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VI
On the afternoon preceding the Festival, Miss Carnaby met Hercule Poirot in a small teashop in
the sleepy little town of Newton Woodbury. Miss Carnaby was flushed and even more breathless
than usual. She sat sipping tea and crumbling a rock bun between her fingers.
Poirot asked several questions to which she replied monosyllabically.
Then he said:
“How many will there be at the Festival?”
“I think a hundred and twenty. Emmeline is there, of course, and Mr. Cole—really he has
been very odd lately. He has visions. He described some of them to me—really most peculiar—I
hope, I do hope, he is not insane. Then there will be quite a lot of new members—nearly twenty.”
“Good. You know what you have to do?”
There was a moment’s pause before Miss Carnaby said in a rather odd voice:
“I know what you told me, M. Poirot. . . .”
“Très bien!”
Then Amy Carnaby said clearly and distinctly:
“But I am not going to do it.”
Hercule Poirot stared at her. Miss Carnaby rose to her feet. Her voice came fast and
hysterical.
“You sent me here to spy on Dr. Andersen. You suspected him of all sorts of things. But he is
a wonderful man—a great Teacher. I believe in him heart and soul! And I am not going to do your
spying work any more, M. Poirot! I am one of the Sheep of the Shepherd. The Master has a new
message for the World and from now on, I belong to him body and soul. And I’ll pay for my own
tea, please.”
With which slight anticlimax Miss Carnaby plonked down one and threepence and rushed out
of the teashop.
“Nom d’un nom d’un nom,” said Hercule Poirot.
The waitress had to ask him twice before he realized that she was presenting the bill. He met
the interested stare of a surly looking man at the next table, flushed, paid the check and got up and
went out.
He was thinking furiously.
VII
Once again the Sheep were assembled in the Great Fold. The Ritual Questions and Answers had
been chanted.
“Are you prepared for the Sacrament?”
“We are.”
“Bind your eyes and hold out your right arm.”
The Great Shepherd, magnificent in his green robe, moved along the waiting lines. The
cabbage-eating, vision-seeing Mr. Cole, next to Miss Carnaby, gave a gulp of painful ecstasy as
the needle pierced his flesh.
The Great Shepherd stood by Miss Carnaby. His hands touched her arm. . . .
“No, you don’t. None of that . . .”
Words incredible—unprecedented. A scuffle, a roar of anger. Green veils were torn from eyes
—to see an unbelievable sight—the Great Shepherd struggling in the grasp of the sheep-skinned
Mr. Cole aided by another devotee.
In rapid professional tones, the erstwhile Mr. Cole was
saying:
“—and I have here a warrant for your arrest. I must warn you that anything you say may be
used in evidence at your trial.”
There were other figures now at the door of the Sheep Fold—blue uniformed figures.
Someone cried: “It’s the police. They’re taking the Master away. They’re taking the Master.
. . .”
Everyone was shocked—horrified . . . to them the Great Shepherd was a martyr; suffering, as
all great teachers suffer, from the ignorance and persecution of the outside world. . . .
Meanwhile Detective Inspector Cole was carefully packing up the hypodermic syringe that
had fallen from the Great Shepherd’s hand.
VIII
“My brave colleague!”
Poirot shook Miss Carnaby warmly by the hand and introduced her to Chief Inspector Japp.
“First class work, Miss Carnaby,” said Chief Inspector Japp. “We couldn’t have done it
without you and that’s a fact.”
“Oh dear!” Miss Carnaby was flattered. “It’s so kind of you to say so. And I’m afraid, you
know, that I’ve really enjoyed it all. The excitement, you know, and playing my part. I got quite
carried away sometimes. I really felt I was one of those foolish women.”
“That’s where your success lay,” said Japp. “You were the genuine article. Nothing less
would have taken that gentleman in! He’s a pretty astute scoundrel.”
Miss Carnaby turned to Poirot.
“That was a terrible moment in the teashop. I didn’t know what to do. I just had to act on the
spur of the moment.”
“You were magnificent,” said Poirot warmly. “For a moment I thought that either you or I
had taken leave of our senses. I thought for one little minute that you meant it.”
“It was such a shock,” said Miss Carnaby. “Just when we had been talking confidentially. I
saw in the glass that Lipscomb, who keeps the Lodge of the Sanctuary, was sitting at the table
behind me. I don’t know now if it was an accident or if he had actually followed me. As I say, I
had to do the best I could on the spur of the minute and trust that you would understand.”
Poirot smiled.
“I did understand. There was only one person sitting near enough to overhear anything we
said and as soon as I left the teashop I arranged to have him followed when he came out. When he
went straight back to the Sanctuary I understood that I could rely on you and that you would not
let me down—but I was afraid because it increased the danger for you.”
“Was—was there really danger? What was there in the syringe?”
Japp said:
“Will you explain, or shall I?”
Poirot said gravely:
“Mademoiselle, this Dr. Andersen had perfected a scheme of exploitation and murder—
scientific murder. Most of his life has been spent in bacteriological research. Under a different
name he has a chemical laboratory in Sheffield. There he makes cultures of various bacilli. It was
his practice, at the Festivals, to inject into his followers a small but sufficient dose of Cannabis
Indica—which is also known by the names of Hashish or Bhang. This gives delusions of grandeur
and pleasurable enjoyment. It bound his devotees to him. These were the Spiritual Joys that he
promised them.”
“Most remarkable,” said Miss Carnaby. “Really a most remarkable sensation.”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
“That was his general stock in trade—a dominating personality, the power of creating mass
hysteria and the reactions produced by this drug. But he had a second aim in view.
“Lonely women, in their gratitude and fervour, made wills leaving their money to the Cult.
One by one, these women died. They died in their own homes and apparently of natural causes.
Without being too technical I will try to explain. It is possible to make intensified cultures of
certain bacteria. The bacillus Coli Communis, for instance, the cause of ulcerative colitis. Typhoid
bacilli can be introduced into the system. So can the Pneumococcus. There is also what is termed
Old Tuberculin which is harmless to a healthy person but which stimulates any old tubercular
lesion into activity. You perceive the cleverness of the man? These deaths would occur in different
parts of the country, with different doctors attending them and without any risk of arousing
suspicion. He had also, I gather, cultivated a substance which had the power of delaying but
intensifying the action of the chosen bacillus.”
“He’s a devil, if there ever was one!” said Chief Inspector Japp.
Poirot went on:
“By my orders, you told him that you were a tuberculous subject. There was Old Tuberculin
in the syringe when Cole arrested him. Since you were a healthy person it would not have harmed
you, which is why I made you lay stress on your tubercular trouble. I was terrified that even now
he might choose some other germ, but I respected your courage and I had to let you take the risk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Miss Carnaby brightly. “I don’t mind taking risks. I’m only
frightened of bulls in fields and things like that. But have you enough evidence to convict this
dreadful person?”
Japp grinned.
“Plenty of evidence,” he said. “We’ve got his laboratory and his cultures and the whole
layout!”
Poirot said:
“It is possible, I think, that he has committed a long line of murders. I may say that it was not
because his mother was a Jewess that he was dismissed from that German University. That merely
made a convenient tale to account for his arrival here and to gain sympathy for him. Actually, I
fancy, he is of pure Aryan blood.”
Miss Carnaby sighed.
“Qu’est ce qu’il y a?” asked Poirot.
“I was thinking,” said Miss Carnaby, “of a marvellous dream I had at the First Festival—
hashish, I suppose. I arranged the whole world so beautifully! No wars, no poverty, no ill health,
no ugliness. . . .”
“It must have been a fine dream,” said Japp enviously.
Miss Carnaby jumped up. She said:
“I must get home. Emily has been so anxious. And dear Augustus has been missing me
terribly, I hear.”
Hercule Poirot said with a smile:
“He was afraid, perhaps, that like him, you were going to die for Hercule Poirot!”
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