Chapter XXXV: The Priory

At six o’clock that summer evening a station taxi dropped Mr. Pawter at the Two Bridges Hotel, an ancient hostelry set in the heart of Dartmoor. He paid the driver and watched the machine grow smaller and smaller on the long road that led to Newton Abbot, and then he went into the hotel, engaged a room and ordered his meal. He was evidently no stranger to the place, for the old waiter greeted him as a friend.

“Going up to see them Priors to-night, sir?” he asked the identical question that he had asked some twenty times before, and Mr. Pawter gave him the conventional answer. “They’ve been busy up at the Priory lately,” said the old man as he laid the cloth. “I don’t remember when we’ve seen so many people going and coming. Motor cars all hours of the day and night. And somebody’s been sick there, too: I saw an ambulance going up--when was it? Must have been last week sometime. I’ve got a cottage right on the road,” said the garrulous old gentleman, pausing with his hands full of knives and forks and tableware. “You can’t go to the Priory without passing me. And what with my rheumatics, I haven’t been sleeping as well as I might. As you might say, my cottage is a sort of a lodge for the Priory. Monks, ain’t they, sir?”

“Sort of monks,” said Pawter.

“I don’t know what good they get out of shutting themselves up all their lives, but they’re as close as oysters. You never see any of them down here, not even the lay brothers. That seems queer to me!”

Mr. Pawter listened with the amused air of one who was indulging a child, and after he had been served with his meal, changed into a golf suit, and, with a walking stick in his hand, strolled out on to the moor, striking across the gaunt countryside towards a smaller road which he knew ran parallel with the post-road.

He was a mile from his objective when he saw the waiting car, a small American machine that was invariably employed to take him to the Priory. The elderly man at the wheel touched his cap as Pawter came up. He wore the blue serge suit which was the livery of all the workers at the Priory, and Pawter knew him by name.

“All well at the Priory?” he asked.

“All well, sir,” said the old man.

“Nobody been ill?”

“No, sir,” said the other in surprise, “not that I know.”

They proceeded for a mile in silence, and then Pawter asked:

“How is the Grand Prior?”

“Very well, sir, so far as I know. We never see much of him. He doesn’t come through the main gates.”

Pawter nodded. He was the only prior that ever went through the main gates. There was, in one corner of the wall, a small portal which was known as the Prior’s Door, and had been used for hundreds of years for the convenience of the superior of that order which the Proud Sons of Ragousa had replaced.

“He comes and goes by night, as you know, sir,” said the driver. “As a matter of fact, all the brethren do but you. I hope there’s going to be a bit of luck for my lodge this drawing,” he added. “We haven’t had an argosy come to Plymouth so long as I can remember. Little prizes, but none of the big ones. And it’s curious that we never get them at the Priory--none of the lay brothers, I mean.”

“Your number goes in with the rest,” said Pawter good-humouredly.

Every lodge had a mild grievance that the argosies came a little too infrequently in their direction. The provincial branches were certain that London got more than its share; London pointed dolefully to the scarcity of prizes awarded to Metropolitan lodges.

The car dipped into a valley, turned abruptly round a great stone tor, through another valley, and then on the left, between the secondary and the main road, Pawter saw the familiar lines of the Priory, squat, unlovely, so much a part of the moor in colour and cheerlessness that a stranger might pass it by without knowing that the Priory existed. The walls were high and grey, overgrown with ivy and other creeping plants. The great gates, which swung open at their approach, always reminded him of a prison. But inside he came upon peace.

Pawter got down and followed the silent attendant through a small doorway and along a stone passage, at the end of which the man opened an uninviting door that looked more like the door of a cell than of the handsome suite it was. The open grate was banked high with flowers; the floor was covered with a thick carpet, and the furnishing of the apartment was luxurious.

From this room there was an opening, unfurnished with door, into the bedroom. It was a typical suite of the silent Priors of Ragousa. The bookshelves which half-covered one stone wall were well-filled.

“Hall is at eight, sir,” said the attendant.

He wore the conventional garb of the Sons of Ragousa, save that his head was not covered, his hood hanging at his shoulders.

“You will dine?”

“I have dined,” said Pawter. “Is the Prior well?”

“Very well, sir. He has been away, but he came back this morning.”

He opened a cupboard, took out a decanter, a glass and a large siphon of soda, and placed on the table a big box of cigars.

“You will ring if you require me, sir?” he said, and went out.

Pawter chose a cigar with care, lit it, and, after smoking thoughtfully for a while, he strolled across to the barred window that looked out upon a smaller courtyard. Beyond this, through a big gateway, he saw a flower-grown expanse, with little mounds set at regular intervals, each surmounted by a black cross.

He was trying to analyse the feeling of uneasiness which clouded his mind. It was novel; never before had he felt quite the same as he did to-day. There was something… what was it? Could it be William Holbrook’s inquisitiveness of the morning? Or was his conscience pricking him, that he had revealed so much that had never been told before about the internal economy of the Proud Sons of Ragousa? Or was it that, stalking in that quiet place was the ghost of Brother John, stricken down in his prime in the crowded streets of London?

“I think I must be getting old,” he said to himself as he came back and, pulling up a chair to the table, took from his pocket a number of papers which he had brought with him.

He had hardly begun their examination when there was a gentle knock at the door and a lay brother came in, a red-faced, good-looking man, almost as bald as Pawter.

“They told me you were here,” he said, in that low voice which was habitual amongst the people of the Priory. “I thought I’d see you and tell you the news. You know poor Brother John is dead?”

“We only heard to-day, but the Prior has known for some time.”

He was the seneschal of the Priory, a man named Blackwood, whom Pawter had known for many years as the head of the laymen. The Ragousas paid their permanent officials well, and Blackwood, who occupied something of the position of housekeeper to the Priors, found the life so much to his liking that he, who had come to what he thought would be a temporary appointment, had held his position for fifteen years. Most of the laymen had been recruited in exactly the same way. Blackwood had been an hotel manager, who had fallen on evil times when the Grand Prior had discovered him. All the gardeners and cooks were chosen from the lodges after a careful inquiry into their qualifications. These laymen were the veritable masters of the Priory, since the Priors themselves had no permanent habitation. Some stayed less than a year and were replaced by fresh appointments. Nobody except Brother John had remained since the Priors’ Degree had been founded.

“Who has Brother John’s place?” asked Pawter.

“Brother James, a very quiet and pious man,” was the reply. “You come, of course, for the drawing?”

Pawter nodded.

“I wonder they haven’t made you a Prior, Blackwood?”

“I prefer my position,” he said promptly. “To live apart, to let no man see your face, to speak to none, spend one’s time in contemplation--no, thank you!”

“You’re a mixed lot,” said the irreverent Pawter, pulling at his cigar, and Blackwood smiled.

“There are a few not as great gentlemen as the others,” he said diplomatically. “Some of them cannot stand the life, and want to leave at the end of the first week. But they’re scared of the Grand Prior. Some would stay for years, and are quite upset when they’re turned out to make room for newcomers. Do you know, Mr. Pawter, that I haven’t seen a Prior’s face all the time I’ve been here, except one who died?”

“What do you do for a doctor, in case of illness?”

“If a man gets ill he’s sent home,” said the other. “The only real case of illness we’ve had was a year ago, when the Grand Prior was seized with a heart attack. Unfortunately, the only man here who can drive a car was ill, and two of the brethren had to go out on to the road in the hope of stopping a car bound for Newton Abbot. By great good luck, they managed to hold a car that was carrying a doctor to Exeter.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A year ago.”

“You don’t happen to know the doctor?”

“No, he was admitted by the Prior’s Postern. At that time the Grand Prior was very ill indeed, and on the verge of delirium. It was Brother John who went out to find him. Brother John was beside himself.”

“A year ago”--Pawter pinched his lower lip--“and you found a doctor, eh?” He drew a long breath. “That explains a lot--a whole lot.”

The seneschal tugged a watch from under his robe.

“You’ll have to get ready, sir,” he said, opening the cupboard, and took out a silken gown, as Pawter stripped his coat. “You ought to be thankful that you don’t have to hide your face either. It must be stifling on a hot night like this. Now I must go. You have everything?”

Pawter walked to the door and watched him go down the passage out of sight, and came back into the room with a new problem to ponder.

It was five minutes to eight o’clock when the summons came. He heard the shuffle of sandalled feet on the stone flooring of the passage, and then a peculiar knock.

“Who knocks?” he asked loudly.

“Two Priors of this Proud Order,” came the reply.

“Enter,” he said, and the door opened slowly.

Standing in the opening was a masked and cowled figure, its hands concealed in the deep openings of its sleeves. Beyond him was another, similarly attired, and without a word the two men turned and paced leisurely down the corridor, and Pawter followed. When they reached the courtyard where he had got out of the car, there was no sign of any layman. They proceeded along a broad garden path, nodding flowers to left and right, through an archway, up a short flight of steps, and along another path, until they came to the carved door of a building. Here his conductors stood, one on each side, and allowed him to pass.

He was in a small chapel familiar to him. Only the choir was occupied, and in the space where ordinarily worshippers would have knelt or sat, was a big barrel with a handle attached to one end, and a large table piled high with small white, metal-edged discs. His guides passed him, one walking to the right and one to the left, and sat down at the end of the choir stalls.

The mellow light of sunset, streaming through the stained-glass windows, brought a new glory to the banners above the choir, gave a newer dignity to the violet-clad figure which moved down the chancel steps towards him.

“Welcome, O Seen Prior!” said a muffled voice behind the cowl. “All matters being in order, let the illusion of fortune come to whomsoever chance shall will.”

There was a silver gilt shovel like a sugar scoop on the table, and with the aid of this Pawter shovelled the discs into the barrel until every one was inside. Then he clamped tight the lid, and, rolling his sleeve to his right shoulder, held up his bare arm, his fingers outstretched. Then, without a word, he spun the barrel, and, when it stopped, opened a little trap-door in its side, put in his hand and took out a disc, laying it on the table. Ten times he did this, and then the Grand Prior pointed to two of the masked figures in the stalls and they came down to the table, and as one called the numbers the other wrote them down.

When they had finished, Pawter swept the little discs into the palm of his hand and dropped them into the barrel. Again the barrel spun, again he drew forth, one by one, ten numbers, and laid them on the table. The two men who examined the first had returned to their stalls, and now the Prior pointed to two others, who moved forward, called and checked the numbers, and returned to their places.

Five times this happened, and when it was finished, the Grand Prior spoke.

“The fourth drawing is the true drawing, by order of the Priors.”

Pawter checked the numbers carefully, and as he was doing so, the Priors rose, a deep voice began the chant of victory, and they filed out one by one.

He frowned. What did that mean? Never before had the Priors left their stalls until the names of the winners had been announced.

As if divining his thoughts, the man in purple spoke.

“It is not seemly that names should be given, for who knows what envy they may excite? And is not envy the very foulest of all human vices? Come with me, my brother, to the registry.”

Pawter followed, alert, suspicious.

The registry was a small, lofty room, where, behind steel doors, were the records of the Order. The only light admitted was through a narrow window placed near the ceiling and heavily barred, and a swinging kerosene lamp supplied the illumination of the apartment. It seemed to Pawter that the lamp was turned unusually low.

“Will you sit on the other side of the table, Mr. Pawter?” said the voice of the masked man courteously.

He turned, opened the safe, and took out, not the books that Pawter expected, the register of names and numbers. Instead, he opened a thin blotter and exposed to the astonished eyes of the auditor five cheques, already filled.

“You will sign these.”

“But, Grand Prior,” protested Pawter, “I have not checked the names with the numbers. How did you know that those men would win the argosy?”

“You will sign those cheques--please,” said the voice again.

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Pawter, jumping to his feet. “What possesses you, Mr. Stone?”

“There is no name here for me but Grand Prior,” he said. “Sign!”

“I’m afraid I cannot.” Pawter threw down the pen and moved away from the table.

“If you value your life, sign!”

He turned his head: he was looking into the muzzle of an automatic pistol, and the fire in the eyes that showed through the cowl blazed balefully.