis beside her, sat Mrs. Ferrant.

A little farther forward from Alleyn and Fox were the Pharamonds, looking like a stand of orchids in a cabbage patch and behaving beautifully.

In the front three rows sat, or so Alleyn concluded, the hardcore Brethren. They had an air of proprietorship and kept a smug eye on their books.

The curtains were closed to exclude the stage.

An audience, big or small, as actors know, generates its own flavor and exudes it like a pervasive scent. This one gave out the heady smell of suspense.

The tension increased when a thin lady with a white face seated herself at the harmonium and released strangely disturbing strains of unparalleled vulgarity.

“Shall we gather at the River?” invited the harmonium.

“The Beautiful

The Beautiful

The Ree-iv-a?”

Under cover of this prelude Plank and his support brought in their charges. Alleyn and Fox could see them reflected in a glazed and framed scroll that hung from a beam: “The Chosen Brethren,” it was headed, and it set out the professions of the sect.

Plank’s party settled themselves on a bench against the back wall.

The harmonium achieved its ultimate fortissimo and the curtains opened jerkily to reveal six men seated behind a table on either side of a more important but empty chair. The congregation, prompted by the elect, rose.

In the commonplace light of early evening that filled the hall and in a total silence that followed a last deafening roulade on the organ, Mr. Harkness entered from the i

One would have said that conditions were not propitious for dramatic climax: it had, however, been achieved.

He was dressed in a black suit and wore a black shirt and tie. He had shaved and his hair, cut to regimental length, was brushed. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion was blotched, and his hands unsteady, but he seemed to be more in command of himself than he had been on the occasions when Alleyn encountered him. It was a star entrance and if Mr. Harkness had been an actor he would have been accorded a round of applause.

As it was he sat in the central chair. There he remained motionless throughout the ensuing hymn and prayers. These latter were extemporaneous and of a highly emotional character and were given out in turn by each of the six supporting Brethren, later referred to by Plank as “Cuth’s sidekicks.”

With these preliminaries accomplished and all being seated, Cuthbert Harkness rose to deliver his address. For at least a minute and in complete silence he stood with head bent and eyes closed while his lips moved, presumably in silent prayer. The wait was hard to bear.

From the moment he began to speak he generated an almost intolerable tension. At first he was quiet but it would have come as a relief if he had spoken at the top of his voice.

He said: “Brethren: This is the Day of Reckoning. We are si

It was as if a communal nerve had been touched, causing each member of his audience to stiffen. He himself actually “came to attention” like a soldier. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, inflated his chest, and directed his bloodshot gaze over the heads of his listeners. He might have been addressing a parade.

“Murder,” roared Mr. Harkness. “You have Murder here in your midst, Brethren, here in the very temple of righteousness. And I shall reveal its Name unto you. I have nursed the awful knowledge like a viper in my bosom, I have wrestled with the Angel of Darkness. I have suffered the torments of the Damned but now the Voice of Eternal Judgment has spoken unto me and all shall be made known.”

He stopped dead and looked wildly around his audience. His gaze alighted on the row against the back wall and became fixed. He raised his right arm and pointed.

“Guilt!” he shouted. “Guilt encompasseth us on every hand. The Serpent is coiled in divers bosoms. I accuse! Sydney Jones—”

“You lay off me,” Syd screamed out, “you shut up.”

Heads were turned. Sergeant Plank could be heard expostulating. Harkness, raising his voice, roared out a sequence of anathemas, but no specific accusation. The accusing finger shifted.