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.