The Satanist (7 page)

‘No. It so happened that, while I was still talking to the woman across the landing, the local parson put in an appearance. He had come to call on Mrs. M. for the same sort of reason that I had intended to give. Having drawn a blank we went downstairs together and I offered to give him a lift back to his vicarage in my car. Naturally, we discussed Morden’s tragically early death in general terms and it transpired that up to a few months ago he looked on Teddy as one of the ewe-lambs of his parish. Mrs. M. is an R.C. so he hardly knew her. That’s why he hadn’t called before; and he’d done so then only as a Christian act, to see if she was getting over things all right. But Teddy had been brought up as a staunch Protestant and, although he married out of his own Church, he had continued to attend it regularly and to act as a sidesman.’

Barney paused and ran a hand through his mop of short dark curls. ‘That is, up to a few months ago; but quite suddenly he stopped going. At first the padre thought he must be away on holiday, but he ran into him one evening, learnt that he had not been away and naturally enquired the reason for his back-sliding. Teddy seemed a bit embarrassed but was persuaded to come to the vicarage for a glass of sherry; then he came clean. Apparently he had become a Theosophist, and could no longer fully believe in the doctrines of the Church.’

Instantly Verney’s interest quickened, but he only said: ‘That certainly sounds rather queer in a well-balanced chap like Morden. Where do we go from there?’

‘The padre tried to argue him out of it; but Teddy wouldn’t budge. Apparently he had been attending a course of lectures and séances. He maintained that the things that took place there could not be faked, and he was convinced that the Theosophists held the true key to the after-life. As luck would have it, he mentioned the name of the woman who runs the circle at which these miracles are performed, and the padre remembered it. She is a Mrs. Wardeel.’

‘Have you managed to trace her?’

‘Yes, Sir. I got her address through the Society for Psychical Research. It is 204 Barkston Gardens. I gathered from the man I got her address from that Theosophists and Spiritualists don’t usually hold the same beliefs; but this Mrs. Wardeel seems to be running a cult of her own that combines the two, as at her meetings lectures on the theory of the thing are followed by actual demonstrations of being able to get into touch with the spirit world.’

‘And you intend to follow this up?’

‘I shall if you don’t think it a waste of time Sir. Actually I wrote off to Mrs. Wardeel at once and asked if I could attend one of her meetings. As I couldn’t provide any introduction, I thought she might prove a bit cagey about letting a stranger into these mysteries; so I took your tip about using my title to add a bit of snob value to my request. Anyhow, it worked. I had a typed letter back from her secretary saying that Mrs. Wardeel was always happy to spread enlightenment among people of sufficient education to be fitted to receive it, and that I should send a cheque for five guineas as the fee for a course of six lectures. I sent my cheque, and the first is tonight.’

‘Go, by all means,’ smiled C.B. ‘It might lead to something; one never can tell. I wonder, though,’ he added after a moment, ‘what the real explanation is about Morden. Did he really get bitten with this mumbo-jumbo, or did he deliberately desert his Church because he thought he was being watched and wanted to convince these people that he had fallen completely for the line they were selling him?’

Barney shook his curly head. ‘I fear that’s a thing that now we’ll never know.’

‘True enough, young feller. Anyway, don’t let them turn you into a spook addict.’

‘No fear of that, Sir,’ Barney grinned. ‘The odds are, though, that I’ll get no more than a good laugh over the fun and games by which a few small-time crooks make a living out of the bunch of loonies that I’ll find at this place tonight.’

When Barney had gone, Verney took from a drawer in his desk the photograph of Teddy Morden’s body. After staring at it for a moment, he thought to himself: ‘It ties up. The moment Mary Morden told me about these séances, I felt certain it tied up. She doesn’t stand much chance, poor kid; but, if Barney’s as astute as I believe him to be, we’ll get Morden’s murderers yet.’

That evening Fate took a hand, for it was decreed that a few minutes before eight o’clock Barney Sullivan and Mary Morden should meet on the doorstep of 204 Barkston Gardens.

They had approached from different directions and, until they came face to face, she noticed him only as a youngish man wearing a soft hat and a loose-fitting grey tweed overcoat that hung from broad shoulders, while he registered her as a tallish girl with her head well up and a fine springy walk. Then, as they turned together into the square brick porch, the electric light in its roof suddenly revealed clearly to each the face of the other.

Barney had no more than a vague feeling that he had seen Mary somewhere before; after which his mind switched almost
instantly to speculate on why such a good-looking young woman should be dabbling in spiritualism instead of spending her evening at some cheerful party, or dining and dancing with a boy-friend.

That he did not know her again was perfectly understandable; for, apart from the fact that it was five years since they had met, Mary had changed her appearance in every way that was possible. Her smooth plaits had gone; she now wore her hair shoulder length and curled at the ends, and had had it dyed a rich, dark brown. Her thickish eyebrows had also been dyed, and plucked so that they remained fairly thick at the inner ends but tapered away to points which gave the impression that they turned up slightly at the ends. She was wearing more make-up: a much heavier shade of powder, that gave her fair skin the bronze tint of a brunette who has recently been sun-bathing, mascara on her lashes, eye-shadow, and a magenta lip-stick with which she had succeeded in changing a little the shape of her mouth. Her experience of making up while in cabaret had stood her in good stead, and even her ex-neighbours at Wimbledon would have been unlikely to recognise the quietly turned out Mrs. Morden in this new presentation by which she had deprived herself of her golden hair, but become much more of a
femme fatale.

On the other hand, at the first glance, Mary recognised Barney and her heart gave a jump that seemed to bring it right up into her mouth. Her face would have betrayed her had he not at that moment turned to ring the front-door bell. It was answered almost immediately by an elderly woman servant. Barney politely stepped aside for Mary to enter, then followed her in.

As the servant took his coat and hat, Mary walked on towards a middle-aged woman who was standing in the middle of the square hall. She was a large lady with a big bust on which dangled several necklaces of semi-precious stones. From her broad, flat face several chins sloped down into a thick neck, the whole being heavily powdered. Her eyes were a very light blue and unusually widely spaced.
Upon her head was piled an elaborate structure of brassy curls, and her whole appearance suggested to Barney the type of rich Edwardian widow whose Mecca used to be the Palm Courts of Grand Hotels. He assumed, rightly, that she was Mrs. Wardeel.

To Mary she extended, held high, a carefully manicured and heavily beringed hand, as she said in a deep voice: ‘Ah, Mrs. Mauriac; or perhaps, now that you have become a regular attendant at our little gatherings, you will allow me to call you Margot?’

‘So, she is French,’ Barney was thinking. But actually Mary had been mainly governed in the choice of a
nom de guerre
by making it fit with the initials on her handbags, and other personal belongings, that it would have been a nuisance to have to alter. It was only as an afterthought that it occurred to her that, as she had to make another name for a while, it would be rather fun to assume the sort of one that might have been chosen for a foreign film-star. Meanwhile, Mrs. Wardeel continued to gush at her.

‘You know, I always take a special interest in the young who seek the great truths – young physically, I mean; for, of course, we are all young whenever we get away from these wretched bodies that anchor us here. Not, of course, my dear that that applies to you. But there is no escape from the advancing years, is there? And for the young to learn early that they will never really grow old is such a marvellous protection against the time when one’s looks begin to fade. I am sure that one of the Masters must have you in his particular care to have guided you to us so early in your present incarnation.’

As Mary smiled and murmured a few appropriate words, Barney came up behind her. Mrs. Wardeel turned to him, again offered the beringed hand, and made a gracious inclination of her big synthetically-gold-crowned head.

‘Ah; and now a new seeker after the Light. But we have two tonight. Are you Mr. Betterton or Lord Larne?’

Barney pressed the slightly flabby fingers and replied with a gravity that he felt the occasion called for. ‘I’m Lord
Larne, and I am most grateful to you for allowing me to – er – come here and learn about the sort of things that really matter.’

‘You are welcome,’ she said in her deep voice. ‘I welcome you in the name of the Masters. All who come here are sent by them; but only upon trial. Do not expect too much at once. Those who show scepticism and demand proof for everything reveal by that that they are not yet sufficiently advanced to be worthy of approaching the higher spheres. But, if you are patient and receptive, stage by stage the great truths will be unveiled to you.’

Three more people had arrived so, turning to Mary, she added, ‘Mrs. Mauriac, would you take our new friend, Lord Larne, through to the meeting room?’

Mary’s heart was still pounding, but her face now showed nothing of her inward agitation. On Mrs. Wardeel’s introducing her to Barney, they exchanged a conventional smile, then walked side by side towards a room at the back of the house. As they did so, she was wondering what could possibly have brought to such a gathering the type of man she knew him to be, and, even more extraordinary, why he should be using a title to which she believed he had no right.

The room they entered was long and fairly broad and looked larger than it was in fact because all its furniture – except a desk at one end – had been removed and replaced be seven rows of fold-up wooden chairs. Some twenty people had already taken their seats. Most of them were middle-aged and fairly prosperous looking; there were more women than men, and among the former were two Indian ladies wearing caste marks and saris.

Barney ran his eye swiftly over such of their faces as he could see from where he stood and decided that they looked a more normal crowd than he had expected – in fact, they might all have been collected in one swoop by clearing and transporting the occupants of the lounge of any of the better-class South Kensington hotels. Mary nodded a greeting to a few of them, then took the chair that he was holding
for her. As he sat down beside her he said:

‘I gather that you are one of the older inhabitants of this village, Mrs. Mauriac?’

‘Oh, I…’ her mouth felt dry and her voice threatened to rise from nervous tension. With an effort she got it under control. ‘I’m far from that. This is only the third meeting that I’ve attended.’

Barney noted that she had no French accent, then he replied:

‘Even that puts you quite a bit ahead of me. Do you find the teaching easy to follow?’

‘Some of it.’ To cover her confusion Mary hurried on. ‘I find the arguments for believing in Reincarnation simple and convincing, and I’ve become terribly interested in that. But I’m still a long way from understanding the Theosophical doctrine.’

‘Really!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I was under the impression that Theosophists were anti-doctrinaire. I thought they concerned themselves only with getting at the original wisdom that is said to lie at the root of all the great religions, but most of which has since been obscured by the teachings introduced by many generations of ignorant priests.’

‘That’s quite true; Theosophy does not conflict with Christianity or Buddhism in their best sense. But all the same it has its own doctrine, and much of it seems awfully complicated to me. You see, it isn’t as though this was a course of lectures in which one starts at the beginning; each is on a different aspect of the ancient teaching, and newcomers like you and I have to do our best to pick up what we can as we go along.’

Having by this time had a chance to take full stock of Mary, Barney was congratulating himself on his luck in acquiring so unexpectedly such a glamorous companion with whom to listen to what he anticipated would be a lot of twaddle; but he was temporarily prevented from developing the acquaintance further by the arrival of an elderly lady, leaning on an ebony walking stick, who greeted Mary with a smile, took the chair on her other side, and began
to talk to her about the last meeting.

During the next five minutes another dozen or so people arrived, including a fat, squat Indian wearing thick-lensed glasses, and with protruding teeth, who from his bowing and smiling to right and left seemed to know nearly everyone there. Then Mrs. Wardeel came in followed by a small, bald man in a dark grey suit who looked as if he might have been a bank manager. He walked round to a chair behind the desk while she paused beside it. Silence fell and she said:

‘Dear followers of the Path, Mr. Silcox is well known to most of you. We are blessed in having him with us again. Old friends and new alike will, I know, benefit from another of his talks. This evening he is going to speak to us on the True Light to be found in the Gospels.’

Mrs. Wardeel took a seat that had been kept for her in the front row and Mr. Silcox stood up. Without any unctuous preamble he went straight into his subject, which was to place a new interpretation on many of the sayings of Jesus Christ, given the assumption that He believed in Reincarnation, was Himself in His last incarnation, and was really referring to such matters most of the time.

According to Mr. Silcox, when our Lord spoke of His ‘Father’, He was referring not to a father either physical or divine, but to His own complete personality built up during countless incarnations, only a fragment of which He had brought down with Him to earth.