“You object?” said Alleyn briskly. “Then I shall have to leave my men here for the time being. I’m so sorry.”

“But — I cannot understand—”

“You see I’m afraid there is little doubt that this is a case of homicide. That means there is a certain routine that we are obliged to follow. A search of the premises is part of this routine. Of course, if you object—”

“I — no— I—”

“You don’t?”

“Not if — no. It is merely that this little dwelling is very precious to me. It is filled with the thoughts — the meditations of a specially dedicated life. One shrinks a little from the thought of — ah—”

“Of fools stepping in where — but no, of course this is one of the places where angels tread all over the place. We’ll be as quick as we can. You can help us if you will. The bedroom is through there, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Any other rooms?”

“The usual offices,” said Father Garnette grandly: “bathroom, etceterah, etceterah.”

“Any back door?”

“Ah — yes.”

“Is it locked?”

“Invariablah.”

“Have a look, will you, Fox? I’ll take this room.”

Fox dived past a black velvet portiere. The constable, at a nod from Alleyn, followed him.

“Would you rather stay here?” asked Alleyn of Father Garnette. Father Garnette cast a somewhat distracted glance round the room and said he thought he would.

“Finished with me, Alleyn?” asked Dr. Curtis.

“Yes, thanks, Curtis. Inquest on Tuesday, I suppose. They’ll want a post-mortem, of course.”

“Of course. I’ll be off.”

“Lucky creature. Good night.”

“Good night. Good night, Father Garnette.”

“Good night, my dear doctor,” ejaculated Father Garnette on a sudden gush of geniality.

The little divisional surgeon hurried away. Nigel attempted to make himself inconspicuous by standing in a corner and was at once told to come out of it and give a hand.

“Make a note of anything I tell you about. Now, Mr. Garnette, I understand that in preparing the wine for tonight’s ceremony Mr. Wheatley used two ingredients. Where did he find the bottles?”

Father Garnette pointed to a very nice Jacobean cupboard. It was unlocked. Alleyn opened the doors and revealed an extremely representative cellar. All the ingredients for the more elaborate cocktails, some self-respecting port, the brandy that had been recommended by Dr. Curtis, and a dozen bottles of an aristocrat in hocks. On a shelf by themselves stood four bottles of dubious appearance—“Le Comte’s Invalid Port.” One was empty.

“That will be the one broached to-night? asked Alleyn.

“Ah — yes,” said Father Garnette.

Alleyn moved the others to one side and discovered a smaller label-less bottle, half full. He took it out carefully, holding it by the extreme end of the neck. The cork came out easily. Alleyn sniffed at the orifice and raised an eyebrow.

“Big magic, Mr. Garnette,” he remarked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did this provide the second ingredient in the potion mixed by Mr. Wheatley?”

“Ah — broomp,” said Father Garnette, clearing his vocal passage, “yes. That is so.”

Alleyn drew a pencil from his pocket, dipped it into the bottle and then sucked it pensively.,

“How much of this was used?” he asked.

Father Garnette inclined his head.

“The merest soupçon,” he said. “It is perfectly pure.”

“The best butter,” murmured Alleyn. He put the bottle in his bag, which Fox had left on the table.

“You have a complete cellar without it, I see,” he said coolly.

“Ah yes. Will you take something, Inspector? This has been a trying evening — for all of us.”

“No, thank you so much.”

“Mr. — ah — Bathgate?”

Nigel’s tongue arched longingly but he too refused a drink.

“I am very much shaken,” said Father Garnette. “I feel wretchard. Quite wretchard.”

“You had better have a peg yourself, perhaps,” suggested Alleyn. Father Garnette passed his hand wearily across his forehead and then let his arm flop on the desk.

“Perhaps I had, perhaps I had,” he said with a sort of brave smile. He poured himself out a pretty stiff nip, took a pull at it, and sat down at the table.

Alleyn went on with his investigation of the room. He moved to the desk. Father Garnette watched him.

“I wonder if you would mind moving into the next room, Mr. Garnette,” said Alleyn placidly.

“I — but — I—Surely, Inspector, I may at least watch this distasteful proceeding.”

“I think you should spare yourself the pain. I want Inspector Fox to search you.”

“I have already been searched.”

“That was before you changed, I think. I expect Fox will have almost finished in there. I suggest you go to bed.”

“I do not want to go to bed,” complained Father Garnette. He took another resolute pull at his drink.

“Don’t you? It would be simpler. However, I’ll get Fox to look you over now. You will have to strip, I’m afraid. Fox.”

“Sir?” Inspector Fox thrust a large bland face round the curtain.

Father Garnette suddenly leapt to his feet.

“I refuse,” he said very loudly. “This is too much. You exceed your duty. I refuse.”

“What’s up, sir?” asked Fox.

“Mr. Garnette doesn’t want to be searched again, Fox. Did he object the first time?”

“He did not.”

“Curious. Ah well!”

“I just thought I’d mention it, sir. The back door is not locked.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn. “I thought, Mr. Garnette, that you said it was invariably locked.”

“So it is, Inspectah. I cannot understand — I locked it myself, this afternoon.”

Alleyn took out his notebook and wrote in it. Then he handed it to Fox, who came through the curtain, put on a pair of spectacles, and read solemnly. Father Garnette’s eyes were glued on the notebook.

“That’s very peculiar, sir,” said Fox. “Look here.” He swung round with his back to Alleyn and held up a tightly clenched paw. Father Garnette stared at Fox wildly.

“Very peculiar,” repeated Fox.

Nigel could have echoed his words, for Alleyn with amazing swiftness whipped the bottle from his bag and, holding it delicately, tipped a handsome proportion of its contents into Father Garnette’s glass. He returned the bottle to the bag and strolled over to Fox.

“Ah yes,” he said. “Remarkable.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Garnette loudly. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s of no consequence,” murmured Alleyn, “of no consequence whatever.”

“I demand—” began Garnette. He glared unhappily at the two detectives, suddenly flopped down into his chair, and drank off the contents of the glass.

“Carry on, Fox,” said Alleyn.

CHAPTER XI

Contents of a Desk, a Safe, and a Bookcase

The behaviour of Father Garnette underwent a rapid and most perceptible change. This difference was first apparent in his face. It was rather as though a facile modeller in clay had touched the face in several places, leaving subtle but important alterations in its general expression. It became at once bolder and more sly. The resemblance to a purveyor of patent medicines triumphed over the more saintly aspect. Indeed, Father Garnette no longer looked in the least like a saint. He looked both shady and blowsy.

Nigel, fascinated, watched this change into something rich and strange. Alleyn, busy at the desk, had his back to the priest. Inspector Fox had returned to the bedroom where he could be heard humming like a Gargantuan bumble-bee. Presently he burst into song:

It was an earnest attempt to reproduce the intermediate radio French lesson.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, cleared its throat, and struck twelve.

“Say, ho, why can’t we get together?”