The Ointment

The afternoon which had preceded the supernatural effort to destroy the Graal had been made use of by Mr. Gregory Persimmons to pay two visits. The first had been with the Chief Constable of Hertfordshire to the shop in Lord Mayor Street. But after the visit was made and the information acquired Colonel Conyers and he had parted in the Finchley Road, the Colonel to go to Scotland Yard in a chance taxi, he ostensibly for the Tube at Golder’s Green. Once the Colonel had disappeared, however, Gregory returned as swiftly as possible to the shop.

The Greek had resumed his everlasting immobility, but, though he said nothing, his eyes lightened a little as he saw the other again come in.

“Do you know what has happened?” Gregory asked in that subdued tone to which the place seemed to compel its visitors.

“It seems they have recovered it,” the Greek said and looked askew at a much older man who had just come into the shop from a small back room. The new-comer was smaller than the Greek, and much smaller than Gregory; his movements were swift and his repose alert. His bearded face was that of a Jew.

“You heard?” the Greek said.

“I heard,” the stranger answered. He looked angrily at Gregory. “How long have you known this?” he asked, with a note of fierceness.

“Known — known what?” Gregory said, involuntarily falling back a step. “Known that they had it? Why, he only took it this morning.”

“Known that it was — that,” the other said. “What time we have wasted!” He stepped up to the Greek and seized him by the arm. “But it isn’t too late,” he said. “We can do it tonight.”

The Greek turned his head a little. “We can do it if you like,” he acquiesced. “If it is worth while.”

“Worth while!” the Jew snapped at him. “Of course it is worth while. It is a stronghold of power, and we can tear it to less than dust. I do not understand you, Dimitri.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dimitri answered. “You will understand one day. There will be nothing else to understand.”

The other began to speak, but Gregory, whom his last words had brought suddenly back to the dirty discoloured counter, said suddenly, but still with that subdued voice, “What do you mean? Tear it to dust? Do you mean that? What are you going to do?”

The others looked over at him, the Jew scornfully, the other with a faint amusement. The Greek said, “Manasseh and I are going to destroy the Cup.”

“Destroy it!” Gregory mouthed at them. “Destroy it! But there are a hundred things to do with it. It can be used and used again. I have made the child see visions in it; it has power.”

“Because it has power,” the Jew answered, leaning over the counter and whispering fiercely, “it must be destroyed. Don’t you understand that yet? They build and we destroy. That’s what levels us; that’s what stops them. One day we shall destroy the world. What can you do with it that is so good as that? Are we babies to look to see what will happen tomorrow or where a lost treasure is or whether a man has a gluttonous heart? To destroy this is to ruin another of their houses, and another step towards the hour when we shall breathe against the heavens and they shall fall. The only use in anything for us is that it may be destroyed.”

Before the passion in his tones Gregory again fell back. But he made another effort.

“But can’t we use it to destroy them?” he asked. “See, I have called up a child’s soul by it and it answered me. Let me keep it a little while to do a work with it.”

“That’s the treachery,” the Jew answered. “Keep it for this, keep it for that. Destroy it, I tell you; while you keep anything for a reason you are not wholly ours. It shall tremble and fade and vanish into nothingness to-night.”

Gregory looked at the Greek, who looked back impassively. The Jew went on muttering. At last Dimitri, putting out a slow hand, touched him, and the other with a little angry tremor fell silent. Then the Greek said, looking past them, “It is all one; in the end it is all one. You do not believe each other and neither of you will believe me. But in the end there is nothing at all but you and that which goes by. You will be sick at heart because there is nothing, nothing but a passing, and in the midst of the passing a weariness that is you. All things shall grow fainter, all desire cease in that sickness and the void that is about it. And this, even for me, is when I have only looked into the bottomless pit. For my spirit is still held in a place of material things. But when the body is drawn into the spirit, and at last they fall, then you shall know what the end of desire and destruction is. I will do what you will while you will, for the time comes when no man shall work.”

Manasseh sneered at him. “When I knew you first,” he said, “you did great things in the house of our God. Will you go and kneel before the Cup and weep for what you have done?”

“I have no tears and no desire,” the Greek said. “I am weary beyond all mortal weariness and my heart is sick and my eyes blind with the sight of the nothing through which we fall. Say what you will do and I will do it, for even now I have power that is not yours.”

“I will bring this thing into atoms and less than atoms,” Manasseh answered. “I will cause it to be as if it had never been. I will send power against it and it shall pass from all knowledge and be nothing but a memory.”

“So,” the Greek said. “And you?” he asked Gregory.

“I will help you, then,” Gregory answered, a little sullenly, “if it must be done.”

“No, you shall not help us,” Manasseh said sharply, “for in your heart you desire it still.”

“Let him that desires to possess seek to possess,” the Greek commanded, “and him that desires to destroy seek to destroy. Let each of you work in his own way, until an end comes; and I who will help the one to possess will help the other to destroy, for possession and destruction are both evil and are one. But alas for the day when none shall possess your souls and they only of all things that you have known cannot be destroyed for ever.”

He stood upright. “Go,” he said to Gregory, “and set your traps. Come,” to Manasseh, “and we will think of these things.”

But Manasseh delayed a moment. “Tell me,” he said to Gregory, “of what size and shape is the Cup?”

Gregory nodded towards the Greek. “I brought the book up last Saturday with the drawing in,” he said. “You can see it there. But why should I try to recover it if you are going to destroy it?”

The Greek answered him. “Because no one knows what the future may bring to your trap; because till you prepare yourself to possess you cannot possess. Because destruction is not yet accomplished.”

Gregory brooding doubtfully, turned, and went slowly out of the shop.

He went on to his son’s office, and there, inflamed with a certain impotent rage at the destruction threatened to that which he had spent some pains to procure, eased it by doing all he could to destroy Kenneth’s security. After which he banished Stephen from the room, and talked for some time on the telephone to Ludding at Cully.

It was in pursuance of the instructions then received that Ludding the next morning strolled down to the Rectory. In a neat chauffeur’s uniform, clean-shaved and alert, he presented so different an appearance from that of the bearded tramp who had called on the Archdeacon a month earlier that Mrs. Lucksparrow, even had the time been shorter, would not have recognized him. He had come down, it appeared, on a message from Mr. Persimmons to the Archdeacon.

“The Archdeacon isn’t at home,” Mrs. Lucksparrow said. “I’m sure I’m sorry you’ve had your trouble for nothing.”

“No trouble, ma’am,” Ludding answered; “indeed, as things have turned out, it’s given me more pleasure than if he had been.” His bow pointed the remark.

“Well,” said Mrs. Lucksparrow, “I won’t deny but what it’s a pleasure to see someone to speak to, we being rather out of the way here — except for clergymen and tramps; and naturally the clergy don’t come and talk to me, not but what some of them are nice enough in their way. Why, we’ve had the Bishop here before now, and a straightforward, pleasant-speaking gentleman too, though a bit on the hurried side, always wanting to get on somewhere else and do the next thing. I don’t hold with it myself, not so much of it. What’s done too quick has to be done twice my mother used to say, and she had eleven children and two husbands, though most of them was before I was born, being the youngest. Many’s the time she’s said to me, ‘Lucy, my girl, you’ve never dusted that room yet, I’ll be bound.”

She stopped abruptly, a habit arising from a natural fear which possessed her when in attendance on the Archdeacon and his clerical visitors that she might be talking too much. But the sudden silence substituted for a gentle flow of words was apt to disconcert strangers, who found themselves expected to answer before they had any idea they had finished listening. Ludding was caught so now, and had to say in some haste, “Well, I’d rather trust you than a Bishop, Mrs. Lucksparrow.”

“Oh, no,” the housekeeper answered, “I don’t think you should say that, Mr. Ludding, for they’re meant to teach us, though there, again, my schoolmistress used to say, ‘Take your time, girls, take your time,’ though mostly over maps.”

“Yes,” Ludding said, prepared this time. “And I suppose you don’t know when the Archdeacon will be back. I expect he takes his time.” He laughed gently. “If he was married I expect he’d have to be back sooner.”

“If he was married,” Mrs. Lucksparrow said, “he wouldn’t do a lot he does now. He’s brought women home before now — well, it’s not right to talk of it, Mr. Ludding, for fear of giving him a bad name, though he meant them nothing but good, little as they deserved it; and sometimes he never goes to bed at all, up in the church all night, when he thinks I’m asleep. If it wasn’t that he can’t eat pork I’d think he wasn’t human, for I like a bit of pork, and it comes hard never being able to have it, for, of course, two joints is what I couldn’t think of, and it’s bad enough never daring to mention it or I believe it’d slip out, and then he’d go and buy a pig and have it sent home, all for a chop or two, but as for coming back, that I couldn’t say, with only a telegram to say detained tonight, meaning yesterday — though, if it was anyone dying or anything, there’s Mr. Batesby here.”

“It wasn’t really important,” Ludding said, “only that Mr. Persimmons thought he’d like some fruit and flowers for the Harvest Festival, and wanted to know when it was likely to be.”

“Second Sunday in September,” Mrs. Lucksparrow said, “at least it was last year. But there is Mr. Batesby, and he’d know if anyone did, outside the Archdeacon.”

Ludding looked over his shoulder to see Mr. Batesby emerging from the churchyard gate in the company of a stranger, a young man in a light grey suit and soft hat who was strolling carelessly by the priest’s side. Mrs. Lucksparrow looked also, and said suddenly: “Why, it’s a Chinaman; he’s got those squinting eyes the Chinaman had when he stopped with the Archdeacon two years ago,” rather as if there was only one Chinaman in the world. Ludding, however, as the two came nearer, doubted Mrs. Lucksparrow’s accuracy; there seemed nothing Chinese about this stranger’s full face — it was perhaps a little dark, a kind of Indian, the chauffeur thought vaguely.

“Shrines,” Mr. Batesby was saying, “shrines of rest and peace, that’s what our country churches ought to be, and are, most of them. Steeped in quiet, church and churchyard — all asleep, beautifully asleep. And all round them the gentle village life, simple, homely souls. Some people want incense and lights and all that — but I say it’s out of tune, it’s the wrong atmosphere. True religion is an inward thing. It’s so true, isn’t it? ‘the Kingdom of God is within you.’ Just to remember that — within you.”

“It cometh not by observation,” the stranger said gravely.

“True, true,” Mr. Batesby assented. “So what do we want with candles?”

They reached the door, and he looked inquiringly at Ludding, who explained his errand, and added that he was sorry the Archdeacon wasn’t at home and was it known when he would be back?

Mr. Batesby shook his head. “Not to a day or two,” he said. “Gone on good works, no doubt. ‘Make hay while the sun shineth, for the night cometh,’” and then, feeling dimly uncertain of this quotation, went on hastily, “We must all do what we can, mustn’t we? Each in our small corner. Little enough, no doubt, just a car”— he looked at Ludding — “or a kitchen”— he looked at Mrs. Lucksparrow —“or — something,” he ended, looking at the stranger, who nodded seriously, but offered no enlightenment for a moment. Then, as if in pity at Mr. Batesby’s slightly obvious disappointment, he said, “I have been a traveller.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure,” the priest answered. “A broadening life, no doubt. Well, well, I venture to think you have seen nothing better than this in all your travels.” He indicated church and garden and fields. “Not, of course, that the serpent isn’t here too. The old serpent. But we crush his head.”

“And your heels?” the stranger asked. Mr. Batesby took a moment to grasp this, and then said, gently smiling. “Yes, yes, not always unstung, I fear. Why, the Archdeacon here was assaulted only a few weeks ago in broad daylight. Scandalous. If it hadn’t been for a good neighbour of ours, I don’t know what might have happened. Why, you were there too, Ludding, weren’t you?”

“Were you?” the stranger asked, looking him in the face. “I was,” Ludding said, almost sullenly, “if it’s any business of yours.”

“I think perhaps it may be,” the stranger said softly. “I have come a long journey because I think it may be.” He turned to Mr. Batesby. “Good day. I am obliged to you,” he said, and turned back to Ludding. “Walk with me,” he went on casually. “I have a question to ask you.”

“Look here,” the chauffeur said, moving after him, “who the hell do you think you are, asking me questions? If you want —”

“It is a very simple question,” the stranger said. “Where does your master live?”

“Anyone will tell you,” Ludding answered reluctantly and almost as if explaining to himself why he spoke. “At Cully over there. But he isn’t there now.”

“He is perhaps in London with the Archdeacon?” the stranger asked. “No, don’t lie; it doesn’t matter. I will go up to the house.”

“He isn’t there, I tell you,” Ludding said, standing still as if he had been dismissed. “What the devil’s the good of going to the house? We don’t want Chinks hanging round up there, or any other kind of nigger. D’ye hear me? Leave it alone, can’t you? Here, I’m talking to you, God blind you! You let Mr. Persimmons alone!” As the stranger drew farther away his voice became louder and his words more ‘violent, so that Inspector Colquhoun, who was allowing himself a few days in the village, partly out of his holiday, partly in a kind of desperate wonder whether Cully would yield any suggestions, came round a turn in the road on his way from the station to see a man standing still and shouting after an already remote figure.

“Anything wrong?” he asked involuntarily.

Ludding turned round furiously. “Yes,” he said, “you’re wrong. Who asked you to blink your fat eyes at me, you flat-nosed, fat-bellied louse?”

The inspector considered the uniform. “You take care, my man,” he said.

“Christ Almighty!” Ludding yelled at him, “if you don’t get off I’ll smash your —”

Colquhoun stepped nearer. “Say another word to me,” he said, “you jumping beer-barrel, and I’ll knock you into the middle of Gehenna!” The prospect of being able to repay someone connected with a Persimmons for all that he had gone through was almost delightful. Nevertheless, he hardly expected the chauffeur to make such an immediate rush for him as he did. He defended himself with strength enough to make aggression an imperceptible sequence, and succeeded in drawing Ludding to one side of the road, until he unexpectedly crashed into the ditch behind him. Colquhoun stepped back a pace. “Come out if you like,” he said, “and let me knock you into it again.”

It was upon the chauffeur scrambling furiously out of the ditch that Mr. Gregory Persimmons looked when he in turn, a little later than the inspector, being a slower walker, came along the road from the station. He had paid his visit to Lord Mayor Street that morning, to find Manasseh almost beside himself with enraged disappointment, and only too anxious to take any steps for recovering the Graal. The Greek had taken little part in their discussion; the effort of the night had left him so exhausted physically that he was lying back in a chair with closed eyes, and only now and then threw a suggestion to the others. Gregory’s chief difficulty was to insist on maintaining the friendly relations with the Rackstraws that were essential to his designs on Adrian, and might, he recognized, already have been endangered by the break with Mornington. This, however, he hoped to arrange; judicious explanations and promises might do much, and Adrian’s own liking for him was a strong card to play. At last he had compelled Manasseh to see his aim, and then a fresh proposal had been made. Manasseh with the Greek would concern themselves with securing the Graal, and Gregory was to get hold of Adrian within the next few days. “Then,” Manasseh said, “we can take the hidden road to the East.”

“The hidden road?” Gregory asked.

Manasseh smiled knowingly. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve a lot to learn yet. Ask your friend Sir Giles; he knows about it, I expect. Ask him if he’s ever been to the furniture shop in Amsterdam or the picture dealer in Zurich. Ask him if he knows the boat-builder in Constantinople and the Armenian ferry. You are only on the edge of things here in London. The vortex of destruction is in the East. I have seen a house fall to fragments before a thought and men die in agony because the Will overcame them. Bring the child and come, and we will go into the high places of our god.”

In the subtle companionship that existed between them Gregory felt the. hope in his heart expand. “In three days from now I will be with you,” he said. “By Friday night I will bring the child here.”

With this purpose and a plan formed in his mind, he had returned to Fardles, to find his chauffeur struggling out of the ditch in the face of a contemptuous enemy.

When Ludding saw his employer he came to the road with a final effort and paused rather ridiculously. The inspector saw the hesitation, and looked round at Gregory, realizing that the odds were in favour of its being Gregory. He took the initiative.

“Mr. Persimmons?” he asked.

“I am Mr. Persimmons,” Gregory answered mildly.

“I suspect this man is your chauffeur,” the inspector said, and, as Gregory nodded, went on, “I’m sorry to have been obliged to knock him down. I found him shouting out in the roadway, and when I asked if anything was wrong he was first grossly rude and then attacked me. But I don’t think he’s hurt.”

“Hurt,” Ludding broke out, and was checked by Gregory’s lifted hand. “I’m sorry,” Persimmons said. “If by any chance it should happen again, pray knock him down again.”

“No offence intended to you, sir,” the inspector said. He thought for a moment whether he would make an attempt to enter into conversation with the other, but decided against it; he wanted, so far as he had a clear wish, to pick up opinion in the village first. So, with a casual inclination of the head, he started off down the road.

Persimmons looked at Ludding. “And now perhaps you will explain,” he said. “Dear me, Ludding, you are letting this temper grow on you. You must try and control it. Why, you might be attacking me next; mightn’t you?” He moved a little nearer. “Answer me, you swine, mightn’t you?”

“I don’t know why I hit him, sir,............