Читать книгу Death Makes a Prophet - Ernest Elmore - Страница 15

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When the other members of the Inmost Temple had departed, Hansford Boot drew Eustace aside into the vestry. He looked glum and grim.

“Well, Hansford?” enquired Eustace gently, “what is it you are so anxious to see me about? You look depressed.”

“I am. Don’t like it. Hate hostility. But felt I must speak up.”

“And the trouble?”

“Penpeti!” snapped Mr. Boot. “In collaboration with Mrs. H-S.”

And then it all came out—an impassioned, yet well-reasoned belief that there was treason in their midst. Hansford Boot was emphatic. Unless Eustace took a strong line there was a danger that the Temple of Cooism would be split asunder. Wasn’t Eustace aware of the growing conspiracy among certain elements of the Movement to deny the original ethics of Cooism, in favour of new and disturbing principles? This Summer Convention was a perfect example of his theory. There was no doubt that Mrs. H-S and Penpeti were filled with ambition. They were hungry for power. Mrs. H-S would like to see Penpeti elevated to the position of High Prophet. She was working to that end and, if Eustace were unprepared to retire with good grace, then, declared Mr. Boot, the Penpeti-Hagge-Smith element would break away and start a kind of bastard Cooism of their own. Such a tragedy, at all costs, must be avoided. Hansford Boot was even more emphatic.

“Shall do all I can to cook their goose. Must rally round you with unflinching determination. Vital! Something strange about Penpeti. Intuition tells me. Undesirable influence. Hypocritical. Mrs. H-S too simple to see it. Led by the nose. Penpeti using her for his own ends.”

His telegraphic speech gathered force and speed. His evident sincerity was impressive and Eustace warmed to his old friend. Such devotion was touching and he felt unworthy of it. But deep down he knew that Hansford’s suggestions matched up perfectly with his own unspoken suspicions. If only he were less timid. If only he had the courage to go to Mrs. Hagge-Smith and point out to her that as the Father of Cooism his word was law. If only he had the fire and eloquence of an Old Testament prophet to sway the dissenters and bring them back into the fold. But those gifts were unfortunately with the opposition, with Penpeti himself. A sudden surge of anger swept through him at the thought of Penpeti’s overweening conceit and presumption. And this anger increased when he thought of Penelope Parker’s obvious admiration for his Prophet-in-Waiting. He resettled his pince-nez at a more aggressive angle and drew himself up to his full height. At that moment he would have revealed to anybody with psychic powers an aura of flaming, unequivocal red.

“My dear Hansford, you’re right. By Geb, you are!” It was the one oath he allowed himself. “Something must be done about it. We must act. And we must act quickly. We must nip this unhappy conspiracy in the bud. But how? How?”

“Leave it to me!” exclaimed Mr. Boot stoutly. “You must do nothing. Lower your dignity. Undermine your prestige. Fatal! I’ll handle this. Think of a way. We’re not alone remember. Thousands of orthodox believers behind us. Encouraging!”

“But I beg of you, Hansford—nothing violent. I would prefer an appeal to Peta’s sense of loyalty rather than any direct recriminations. The Movement can’t suffer an open breach in its ranks without the very loss of dignity and prestige you’re so anxious to preserve. We must have no brawling—nothing of that kind, please.”

“Leave it to me!” rapped out Mr. Boot for the second time. “Never fear. Always diplomatic. But time ripe for action. Strong action. Rely on me!”