by H. F. Heard
“Well,” the Bishop sighed more conclusively than sadly, “we must be thankful for the mercies that can be detected. On the whole it is certainly better to have a clean vacancy, ‘an extraction’ as our dentists put it, than that condition from which this Close has so long suffered, slow decay in situ. It’s tuberculosis without a doubt and without a doubt our doubly damp Close is no place for such a patient. A highly polished Arabic style is no compensation for a highly infectious cough! I think we may trust the Prime Minister again to do well by us. He certainly meant well last time. We may have to go outside the diocese, but there are two or three names I might suggest to his Secretary.…”
The Bishop’s own Secretary seemed a couple of times about to say something but instead dipped his pen. “Here’s an addressed envelope,” he concluded. “You’ll be writing him a note by this mail, won’t you?” He looked at his senior officer in the army of faith. This was the way his Father-in-God took things. Maybe it was the way to face mysteries, to face them over with practical applications and next steps to be taken, to look at the brighter side of things, brighter because it came on top, because it didn’t penetrate down.
“I’ve a feeling, too,” the Bishop went on, “that our crisis, epidemic, call it what you will, may be over. You’re surprised at my having hunches, no doubt. Oh yes, I have them. But, like Samuel Rogers with his religious views, I keep them to myself.”
The quizzical play of the elder man’s features gradually converted the younger’s expression of puzzled query into an answering smile.
“And when you’re my age, and no doubt of equal if not superior ecclesiastical elevation, you will be as cautious about publishing them—not because they have proved so often wrong but because they may have turned out to be so largely, so disconcertingly right.”
He dived down on the still disconcertingly large heap of mail. It kept them busy on the bubbling surface of things till lunch—and after, until, as the Cathedral clock struck two forty-five, the Bishop exclaimed,
“I must take a turn in the Close and get a breathful of fresh air before Evensong.”
He had time for half a dozen turns. Completing the third he saw that Dr. Wilkes was coming up behind him. There would be just time for a genial greeting and not enough to be detained. It would be interesting, too, to see the physician’s reaction.
“I think I should inform you, Doctor, that the Dean has suddenly been ordered abroad.”
“Abroad?”
“Yes, I understand a consultant specialist—I think that is the term, is it not—is convinced that an acute consumptive condition has suddenly intervened.”
“Tuberculosis?” The question had in it something of Halliwell’s incredulity. But a moment after the physician corrected his surprise. “Well, well,” he added, “of course T.B. cases can and do suddenly spring themselves on us. And, further, there can be little doubt that many are end-processes of conditions that up to the point of sudden crisis are purely functional, purely nervous, if I may put it that way.”
The slower summons of the larger Cathedral bell was at that moment exchanged for the thin nervous rapidity of the five-minutes’ warning. The Bishop waved his hand. The doctor saluted.
Besides his letter to the Palace, the Dean had mailed another one to the Deanery.
“There, I knew it,” cried out Mrs. Binyon, for she was the recipient, “I knew it, from the moment that fox came into the house, from that moment.…”
Nor when she read them the rest of the letter—a month’s wages for all, a lawyer coming down to see about things being moved—could they hope to move her from her dark conviction. Indeed the more they thought the whole thing over, the more they felt that though it didn’t sound a bit likely or Protestant, there might be something in it.
About the Author
Henry FitzGerald “Gerald” Heard (1889–1971) was an English philosopher, lecturer, and author. The BBC’s first science commentator, he pioneered the study of the evolution of consciousness, which he explored in his definitive philosophical work The Ascent of Humanity (1929). A prolific writer, Heard was also the author of a number of fiction titles, including mysteries and dystopian novels. He is best known for his beloved Mycroft Holmes mystery series.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1951 by Gerald Heard
Cover design by Andrea Worthington
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3781-5
This edition published in 2016 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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