The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [86]
Mr. Cole smacked his lips, Miss Carnaby blushed.
“Then came the ravens, the ravens of Odin, flying from the North. They met the ravens of Elijah—together they circled in the sky—they swooped, they plucked out the eyes of the victims—there was wailing and gnashing of teeth—and the Voice cried: ‘Behold a Sacrifice—for on this day shall Jehovah and Odin sign blood brotherhood!’ Then the Priests fell upon their victims, they raised their knives—they mutilated their victims—”
Desperately Miss Carnaby broke away from her tormentor who was now slavering at the mouth in a kind of sadistic fervour:
“Excuse me one moment.”
She hastily accosted Lipscomb, the man who occupied the Lodge which gave admission to Green Hills and who providentially happened to be passing.
“I wonder,” she said, “if you have found a brooch of mine. I must have dropped it somewhere about the grounds.”
Lipscomb, who was a man immune from the general sweetness and light of Green Hills, merely growled that he hadn’t seen any brooch. It wasn’t his work to go about looking for things. He tried to shake off Miss Carnaby but she accompanied him, babbling about her brooch, till she had put a safe distance between herself and the fervour of Mr. Cole.
At that moment, the Master himself came out of the Great Fold and, emboldened by his benignant smile, Miss Carnaby ventured to speak her mind to him.
Did he think that Mr. Cole was quite—was quite—
The Master laid a hand on her shoulder.
“You must cast out Fear,” he said. “Perfect Love casteth out Fear. . . .”
“But I think Mr. Cole is mad. Those Visions he has—”
“As yet,” said the Master, “he sees Imperfectly . . . through the Glass of his own Carnal Nature. But the day will come when he shall see Spiritually—Face to Face.”
Miss Carnaby was abashed. Of course, put like that—She rallied to make a smaller protest.
“And really,” she said, “need Lipscomb be so abominably rude?”
Again the Master gave his Heavenly Smile.
“Lipscomb,” he said, “is a faithful watchdog. He is a crude—a primitive soul—but faithful—utterly faithful.”
He strode on. Miss Carnaby saw him meet Mr. Cole, pause, put a hand on Mr. Cole’s shoulder. She hoped that the Master’s influence might alter the scope of future visions.
In any case, it was only a week now to the Autumn Festival.
VI
On the afternoon preceding the Festival, Miss Carnaby met Hercule Poirot in a small teashop in the sleepy little town of Newton Woodbury. Miss Carnaby was flushed and even more breathless than usual. She sat sipping tea and crumbling a rock bun between her fingers.
Poirot asked several questions to which she replied monosyllabically.
Then he said:
“How many will there be at the Festival?”
“I think a hundred and twenty. Emmeline is there, of course, and Mr. Cole—really he has been very odd lately. He has visions. He described some of them to me—really most peculiar—I hope, I do hope, he is not insane. Then there will be quite a lot of new members—nearly twenty.”
“Good. You know what you have to do?”
There was a moment’s pause before Miss Carnaby said in a rather odd voice:
“I know what you told me, M. Poirot. . . .”
“Très bien!”
Then Amy Carnaby said clearly and distinctly:
“But I am not going to do it.”
Hercule Poirot stared at her. Miss Carnaby rose to her feet. Her voice came fast and hysterical.
“You sent me here to spy on Dr. Andersen. You suspected him of all sorts of things. But he is a wonderful man—a great Teacher. I believe in him heart and soul! And I am not going to do your spying work any more, M. Poirot! I am one of the Sheep of the Shepherd. The Master has a new message for the World and from now on, I belong to him body and soul. And I’ll pay for my own tea, please.”
With which slight anticlimax Miss Carnaby plonked down one and threepence and rushed out of the teashop.
“Nom d’un nom d’un nom,” said Hercule Poirot.
The waitress had to ask him twice before he realized that she was presenting the bill. He met the interested stare of