War in Heaven Chap. 4: The First Attempt on the Graal by Charles Williams (Writer) Lyrics
The Archdeacon of Castra Parvulorum returned to Fardles and his rectory
on the next morning, for a few days' clearing up before he went on his
holiday. After he had spent an hour or two in his study, he got up
suddenly, and, going out of the house, took the private path that led
through his garden and the churchyard to the small Norman Church. The
memory of the article he had read in Mornington's office had grown more
dominating as he returned to the place where, if Sir Giles Tumulty were
right, the Graal, neglected and overlooked, stood in his sacristy. No
one had ever seen the Archdeacon excited, not even when, in the days of
his youth, he had assisted his friends to break up a recruiting meeting
in the days of the Boer War; and even now he yielded to himself as he
might have yielded to a friend's importunities, and went along the path
rather with an air of humouring a pleasant but persistent visitor than
with any eagerness of his own.
The church stood open, as it always did, from the early celebration till
dusk. The verger was at the moment engaged on the Archdeacon's roses,
and, since Fardles lay off the main road, it was rarely that it was
visited by strangers. Fardles itself indeed lay a little way distant
from the church, the nearest houses being about a quarter of a mile off
and the main street of the village beginning another quarter of a mile
beyond them. The railway station formed the third corner of an
equilateral triangle, with the village and the church at the angles of
its base. On the other side of the base a similar triangle was formed by
the grounds of the late Sir John Horatio Sykes-Martindale's house. The
house itself--Cully, as it was called, to the Archdeacon's secret and
serious delight, and without any distress to the naturally ignorant Sir
John--lay in the middle of its grounds; an enormous overbuilt place, of
no particular age and no particular period. And beyond it, towards the
apex of this second triangle, lay the empty cottage of which Mr. Gregory
Persimmons had spoken to Lionel.
The Archdeacon went into the church and passed on into the sacristy. He
unlocked and opened the tall and antique chest in which the sacred
vessels were kept, lifted one of them out, and, carrying it back into
the church, set it upon the altar. Then he stood and looked at it
carefully.
It was old enough, that appeared certain; it was plain enough too,
almost severe. The drinking cup itself was some six inches in depth,
with a stem in proportion, and a small pedestal which was carried by
slowly narrowing work up some distance of the stem. The whole was about
fifteen or sixteen inches high. There were, so far as the Archdeacon
could see, no markings, no ornamentation, except for a single line,
about half an inch below the rim. It was made of silver, so far as he
could tell, slightly dented here and there, but still apparently good
for a considerable amount of use. It stood there on the altar, as it had
done so many mornings, until the grief of Lady Sykes-Martindale had
enriched the late Vicar's sacristy with a new gold chalice. And the
Archdeacon stood and considered it.
Of course, the thing was not impossible. He did not remember Sir Giles's
article accurately enough to know the stages by which the archaeologist
had traced the Graal from Jerusalem to Fardles: here a general
tradition, there a local rumour, a printed paragraph or an unpublished
MS., even the remnants of an old tapestry or a carving in a remote Town
Hall. He could see clearly that it might all be nothing but a fantasy of
peculiar neatness, and he attached little importance to the vessel
itself. But he was conscious that a great many people might attach a
good deal of importance to it if there were any truth in the story. If
it were the Graal, what would they want to do with it? He considered
with pleasure that at least it was in the hands of the officials of the
Church, and that there were some things that even officials of the
Church could not do. They could not, for example, sell it to a
millionaire. But why, the Archdeacon asked himself, should he object to
it being sold to a millionaire?
He was about to restore the vessel to the sacristy when he asked himself
this question, and stayed for a moment or two with it in his hands. Then
he changed his mind, went and locked the door of the cabinet, and came
back to the altar. "Ah, fair sweet Lord," he said half-aloud, "let me
keep this Thy vessel, if it be Thy vessel; for love's sake, fair Lord,
if Thou hast held it in Thy hands, let me take it into mine. And, if
not, let me be courteous still to it for Thy sake, courteous Lord; since
this might well have been that, and that was touched by Thee." He smiled
a little, took up the chalice, and went back to the Rectory.
There he passed straight to his own pleasant bedroom and opened an inner
door which led to a small room, once perhaps a dressing-room. It was
furnished now with a pallet-bed, a hard chair or two, a table, and a
kneeling-desk. On one otherwise empty wall a crucifix hung; a small
shelf in one corner held a few books, and there were one or two more on
the table. The window in one of the pair of shorter walls looked out
over the graveyard towards the church. The Archdeacon went across to the
mantelshelf, set down his burden, looked at it for a minute or two,
murmured a prayer, and went down to lunch.
After lunch he walked for a little while in his garden. His _locum
tenens_, a rather elderly clergyman whom the Archdeacon thoroughly
disliked, but who needed the money that the temporary post would bring
him, was not due till the next day. The Archdeacon felt a pain, slight
but definite, at the idea that this tall, lean, harassed, talkative, and
inefficient priest would sit in his chair and sleep in his bed; not so
much that they were his chair and his bed as that it seemed a shame that
such ready and pleasant things should be subjected to the invasion of
human futility. He put out his hand and touched a flower, then withdrew
it. "I am becoming sentimental," he thought to himself. "How do I know
that a chair is full of goodwill, or a bed anxious to please? They may
be, but they mayn't. Their life is hidden with Christ in God. Oh, give
thanks to the God of all gods," he sang softly, "for His mercy endureth
for ever."
"Mr. Davenant?" said a voice at his back.
The Archdeacon, a little startled, turned. A large man whose face he
dimly remembered was looking over the garden gate.
"Er--yes," he said vaguely, "that is, yes. I am Mr. Davenant."
"Mr. Archdeacon, I suppose I ought to say," the other went on agreeably.
"I knew I was wrong as soon as I'd spoken."
"Not at all," the Archdeacon answered. "You wanted to see me? Come in,
won't you?" He opened the gate for the stranger, who, as he entered,
uttered a word of thanks and went on: "Well, I did, rather. My name is
Persimmons, Gregory Persimmons. I've just bought Cully, you know, so we
shall be neighbours. But I understand from the village talk that you're
going away to-morrow, and I didn't come to-day merely for a neighbourly
call."
"Whatever the reason-" the Archdeacon murmured. "Shall we go inside or
would you rather sit down over there?" He indicated a garden-seat among
the flowers.
"Oh, here, by all means," Persimmons said. "Thank you." He accepted a
cigarette. "Well the fact is, Mr. Archdeacon, I have come as a beggar
and yet not a beggar. I have come to beg for another and pay for
myself."
The Archdeacon put a finger to his glasses. The word Persimmons had
taken him back to the previous day's visit to Mornington; and he was
asking himself whether this was the voice that had been offering advice
on how to train children. There was something about this last sentence
also that offended him.
"I know a priest," Persimmons proceeded, "who is in bad need of some
altar furniture, especially the sacred vessels, for a new mission church
he's starting. Now, I was talking to one and another down here--the
grocer's an ardent churchman, I find. And one of your choir-boys, and so
on--as one does. And I gathered--you'll tell me if I'm wrong--that
you had an extra chalice here which you didn't often use. So I wondered,
as you have the set that Lady Sykes-Martindale gave, whether you'd
consider letting me have it at a reasonable price, for my friend."
"I see," the Archdeacon said. "Yes, quite. I see what you mean. But, if
you'll forgive me asking, Mr. Persimmons, surely a new chalice would be
better than a--shall I say, second-hand one?" He threw a deprecating
smile at Gregory and loosed an inner secret smile to Christ at the
epithet.
"My friend," Persimmons said, leaning comfortably back and lazily
smoking, "my friend hates new furniture for an altar. He has some kind
of theory about stored power and concentrated sanctity which I, not
being a theologian, don't profess to understand. But the result of it is
that he infinitely prefers things that have been used for many years in
the past. Perhaps you know the feeling?"
"Yes, I know the feeling," the Archdeacon said. "But in this instance
I'm afraid it can't be rewarded. I'm afraid the chalice is not to be
parted with."
"It's natural you should say that," the other answered, "for I expect
I've put it clumsily, Mr. Archdeacon. But I hope you'll think it over.
Of course, I know I'm a stranger, but I want to feel part of the life
here, and I thought if I could send out a--a sort of magnetic thrill by
buying that chalice for my friend...and I'd be glad to buy another for
you if you wanted it replaced...I thought...I don't know...I
thought..."
His voice died away, and he sat looking half-wistfully out over the
garden, the portrait of a retired townsman trying to find a niche for
himself in new surroundings, shy but good-hearted, earnest if a little
clumsy, and trying not to touch too roughly upon subjects which he
seemed to regard with a certain ignorant alarm. The Archdeacon shot a
glance at him, and after a minute's silence shook his head. "No," he
said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Persimmons, but that chalice is not for sale. But
perhaps I can do something for you. Over in your direction, some eight
miles beyond you, there's a church which I think has exactly the kind of
thing you want. I know that recently they had an altar set up in their
Lady Chapel, replaced the vessels at the High Altar, and bought fresh
ones for the other two. If the Vicar hasn't given his old ones away yet,
he's the very man for you--and he hadn't a week ago, because I was over
there. I'll give you a note of introduction to him if you like--he's a
nice fellow; he's one of the old Rushforths, you know: they're a side
branch of the Herberts. A good old Anglican family, one might say. His
Christian name's Herbert--a very pleasant fellow. Devoted to the
Church, too. Fasts in Lent and all that kind of thing, I believe; and
they do say he hears confessions--but I don't want to take any notice
of that unless I'm driven to. It wouldn't matter, of course, I couldn't
do anything--that's the great charm of being an Archdeacon, one never
can. But there's a certain prestige and so on, and I don't want to throw
that, for what it's worth, against him. Herbert Rushforth, yes, I'll
certainly give you a note. Or, even better--I have to go out that way?
probably? possibly--this evening, and I'll call on him and ask him
myself. And, if he has them still, he'll be delighted for you to have
them; you needn't mind in the least--he's extremely well-to-do. He'll
want to leave them at Cully to-morrow, and perhaps he will. Even if you
don't want to take them over personally, as, of course, you may, he
could have them sent to your friend. Where did you say his church was?"
The Archdeacon, a fountain-pen in his hand, a slip of paper on his knee,
looked pleasantly and inquiringly at Mr. Persimmons, and all round them
the flowers gently stirred.
Mr. Persimmons was a little taken back. There had not appeared to him to
be any conceivable reason why the Archdeacon should refuse to part with
the old chalice, and if by any chance there had been any difficulty he
had still expected to be able to obtain sight of it, to see what it
looked like and where it was kept. He found himself at the moment
almost, it seemed, on the other side of the county from Fardles, and he
did not immediately see any way of getting back. He thought for a moment
of making his imaginary clerical friend a native of Fardles, in order to
give him a special delight in things that came from there, but that was
too risky.
"Oh, well," he said, "if you don't mind, I think I won't give you his
name. He might be rather ashamed of not being able to buy the necessary
things. That was why, I thought, if you and I could just quietly settle
it together, without bringing other people in, it would be so much
better. A clergyman doesn't like to admit that he's poor, does he? And
that was why--"
Damnation! he thought, he was repeating himself. But the Archdeacon's
fantastic round face and gold glasses were watching him with a grave
attention, and where but now had been a steady flow of words there was
an awful silence. "Well," he said, with an effort at a leap across the
void, "I'm sorry you can't let me have it."
"But I'm offering it to you," the Archdeacon said. "You didn't want the
Fardles chalice _particularly_, did you?"
"Only as coming from the place where I was going to live," Persimmons
said, and added suddenly: "It just seemed to me as if, as I was leaving
my friend myself, I was sending him something better instead, something
greater and stronger and more friendly."
"But you were talking about a chalice," the Archdeacon objected
perplexedly. "How do you mean, Mr. Persimmons--finer and stronger and
so on?"
"I meant the chalice," Gregory answered. "Surely that--"
The Archdeacon laughed good-naturedly and shook his head. "Oh, no," he
said, "no. Not the chalice alone. Why, if it were the Holy Graal
itself," he added thoughtfully, replacing the cap on his fountain-pen
and putting it away, "you could hardly say that about it." He stood up,
a little disappointed at not having noticed any self-consciousness about
the other when he had mentioned the Graal. "Well," he said, "I must
apologise, but you will understand I have some work to do; I'm going
to-morrow, as you say. Will you forgive me? And shall I speak to
Rushforth?"
"If you will be so good," Persimmons answered. "Or, no, don't let me
take up your time. I will go and see him, if I may mention you name?
Yes, I assure you I would rather. Good afternoon, Mr. Archdeacon."
"Good afternoon," the Archdeacon said. "I shall see you often when I
return, I hope."
He accompanied his visitor to the gate, chatting amicably. But when
Persimmons had gone he walked slowly back towards the house, considering
the discussion thoughtfully. Was there a needy mission church? and was
his visitor to be its benefactor? And the chalice? It seemed possible,
and even likely, in this fantastic dream of a ridiculous antiquary, that
the Graal of so many romances and so long a quest, of Lancelot and
Galahad and dim maidens moving in antique pageants of heraldry and
symbolism and religion, the desire of Camelot, the messenger of Sarras,
the relic of Jerusalem, should be resting neglected in an English
village. "Fardles," he thought, "Castra Parvulorum, the camp of the
children: where else should the Child Himself rest?" He re-entered the
Rectory, singing again to himself: "Who alone doeth marvellous things;
for his mercy endureth for ever."
It was the custom of the parish that there should be a daily celebration
at seven, at which occasionally in summer a small congregation
assembled. Before this, at about a quarter to seven, the Archdeacon was
in the habit of saying Morning Prayer publicly, as he was required to do
by the rubrics. Once a week, on Thursday mornings, he was assisted by
the sexton; on the other mornings he assisted himself. As, however, the
sexton with growing frequency overslept himself, the Archdeacon
preferred to keep the key of the church himself, and it was with this in
his hand that he came to the west door about half-past six the next
morning. At the door, however, he stopped, astonished. For it hung open
and wrenched from the lock, wrenched and broken and pushed back against
the other wall. The Archdeacon stared at it, went closer and surveyed
it, and then hastened into the church. A few minutes gave him the extent
of the damage. The two boxes, for the Poor and for the Church, that were
fixed not far from the font, had also been opened, and their contents,
if they had any, looted; the candlesticks on the altar had been thrown
over, the candles in them broken and smashed, and the frontal pulled
away and torn. In the sacristy the lock of the cabinet had been forced
and the gold chalice which commemorated the late Sir John had
disappeared, together with the gold paten. On the white-washed wall had
been scrawled a few markings--"Phallic," the Archdeacon murmured, with
a faint smile. He came back to the front door in time to see the sexton
at the gate of the churchyard, and, judiciously lingering on the
footpath beyond, two spasmodically devout ladies of the parish. He waved
to them all to hurry, and when they arrived informed them equably of the
situation.
"But, Mr. Archdeacon--" Mrs. Major cried.
"But, Mr. Davenant--" Miss Willoughby, who, as being older, both in
years and length of Fardles citizenship, than most of the ladies of the
neighbourhood, permitted herself to use the personal name. And "Who can
have done it?" they both concluded.
"Ah!" the Archdeacon said benignantly. "A curious business, isn't it?"
"Isn't it sacrilege?" said Mrs. Major.
"Was it a tramp?" asked Miss Willoughby.
"What we want is Towlow," the sexton said firmly. "Towlow isn't at all
bad at finding things out, though, being a Wesleyan Methodist, as he
calls himself, he can't be expected to want to find out these bloody
murderers. I'll go and get him, shall I, sir?"
"How fortunate my brother's staying with me," Mrs. Major cried out.
"He's in the Navy, you know, and quite used to crime. He even sat on a
court-martial once."
Miss Willoughby, out of a wider experience, knew better than to commit
herself at once. She watched the Archdeacon's eyes, and, as she saw them
glaze at these two suggestions, ventured a remote and disapproving "H'm,
h'm!" Even the nicest clergymen, she knew, were apt to have unexpected
fads about religion.
"No," the Archdeacon said, "I don't think we'll ask Towlow. And though,
of course, I can't object to your brother looking at these damaged
doors, Mrs. Major, I shouldn't like him to want to make an arrest.
Sacrilege is hardly a thing a priest can prosecute for--not, anyhow, in
a present-day court."
"But--" Mrs. Major and the sexton began.
"The immediate thing," the Archdeacon flowed on, "is the celebration,
don't you think? Jessamine"--this to the sexton-"will you move those
candlesticks and get as much of the grease off as you can? Mrs. Major,
will you put the frontal straight? Miss Willoughby, will you do what you
can to set the other ornaments right? Thank you, thank you. Fortunately
the other chalice is at the rectory; I will g go and get it." Then he
paused a moment. "And perhaps," he said gravely, "as these two boxes
have been robbed, we may take the advantage to restore something." He
moved from one box to the other, dropping in coins, and a little
reluctantly the two ladies imitated him. Jessamine was already at the
altar.
As the Archdeacon walked up to the house he allowed himself to consider
the possibilities. The breaking open of the west door pointed to a more
serious attack than that of a casual tramp; tramps didn't carry such
instruments as this success must have necessitated. But, if a tramp were
not the burglar, then the money in the boxes had not been the aim. The
gold chalice, then? Possible, possible: or the other chalice, the one of
whose reputed history, except for that quarter of an hour in
Mornington's room, he would have known nothing--could that be the aim?
After all, the man who wrote the book--what was his name?--might have
mentioned it, mentioned it to anyone, to a collector, to a millionaire,
to a frenzied materialist. But one wouldn't expect them to try burglary
at once. He saw in the distance the garden-seat where he had sat in talk
the previous afternoon. And had they? Or had they tried purchase?
Persimmons--Stephen Persimmons, publisher--_Christianity and the League
of Nations_--a mission church in need? sacrilege--phallic scrawls.
He came into the inner room where he had looked at the chalice before he
went out that morning, and as he came in it seemed to meet him in sound.
A note of gay and happy music seemed to ring for a moment in his ears as
he paused in the entrance. It was gone, if it had been there, and
gravely he genuflected in front of the vessel and lifted it from its
place. Carrying it as he had so often lifted its types and companions,
he became again as in all those liturgies a part of that he sustained;
he radiated from that centre and was but the last means of its progress
in mortality. Of this sense of instrumentality he recognized, none the
less, the component parts--the ritual movement, the priestly office,
the mere pleasure in ordered, traditional, and almost universal
movement. "Neither is this Thou," he said aloud, and, coming to the
garden door, looked round him. In the hall the clock struck seven; he
heard his housekeeper moving upstairs; as he came out into the garden he
saw on the road a few men on their way to work. Then suddenly he saw
another man leaning over the gate as Persimmons had leant the previous
afternoon; only this was not Persimmons, though a man not unlike him in
general height and build. The man opened the gate and came into the
garden, though not directly in the path to the churchyard gate, and on
the sudden the Archdeacon stopped.
"Excuse me, mister," a voice said, "but is this the way to Fardles?" He
pointed down the road.
"That is the way, yes," the Archdeacon answered. "Keep to the right all
the way."
"Ah, thankee," the stranger said. "I've been walking almost all night--
nowhere to go and no money to go with." He was standing a few yards off.
"Excuse me coming in like this, but seeing a gentleman--"
"Do you want something to eat?" the Archdeacon asked.
"Ah, that's it," said the other, eyeing him and the chalice curiously.
"Reckon you've never been twenty-four hours without a bite or sup." He
took another step forward.
"If you go round to the kitchen you shall be given some food," the
Archdeacon said firmly. "I am on my way to the church and cannot stop.
If you want to see me I will talk to you when I come back." He lifted
the chalice and went on down the path and through the churchyard.
The Mysteries celebrated, he returned, still carefully carrying the
chalice, and set it out of sight in a cupboard in the breakfast-room.
When his housekeeper came in with coffee he asked after the stranger.
"Oh yes, sir, he came round," she said, "and I gave him some food. But
he didn't eat much, to my thinking, and he was off again in ten minutes.
Those folk don't want breakfast, money's what they're after. He wouldn't
stop to see you, not after I told him you might get him a job. Money,
that's what he wanted, not a job, nor breakfast, either."
But the Archdeacon absurdly continued to doubt this. He had felt, all
through the short conversation in the garden, that it was not himself,
but the vessel that the stranger had been studying--and that not with
any present recognition, but as if he were impressing it on his memory.
His train went at half-past nine; it was now half-past eight. But the
train was out of the question; he had to explain the state of the church
to the locum tenens; he had to go over to Rushforth, not now for
Persimmons, but for his own needs. And, above all, he had to decide what
to do with that old, slightly dented chalice that was hidden in the
cupboard of the breakfast-room of an English rectory.
The first thing that occurred to him was the bank; the second was the
Bishop. But the nearest bank was five miles off; and the Bishop was
probably thirty-five, at the cathedral city. He might be anywhere, being
a young and energetic and modern Bishop, who organized the diocese from
railway stations, and platforms at public meetings before and after
speaking, and public telephone-boxes, and so on. The Archdeacon foresaw
some difficulty in explaining the matter. To walk straight in, and put
down the chalice, and say: "This is the Holy Graal. I believe it to be
so because of a paragraph in some proofs, a man who tried to buy it for
a mission church and said that children ought to be taught not to do
wrong, a burglary at my church, and another man who asked the way to
Fardles"--would a young, energetic, modern Bishop believe it? The
Archdeacon liked the Bishop very much, but he did not believe him to be
patient or credulous.
The bank first then, and Rushforth next. And, in a day or two, the
Bishop. Or rather first a telegram to Scotland. He sat down to write it,
meaning to dispatch it from the station when he took the train to town.
Then he spent some time in looking out a leather case which would hold
the chalice, and had indeed been used for some such purpose before. He
ensconced the Graal--if it were the Graal--therein, left a message
with his housekeeper that he would be back some time in the afternoon,
and by just after nine was fitting his hat on in the hall.
There came a knock at the door. The housekeeper came to open it. The
Archdeacon, looking over his shoulder, saw the stranger who had invaded
his garden that morning standing outside.
"Excuse me, ma'am," the stranger said, "but is the reverend gentleman
in? Ah, to be sure, there he is. You see, sir, I didn't want to worry
you over your breakfast, so I went for a bit of a walk. But I hope you
haven't forgotten what you said about helping me to find work. It's work
I want, sir, not idleness."
"You didn't seem that keen on it when you were talking to me about it,"
the housekeeper interjected.
"I didn't want to forestall his reverence," the stranger said. "But
anything that he could do I'd be truly grateful for."
"What's your name?" the Archdeacon asked.
"Kedgett," the other answered, "Samuel Kedgett. I served in the war,
sir, and here--"
"Quite," the Archdeacon answered. "Well, Mr. Kedgett, I'm sorry I can't
stop now; I have to go to town most unexpectedly. Call"--he changed
"this evening" into "to-morrow morning"--"and I'll see what can be
done."
"Thank you, sir," the other said, with a sudden alertness. "I'll be
there. Good-bye, sir." He was out of the porch and down the garden path
before his hearers were clear that he was going.
"What a jumpy creature!" the housekeeper said. "Dear me, sir, I hope
you're not going to give him work here. I couldn't stand, a man like
that."
"No," the Archdeacon said absently, "no, of course, you couldn't. Well,
good-bye, Mrs. Lucksparrow. Explain to Mr. Batesby when he comes, won't
you? I shall be back in the afternoon probably."
Along the country lane on the other side of the churchyard there was
little to be seen beyond the fields and pleasant slopes of the country
twenty miles out of North London. The Archdeacon walked along,
meditating, and occasionally turning his head to look over his shoulder.
Not that he seriously expected to be attacked but he did feel that there
was something going on of which he had no clear understanding. "How
vainly men themselves amaze," he quoted, and allowed himself to be
distracted by trying to complete the couplet with some allusion to the
high vessel. He produced at last, as he came to a space where four roads
met and as he went on through what was called a wood, but was not much
more than a copse--he produced as a result:
_How vainly men themselves divert,
Even with this chalice, to their hurt!_
and heard a motor-car coming towards him in the distance. It was coming
very quietly from the direction of the station, and in a few minutes it
came round the curve of the road. He saw someone stand up in it and
apparently beckon to him, quickened his steps, heard a faint voice
calling: "Archdeacon! Archdeacon!" felt a sudden crash on the back of
his head, and entered unconsciousness.
The car drew up by him. "Quick, Ludding, the case," Mr. Persimmons said
to the man who had slipped from the wood in the Archdeacon's rear. He
caught it to him, opened it, took out the chalice, and set it in another
case which stood on the seat by him. Then he gave the empty one back to
Ludding. "Keep that till I tell you to throw it away," he said. "And now
help me lift the poor fellow in. You have a fine judgement, Ludding.
Just in the right place. You didn't hit too hard, I suppose! We don't
want to attract attention. A little more this way, that's it. We have
some brandy, I think. I will get in with him." He did so, moving the
case which held the Graal. "Can you put that with the petrol-tin,
Ludding? Good! Now drive on carefully till we come to the cross-roads."
When, in a few moments, they were there, "Now throw the case into the
ditch," Persimmons went on, "over by that clump, I think. Excellent,
Ludding, excellent. And now round up to the Rectory, and then you shall
go on to the village or even the nearest town for a doctor. We must do
all we can for the Archdeacon, Ludding. I suppose he was attacked by the
same tramp that broke into the church. I think perhaps we ought to let
the police know. All right; go on."
on the next morning, for a few days' clearing up before he went on his
holiday. After he had spent an hour or two in his study, he got up
suddenly, and, going out of the house, took the private path that led
through his garden and the churchyard to the small Norman Church. The
memory of the article he had read in Mornington's office had grown more
dominating as he returned to the place where, if Sir Giles Tumulty were
right, the Graal, neglected and overlooked, stood in his sacristy. No
one had ever seen the Archdeacon excited, not even when, in the days of
his youth, he had assisted his friends to break up a recruiting meeting
in the days of the Boer War; and even now he yielded to himself as he
might have yielded to a friend's importunities, and went along the path
rather with an air of humouring a pleasant but persistent visitor than
with any eagerness of his own.
The church stood open, as it always did, from the early celebration till
dusk. The verger was at the moment engaged on the Archdeacon's roses,
and, since Fardles lay off the main road, it was rarely that it was
visited by strangers. Fardles itself indeed lay a little way distant
from the church, the nearest houses being about a quarter of a mile off
and the main street of the village beginning another quarter of a mile
beyond them. The railway station formed the third corner of an
equilateral triangle, with the village and the church at the angles of
its base. On the other side of the base a similar triangle was formed by
the grounds of the late Sir John Horatio Sykes-Martindale's house. The
house itself--Cully, as it was called, to the Archdeacon's secret and
serious delight, and without any distress to the naturally ignorant Sir
John--lay in the middle of its grounds; an enormous overbuilt place, of
no particular age and no particular period. And beyond it, towards the
apex of this second triangle, lay the empty cottage of which Mr. Gregory
Persimmons had spoken to Lionel.
The Archdeacon went into the church and passed on into the sacristy. He
unlocked and opened the tall and antique chest in which the sacred
vessels were kept, lifted one of them out, and, carrying it back into
the church, set it upon the altar. Then he stood and looked at it
carefully.
It was old enough, that appeared certain; it was plain enough too,
almost severe. The drinking cup itself was some six inches in depth,
with a stem in proportion, and a small pedestal which was carried by
slowly narrowing work up some distance of the stem. The whole was about
fifteen or sixteen inches high. There were, so far as the Archdeacon
could see, no markings, no ornamentation, except for a single line,
about half an inch below the rim. It was made of silver, so far as he
could tell, slightly dented here and there, but still apparently good
for a considerable amount of use. It stood there on the altar, as it had
done so many mornings, until the grief of Lady Sykes-Martindale had
enriched the late Vicar's sacristy with a new gold chalice. And the
Archdeacon stood and considered it.
Of course, the thing was not impossible. He did not remember Sir Giles's
article accurately enough to know the stages by which the archaeologist
had traced the Graal from Jerusalem to Fardles: here a general
tradition, there a local rumour, a printed paragraph or an unpublished
MS., even the remnants of an old tapestry or a carving in a remote Town
Hall. He could see clearly that it might all be nothing but a fantasy of
peculiar neatness, and he attached little importance to the vessel
itself. But he was conscious that a great many people might attach a
good deal of importance to it if there were any truth in the story. If
it were the Graal, what would they want to do with it? He considered
with pleasure that at least it was in the hands of the officials of the
Church, and that there were some things that even officials of the
Church could not do. They could not, for example, sell it to a
millionaire. But why, the Archdeacon asked himself, should he object to
it being sold to a millionaire?
He was about to restore the vessel to the sacristy when he asked himself
this question, and stayed for a moment or two with it in his hands. Then
he changed his mind, went and locked the door of the cabinet, and came
back to the altar. "Ah, fair sweet Lord," he said half-aloud, "let me
keep this Thy vessel, if it be Thy vessel; for love's sake, fair Lord,
if Thou hast held it in Thy hands, let me take it into mine. And, if
not, let me be courteous still to it for Thy sake, courteous Lord; since
this might well have been that, and that was touched by Thee." He smiled
a little, took up the chalice, and went back to the Rectory.
There he passed straight to his own pleasant bedroom and opened an inner
door which led to a small room, once perhaps a dressing-room. It was
furnished now with a pallet-bed, a hard chair or two, a table, and a
kneeling-desk. On one otherwise empty wall a crucifix hung; a small
shelf in one corner held a few books, and there were one or two more on
the table. The window in one of the pair of shorter walls looked out
over the graveyard towards the church. The Archdeacon went across to the
mantelshelf, set down his burden, looked at it for a minute or two,
murmured a prayer, and went down to lunch.
After lunch he walked for a little while in his garden. His _locum
tenens_, a rather elderly clergyman whom the Archdeacon thoroughly
disliked, but who needed the money that the temporary post would bring
him, was not due till the next day. The Archdeacon felt a pain, slight
but definite, at the idea that this tall, lean, harassed, talkative, and
inefficient priest would sit in his chair and sleep in his bed; not so
much that they were his chair and his bed as that it seemed a shame that
such ready and pleasant things should be subjected to the invasion of
human futility. He put out his hand and touched a flower, then withdrew
it. "I am becoming sentimental," he thought to himself. "How do I know
that a chair is full of goodwill, or a bed anxious to please? They may
be, but they mayn't. Their life is hidden with Christ in God. Oh, give
thanks to the God of all gods," he sang softly, "for His mercy endureth
for ever."
"Mr. Davenant?" said a voice at his back.
The Archdeacon, a little startled, turned. A large man whose face he
dimly remembered was looking over the garden gate.
"Er--yes," he said vaguely, "that is, yes. I am Mr. Davenant."
"Mr. Archdeacon, I suppose I ought to say," the other went on agreeably.
"I knew I was wrong as soon as I'd spoken."
"Not at all," the Archdeacon answered. "You wanted to see me? Come in,
won't you?" He opened the gate for the stranger, who, as he entered,
uttered a word of thanks and went on: "Well, I did, rather. My name is
Persimmons, Gregory Persimmons. I've just bought Cully, you know, so we
shall be neighbours. But I understand from the village talk that you're
going away to-morrow, and I didn't come to-day merely for a neighbourly
call."
"Whatever the reason-" the Archdeacon murmured. "Shall we go inside or
would you rather sit down over there?" He indicated a garden-seat among
the flowers.
"Oh, here, by all means," Persimmons said. "Thank you." He accepted a
cigarette. "Well the fact is, Mr. Archdeacon, I have come as a beggar
and yet not a beggar. I have come to beg for another and pay for
myself."
The Archdeacon put a finger to his glasses. The word Persimmons had
taken him back to the previous day's visit to Mornington; and he was
asking himself whether this was the voice that had been offering advice
on how to train children. There was something about this last sentence
also that offended him.
"I know a priest," Persimmons proceeded, "who is in bad need of some
altar furniture, especially the sacred vessels, for a new mission church
he's starting. Now, I was talking to one and another down here--the
grocer's an ardent churchman, I find. And one of your choir-boys, and so
on--as one does. And I gathered--you'll tell me if I'm wrong--that
you had an extra chalice here which you didn't often use. So I wondered,
as you have the set that Lady Sykes-Martindale gave, whether you'd
consider letting me have it at a reasonable price, for my friend."
"I see," the Archdeacon said. "Yes, quite. I see what you mean. But, if
you'll forgive me asking, Mr. Persimmons, surely a new chalice would be
better than a--shall I say, second-hand one?" He threw a deprecating
smile at Gregory and loosed an inner secret smile to Christ at the
epithet.
"My friend," Persimmons said, leaning comfortably back and lazily
smoking, "my friend hates new furniture for an altar. He has some kind
of theory about stored power and concentrated sanctity which I, not
being a theologian, don't profess to understand. But the result of it is
that he infinitely prefers things that have been used for many years in
the past. Perhaps you know the feeling?"
"Yes, I know the feeling," the Archdeacon said. "But in this instance
I'm afraid it can't be rewarded. I'm afraid the chalice is not to be
parted with."
"It's natural you should say that," the other answered, "for I expect
I've put it clumsily, Mr. Archdeacon. But I hope you'll think it over.
Of course, I know I'm a stranger, but I want to feel part of the life
here, and I thought if I could send out a--a sort of magnetic thrill by
buying that chalice for my friend...and I'd be glad to buy another for
you if you wanted it replaced...I thought...I don't know...I
thought..."
His voice died away, and he sat looking half-wistfully out over the
garden, the portrait of a retired townsman trying to find a niche for
himself in new surroundings, shy but good-hearted, earnest if a little
clumsy, and trying not to touch too roughly upon subjects which he
seemed to regard with a certain ignorant alarm. The Archdeacon shot a
glance at him, and after a minute's silence shook his head. "No," he
said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Persimmons, but that chalice is not for sale. But
perhaps I can do something for you. Over in your direction, some eight
miles beyond you, there's a church which I think has exactly the kind of
thing you want. I know that recently they had an altar set up in their
Lady Chapel, replaced the vessels at the High Altar, and bought fresh
ones for the other two. If the Vicar hasn't given his old ones away yet,
he's the very man for you--and he hadn't a week ago, because I was over
there. I'll give you a note of introduction to him if you like--he's a
nice fellow; he's one of the old Rushforths, you know: they're a side
branch of the Herberts. A good old Anglican family, one might say. His
Christian name's Herbert--a very pleasant fellow. Devoted to the
Church, too. Fasts in Lent and all that kind of thing, I believe; and
they do say he hears confessions--but I don't want to take any notice
of that unless I'm driven to. It wouldn't matter, of course, I couldn't
do anything--that's the great charm of being an Archdeacon, one never
can. But there's a certain prestige and so on, and I don't want to throw
that, for what it's worth, against him. Herbert Rushforth, yes, I'll
certainly give you a note. Or, even better--I have to go out that way?
probably? possibly--this evening, and I'll call on him and ask him
myself. And, if he has them still, he'll be delighted for you to have
them; you needn't mind in the least--he's extremely well-to-do. He'll
want to leave them at Cully to-morrow, and perhaps he will. Even if you
don't want to take them over personally, as, of course, you may, he
could have them sent to your friend. Where did you say his church was?"
The Archdeacon, a fountain-pen in his hand, a slip of paper on his knee,
looked pleasantly and inquiringly at Mr. Persimmons, and all round them
the flowers gently stirred.
Mr. Persimmons was a little taken back. There had not appeared to him to
be any conceivable reason why the Archdeacon should refuse to part with
the old chalice, and if by any chance there had been any difficulty he
had still expected to be able to obtain sight of it, to see what it
looked like and where it was kept. He found himself at the moment
almost, it seemed, on the other side of the county from Fardles, and he
did not immediately see any way of getting back. He thought for a moment
of making his imaginary clerical friend a native of Fardles, in order to
give him a special delight in things that came from there, but that was
too risky.
"Oh, well," he said, "if you don't mind, I think I won't give you his
name. He might be rather ashamed of not being able to buy the necessary
things. That was why, I thought, if you and I could just quietly settle
it together, without bringing other people in, it would be so much
better. A clergyman doesn't like to admit that he's poor, does he? And
that was why--"
Damnation! he thought, he was repeating himself. But the Archdeacon's
fantastic round face and gold glasses were watching him with a grave
attention, and where but now had been a steady flow of words there was
an awful silence. "Well," he said, with an effort at a leap across the
void, "I'm sorry you can't let me have it."
"But I'm offering it to you," the Archdeacon said. "You didn't want the
Fardles chalice _particularly_, did you?"
"Only as coming from the place where I was going to live," Persimmons
said, and added suddenly: "It just seemed to me as if, as I was leaving
my friend myself, I was sending him something better instead, something
greater and stronger and more friendly."
"But you were talking about a chalice," the Archdeacon objected
perplexedly. "How do you mean, Mr. Persimmons--finer and stronger and
so on?"
"I meant the chalice," Gregory answered. "Surely that--"
The Archdeacon laughed good-naturedly and shook his head. "Oh, no," he
said, "no. Not the chalice alone. Why, if it were the Holy Graal
itself," he added thoughtfully, replacing the cap on his fountain-pen
and putting it away, "you could hardly say that about it." He stood up,
a little disappointed at not having noticed any self-consciousness about
the other when he had mentioned the Graal. "Well," he said, "I must
apologise, but you will understand I have some work to do; I'm going
to-morrow, as you say. Will you forgive me? And shall I speak to
Rushforth?"
"If you will be so good," Persimmons answered. "Or, no, don't let me
take up your time. I will go and see him, if I may mention you name?
Yes, I assure you I would rather. Good afternoon, Mr. Archdeacon."
"Good afternoon," the Archdeacon said. "I shall see you often when I
return, I hope."
He accompanied his visitor to the gate, chatting amicably. But when
Persimmons had gone he walked slowly back towards the house, considering
the discussion thoughtfully. Was there a needy mission church? and was
his visitor to be its benefactor? And the chalice? It seemed possible,
and even likely, in this fantastic dream of a ridiculous antiquary, that
the Graal of so many romances and so long a quest, of Lancelot and
Galahad and dim maidens moving in antique pageants of heraldry and
symbolism and religion, the desire of Camelot, the messenger of Sarras,
the relic of Jerusalem, should be resting neglected in an English
village. "Fardles," he thought, "Castra Parvulorum, the camp of the
children: where else should the Child Himself rest?" He re-entered the
Rectory, singing again to himself: "Who alone doeth marvellous things;
for his mercy endureth for ever."
It was the custom of the parish that there should be a daily celebration
at seven, at which occasionally in summer a small congregation
assembled. Before this, at about a quarter to seven, the Archdeacon was
in the habit of saying Morning Prayer publicly, as he was required to do
by the rubrics. Once a week, on Thursday mornings, he was assisted by
the sexton; on the other mornings he assisted himself. As, however, the
sexton with growing frequency overslept himself, the Archdeacon
preferred to keep the key of the church himself, and it was with this in
his hand that he came to the west door about half-past six the next
morning. At the door, however, he stopped, astonished. For it hung open
and wrenched from the lock, wrenched and broken and pushed back against
the other wall. The Archdeacon stared at it, went closer and surveyed
it, and then hastened into the church. A few minutes gave him the extent
of the damage. The two boxes, for the Poor and for the Church, that were
fixed not far from the font, had also been opened, and their contents,
if they had any, looted; the candlesticks on the altar had been thrown
over, the candles in them broken and smashed, and the frontal pulled
away and torn. In the sacristy the lock of the cabinet had been forced
and the gold chalice which commemorated the late Sir John had
disappeared, together with the gold paten. On the white-washed wall had
been scrawled a few markings--"Phallic," the Archdeacon murmured, with
a faint smile. He came back to the front door in time to see the sexton
at the gate of the churchyard, and, judiciously lingering on the
footpath beyond, two spasmodically devout ladies of the parish. He waved
to them all to hurry, and when they arrived informed them equably of the
situation.
"But, Mr. Archdeacon--" Mrs. Major cried.
"But, Mr. Davenant--" Miss Willoughby, who, as being older, both in
years and length of Fardles citizenship, than most of the ladies of the
neighbourhood, permitted herself to use the personal name. And "Who can
have done it?" they both concluded.
"Ah!" the Archdeacon said benignantly. "A curious business, isn't it?"
"Isn't it sacrilege?" said Mrs. Major.
"Was it a tramp?" asked Miss Willoughby.
"What we want is Towlow," the sexton said firmly. "Towlow isn't at all
bad at finding things out, though, being a Wesleyan Methodist, as he
calls himself, he can't be expected to want to find out these bloody
murderers. I'll go and get him, shall I, sir?"
"How fortunate my brother's staying with me," Mrs. Major cried out.
"He's in the Navy, you know, and quite used to crime. He even sat on a
court-martial once."
Miss Willoughby, out of a wider experience, knew better than to commit
herself at once. She watched the Archdeacon's eyes, and, as she saw them
glaze at these two suggestions, ventured a remote and disapproving "H'm,
h'm!" Even the nicest clergymen, she knew, were apt to have unexpected
fads about religion.
"No," the Archdeacon said, "I don't think we'll ask Towlow. And though,
of course, I can't object to your brother looking at these damaged
doors, Mrs. Major, I shouldn't like him to want to make an arrest.
Sacrilege is hardly a thing a priest can prosecute for--not, anyhow, in
a present-day court."
"But--" Mrs. Major and the sexton began.
"The immediate thing," the Archdeacon flowed on, "is the celebration,
don't you think? Jessamine"--this to the sexton-"will you move those
candlesticks and get as much of the grease off as you can? Mrs. Major,
will you put the frontal straight? Miss Willoughby, will you do what you
can to set the other ornaments right? Thank you, thank you. Fortunately
the other chalice is at the rectory; I will g go and get it." Then he
paused a moment. "And perhaps," he said gravely, "as these two boxes
have been robbed, we may take the advantage to restore something." He
moved from one box to the other, dropping in coins, and a little
reluctantly the two ladies imitated him. Jessamine was already at the
altar.
As the Archdeacon walked up to the house he allowed himself to consider
the possibilities. The breaking open of the west door pointed to a more
serious attack than that of a casual tramp; tramps didn't carry such
instruments as this success must have necessitated. But, if a tramp were
not the burglar, then the money in the boxes had not been the aim. The
gold chalice, then? Possible, possible: or the other chalice, the one of
whose reputed history, except for that quarter of an hour in
Mornington's room, he would have known nothing--could that be the aim?
After all, the man who wrote the book--what was his name?--might have
mentioned it, mentioned it to anyone, to a collector, to a millionaire,
to a frenzied materialist. But one wouldn't expect them to try burglary
at once. He saw in the distance the garden-seat where he had sat in talk
the previous afternoon. And had they? Or had they tried purchase?
Persimmons--Stephen Persimmons, publisher--_Christianity and the League
of Nations_--a mission church in need? sacrilege--phallic scrawls.
He came into the inner room where he had looked at the chalice before he
went out that morning, and as he came in it seemed to meet him in sound.
A note of gay and happy music seemed to ring for a moment in his ears as
he paused in the entrance. It was gone, if it had been there, and
gravely he genuflected in front of the vessel and lifted it from its
place. Carrying it as he had so often lifted its types and companions,
he became again as in all those liturgies a part of that he sustained;
he radiated from that centre and was but the last means of its progress
in mortality. Of this sense of instrumentality he recognized, none the
less, the component parts--the ritual movement, the priestly office,
the mere pleasure in ordered, traditional, and almost universal
movement. "Neither is this Thou," he said aloud, and, coming to the
garden door, looked round him. In the hall the clock struck seven; he
heard his housekeeper moving upstairs; as he came out into the garden he
saw on the road a few men on their way to work. Then suddenly he saw
another man leaning over the gate as Persimmons had leant the previous
afternoon; only this was not Persimmons, though a man not unlike him in
general height and build. The man opened the gate and came into the
garden, though not directly in the path to the churchyard gate, and on
the sudden the Archdeacon stopped.
"Excuse me, mister," a voice said, "but is this the way to Fardles?" He
pointed down the road.
"That is the way, yes," the Archdeacon answered. "Keep to the right all
the way."
"Ah, thankee," the stranger said. "I've been walking almost all night--
nowhere to go and no money to go with." He was standing a few yards off.
"Excuse me coming in like this, but seeing a gentleman--"
"Do you want something to eat?" the Archdeacon asked.
"Ah, that's it," said the other, eyeing him and the chalice curiously.
"Reckon you've never been twenty-four hours without a bite or sup." He
took another step forward.
"If you go round to the kitchen you shall be given some food," the
Archdeacon said firmly. "I am on my way to the church and cannot stop.
If you want to see me I will talk to you when I come back." He lifted
the chalice and went on down the path and through the churchyard.
The Mysteries celebrated, he returned, still carefully carrying the
chalice, and set it out of sight in a cupboard in the breakfast-room.
When his housekeeper came in with coffee he asked after the stranger.
"Oh yes, sir, he came round," she said, "and I gave him some food. But
he didn't eat much, to my thinking, and he was off again in ten minutes.
Those folk don't want breakfast, money's what they're after. He wouldn't
stop to see you, not after I told him you might get him a job. Money,
that's what he wanted, not a job, nor breakfast, either."
But the Archdeacon absurdly continued to doubt this. He had felt, all
through the short conversation in the garden, that it was not himself,
but the vessel that the stranger had been studying--and that not with
any present recognition, but as if he were impressing it on his memory.
His train went at half-past nine; it was now half-past eight. But the
train was out of the question; he had to explain the state of the church
to the locum tenens; he had to go over to Rushforth, not now for
Persimmons, but for his own needs. And, above all, he had to decide what
to do with that old, slightly dented chalice that was hidden in the
cupboard of the breakfast-room of an English rectory.
The first thing that occurred to him was the bank; the second was the
Bishop. But the nearest bank was five miles off; and the Bishop was
probably thirty-five, at the cathedral city. He might be anywhere, being
a young and energetic and modern Bishop, who organized the diocese from
railway stations, and platforms at public meetings before and after
speaking, and public telephone-boxes, and so on. The Archdeacon foresaw
some difficulty in explaining the matter. To walk straight in, and put
down the chalice, and say: "This is the Holy Graal. I believe it to be
so because of a paragraph in some proofs, a man who tried to buy it for
a mission church and said that children ought to be taught not to do
wrong, a burglary at my church, and another man who asked the way to
Fardles"--would a young, energetic, modern Bishop believe it? The
Archdeacon liked the Bishop very much, but he did not believe him to be
patient or credulous.
The bank first then, and Rushforth next. And, in a day or two, the
Bishop. Or rather first a telegram to Scotland. He sat down to write it,
meaning to dispatch it from the station when he took the train to town.
Then he spent some time in looking out a leather case which would hold
the chalice, and had indeed been used for some such purpose before. He
ensconced the Graal--if it were the Graal--therein, left a message
with his housekeeper that he would be back some time in the afternoon,
and by just after nine was fitting his hat on in the hall.
There came a knock at the door. The housekeeper came to open it. The
Archdeacon, looking over his shoulder, saw the stranger who had invaded
his garden that morning standing outside.
"Excuse me, ma'am," the stranger said, "but is the reverend gentleman
in? Ah, to be sure, there he is. You see, sir, I didn't want to worry
you over your breakfast, so I went for a bit of a walk. But I hope you
haven't forgotten what you said about helping me to find work. It's work
I want, sir, not idleness."
"You didn't seem that keen on it when you were talking to me about it,"
the housekeeper interjected.
"I didn't want to forestall his reverence," the stranger said. "But
anything that he could do I'd be truly grateful for."
"What's your name?" the Archdeacon asked.
"Kedgett," the other answered, "Samuel Kedgett. I served in the war,
sir, and here--"
"Quite," the Archdeacon answered. "Well, Mr. Kedgett, I'm sorry I can't
stop now; I have to go to town most unexpectedly. Call"--he changed
"this evening" into "to-morrow morning"--"and I'll see what can be
done."
"Thank you, sir," the other said, with a sudden alertness. "I'll be
there. Good-bye, sir." He was out of the porch and down the garden path
before his hearers were clear that he was going.
"What a jumpy creature!" the housekeeper said. "Dear me, sir, I hope
you're not going to give him work here. I couldn't stand, a man like
that."
"No," the Archdeacon said absently, "no, of course, you couldn't. Well,
good-bye, Mrs. Lucksparrow. Explain to Mr. Batesby when he comes, won't
you? I shall be back in the afternoon probably."
Along the country lane on the other side of the churchyard there was
little to be seen beyond the fields and pleasant slopes of the country
twenty miles out of North London. The Archdeacon walked along,
meditating, and occasionally turning his head to look over his shoulder.
Not that he seriously expected to be attacked but he did feel that there
was something going on of which he had no clear understanding. "How
vainly men themselves amaze," he quoted, and allowed himself to be
distracted by trying to complete the couplet with some allusion to the
high vessel. He produced at last, as he came to a space where four roads
met and as he went on through what was called a wood, but was not much
more than a copse--he produced as a result:
_How vainly men themselves divert,
Even with this chalice, to their hurt!_
and heard a motor-car coming towards him in the distance. It was coming
very quietly from the direction of the station, and in a few minutes it
came round the curve of the road. He saw someone stand up in it and
apparently beckon to him, quickened his steps, heard a faint voice
calling: "Archdeacon! Archdeacon!" felt a sudden crash on the back of
his head, and entered unconsciousness.
The car drew up by him. "Quick, Ludding, the case," Mr. Persimmons said
to the man who had slipped from the wood in the Archdeacon's rear. He
caught it to him, opened it, took out the chalice, and set it in another
case which stood on the seat by him. Then he gave the empty one back to
Ludding. "Keep that till I tell you to throw it away," he said. "And now
help me lift the poor fellow in. You have a fine judgement, Ludding.
Just in the right place. You didn't hit too hard, I suppose! We don't
want to attract attention. A little more this way, that's it. We have
some brandy, I think. I will get in with him." He did so, moving the
case which held the Graal. "Can you put that with the petrol-tin,
Ludding? Good! Now drive on carefully till we come to the cross-roads."
When, in a few moments, they were there, "Now throw the case into the
ditch," Persimmons went on, "over by that clump, I think. Excellent,
Ludding, excellent. And now round up to the Rectory, and then you shall
go on to the village or even the nearest town for a doctor. We must do
all we can for the Archdeacon, Ludding. I suppose he was attacked by the
same tramp that broke into the church. I think perhaps we ought to let
the police know. All right; go on."