Death Makes a Prophet

John Bude

Description

Small hostilities were growing; vague jealousies were gaining strength; and far off, wasn't there a nebulous hint of approaching tragedy in the air? Welworth Garden City in the 1940s is a forward-thinking town where free spirits find a home - vegetarians, socialists, and an array of exotic religious groups. Chief among these are the Children of Osiris, led by the eccentric High Prophet, Eustace K. Mildmann. The cult is a seething hotbed of petty resentment, jealousy and dark secrets - which eventually lead to murder. The stage is set for one of Inspector Meredith's most bizarre and exacting cases. This witty crime novel by a writer on top form is a neglected classic of British crime fiction.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Mystery
• Detective

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 04 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642542
• Langue: English

Extrait

Death Makes a Prophet
by John Bude

First published in 1947
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Death Makes a Prophet




by John Bude

To
JULIET O’HEA

With gratitude for her unfailing watchfulness
over the “Prophet”
Part I Welworth Garden City

SKETCH MAP OF OLD COWDENE ESTATE
Chapter I The Children of Osiris
I
“An Englishman, as a free man,” said Voltaire, “goes toheaven by the road which pleases him.” If there are manyroads that lead to perdition, then there are as many that leadto salvation; and England probably houses more diverse,odd and little known religions than any other country inthe world. And of all places in this island most conduciveto the flourishing of these many beliefs, none can equal thelittle town of Welworth. Welworth is not an ordinary town.It is that rarefied, mushroom-like, highly individualistic conglomerationof bricks and mortar known as a Garden City.There is no house in Welworth over thirty years old. Thereare no slums, monuments, garden-fences, bill-hoardingsor public-houses. There is a plethora of flowering shrubs,litter-baskets, broad avenues, Arty-Crafty Shoppes, mock-Tudor,mock-Georgian, mock-Italianate villas. There is, ofcourse, a Health Food Store selling Brazil Nut Butter, coldspaghetti fritters, maté tea and a most comprehensive andstaggering range of herbal pills and purgatives. Per head ofthe population, Welworth probably consumes more lettuceand raw carrot than any other community in the country.A very high percentage of the Welworth élite are not onlyvegetarians, but non-smokers, non-drinkers and non-pretty-well-everything-that-makes-life-worth-livingfor lesshigh-minded citizens.
They weave their own cloth, knit their own jumpers andgo their own ways with that recherché look common to allwho have espoused the Higher Life. Many favour shortsand open-work sandals. A large number do barbola-work ordabble in batik. Some are genuine, some are not; but all bearwith them the undeniable stamp of individuality and burnwith the unquenchable fire of their particular faith. It maybe Theosophy or Babaism; it may be Seventh Day Adventism,Christian Science, Pantheism or what you will—but ina naughty world full of atheists and agnostics, Welworth is arefreshing centre of spiritual élan and a complete refutationof the theory that sectarianism in this country is on the wane.
It is claimed (with all due deference to Mr. Heinz) thatthere are fifty-seven varieties of religion in Welworth. Itspeaks highly of the town’s tolerance. Some are orthodox.Some are unorthodox but well known. Others are unorthodoxand unknown. And among the latter, probably the leastorthodox and the most exclusive, is that queer, somewhatexotic sect, founded by Eustace K. Mildmann in the earlynineteen hundreds, called the Children of Osiris.
For the sake of brevity in a busy world, the Children ofOsiris, adopting the initials of their full title, referred totheir doctrine as the Cult of Coo, or more simply, Cooism.(Not to be confused, of course, with Coué-ism.) The gods ofCooism were those of Ancient Egypt—Osiris, Isis, Horus,Thoth, Set, and so forth—but this rich mythology had beenmodernised and modified by the inclusion of many dogmasborrowed from less remote religions. The result was a catholichot-pot compounded of a belief in magic numbers, astrology,auras, astral bodies, humility, meditation, vegetarianism,immortality, hand-woven tweeds and brotherly love. Itwas, in short, an obliging religion because one could find init pretty well anything one looked for. Eustace Mildmannfound everything in it. It was his child, his passion, his wholelife. He had created Cooism and because, before seeing thelight, Eustace had been a nonentity, it might be said thatCooism had created Eustace Mildmann. It had lifted himout of a small provincial bookshop and set him down inWelworth with five elderly female acolytes, an enormousand contagious enthusiasm for his faith and a small overdraftat his bank. His sincerity was not to be doubted. Cooismto Eustace was the key to all life’s mysteries. It was the only straight road that led to salvation. He believed it could solveeverything—even the overdraft at his bank. And like manymen of unswerving belief he found his optimism justified.He found in Welworth an intellectual coterie ready and willingto listen to him. His five female acolytes soon becameten, fifteen, fifty zealots of both sexes. He found a small tinhall left by some improvident sect that had gone theologicallyand financially bankrupt. It became the first Temple ofCooism. And finally, like a Parsifal who at length discovershis Holy Grail, he found the Hon. Mrs. Hagge-Smith. Afterthat Cooism, so to speak, was on the map.
II
Before he left his bookshop and moved to Welworth, Eustacehad become a widower. It was shortly after the death of hiswife, in fact, that he set out to evolve the first principles ofCooism. His best ideas had always come to him when sunkin a self-imposed trance, or, as he more pithily expressed it,“during a phase of Yogi-like non-being”. (“Non-being” figuredas a very important factor in the Cult of Coo, thoughnobody seemed able to define its exact significance.) Whetherthe original idea of Terence, his only child, had also occurredto him when in a state of “non-being” seems doubtful, forat such periods Eustace was a receptacle for good ideas andTerence was probably the worst idea he’d ever had. For Terencewas the antithesis of his father. Where Eustace was mild,dreamy and soft-spoken, Terence was athletic and practical,with a booming bass voice. When Eustace had first movedto Welworth, Terence was still a very junior schoolboy. Atthe time when this narrative opens he was a gradely youngman of twenty-one, with a healthy appetite, wholesomeideas and the physique of a boxer. In the interim, his fatherhad done everything to undermine his normality. He hadsent him to a co-ed school with an ultra-modern, one mightalmost say, post-impressionistic curriculum; clamped downon his tremendous appetite with a strict vegetarianism; madehim a Symbol-Bearer in the Temple of Osiris; and with theinhumanity of a fanatic with a one-track mind, kept himvery short of pocket-money. To say that Terence dislikedhis father is not an exaggeration. He simmered with resentmentunder the restrictions placed upon him. He thoughtCooism the most incomprehensible twaddle. He thoughtthe Children of Osiris the most embarrassing collection ofcranks in a town where ordinary men seemed odd. He ratedvegetarianism as an unnatural vice. He thought co-educationsloppy. He considered the Hon. Mrs. Hagge-Smith a bloton the face of creation. And yet, being naturally inarticulateand obedient, Terence dared not come out in open rebellion.He just suffered in silence like a goaded ox. Sometimes therewas a look in his eye that was strangely reminiscent of anox—a look of patient resignation that gave way every nowand then to a gleam of ominous hostility.
The Mildmanns, father and son, lived in the mockestof mock-Tudor mansions on Almond Avenue. It was a big,secluded house standing in an acre of well-kept garden asbefitted the High Prophet of Cooism. It was run by anefficient lady-housekeeper, a widow by the name of LauraSummers, a handsome, even striking, blonde, with perfectmanners and a cultured voice. In the emancipated atmosphereof a Garden City this arrangement raised no breathof scandal. Merely a rip-snorting tornado of vilification thatwould have pulverised any man less innocent and unworldlyas Mr. Mildmann. As it was he never even thought of Mrs.Summers as a blonde. She was his housekeeper and a convert(though not a particularly reliable one) to Cooism.Between Terence and Mrs. Summers there was considerablesympathy and understanding. Her late husband had beena man with a big appetite and few ideas. She felt sorry forTerence in his over-tight shorts, his sandals and open-neckshirts. He looked so like a little boy that has grown out ofhis clothes that the mere sight of him roused all her maternalinstincts. They formed a sort of nebulous alliance against thesoft-fingered influences of Eustace Mildmann. They sharedlittle private jokes over many things that the Children ofOsiris held sacred. Misplaced, perhaps, but very human. Inparticular over Mrs. Hagge-Smith—the very sight of whomalways reduced Terence to a state of unutterable boredom.
Ostensibly the Archbishop—or in the nomenclature ofthe order, the “High Prophet”—of Cooism was, of course,its founder, Eustace Mildmann. But the force behind themovement, the financial prop, the true director of policy, wasAlicia Hagge-Smith. She paid the piper and so, naturally, shecalled the tune. She was quite accustomed to calling the tune.She had been calling it all her life, for the simple reason thather late husband had made a million out of mineral waters.
Right from her earliest years Alicia had taken to religionas other women take to golf, bridge or pink gin. She had,so to speak, a nose for odd religions—the odder the better.She had feasted at the tables of many a faith, but alwaysin the long run she had suffered spiritual indigestion andretired in search of a more assimilatory diet. At one timeshe had actually turned her back on the problems of salvationand taken up Eurhythmics. Unfortunately, a generousbuild coupled with an artistic fervour out of keeping withher mature years, had led her to rick he