Nest of Vipers

myself. I broke the engagement because my friends, so-called, were so – well, they thought it a subject for coarse humour.’

‘People are very insensitive.’

‘Insensitive? Yes, one could say that, I suppose. Are you a Sensitive, Mrs Farintosh?’

‘I thought it was an adjective, not a noun. What is a Sensitive?’

‘I see you do not understand me. I had an idea that you were One of Us.’

‘You still appear to use capital letters. One of whom?’

‘Ah, well, obviously you do not understand. You don’t belong to the Panconscious People, do you?’ A waitress came up to the small table and, after consultation with his guest, Shard ordered and said nothing more until the tea arrived. Dame Beatrice took advantage of his silence (which was not absolute, for he was humming very softly, regardless of the indignant glare of a woman who was seated at the next table) to work out the meaning of his last question. He returned to it as soon as the tea was poured, but by that time she was ready for him.

‘The Panconscious People,’ she said, ‘sound both strange and sinister. Pan is a terrifying and unpredictable god. One remembers a story by E.M. Forster.’

‘Oh, I’m sure these people are sinister. I went, you know, but it alarmed me very much. Our own practices are pure and are for the benefit of mankind. Theirs are evil. Exciting, intoxicating, but – oh, yes, evil. So you are not a witch?’

‘I am a psychiatrist.’

‘Ah, then, to that extent, you are a Believer.’

‘In what?’

‘In the Power.’

‘Of witchcraft?’

‘In the power of the occult. In the power of some minds over others. In the power of the Old Gods.’

‘With reservations, yes, I ascribe power to all those things, but whether one should meddle with them is another matter entirely. Aspirations, ideals and forms of worship may be excellent in themselves, but my work has led me to the conclusion that there can be a very narrow line between some forms of worship and some forms of mental instability – to put it as mildly as possible.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. I think some of the others have crossed that narrow line. I would not have thought Piper was one of them, though. It just shows how difficult it is to know what people really are like. Will you take more tea?’

‘Thank you. By the way, I am invited to cocktails this evening.’

‘Polly Hempseed and Cassie McHaig, yes. I shall be there, but I don’t drink. Still, I shall go.’

(5)

It turned out that all the tenants of Weston Pipers had been invited. They included the newly-returned Irelath Moore and his charming little companion, Sumatra. Mandrake Shard was present, as he had said he would be, and his tiny frame was installed at a table in a corner of the room well away from the cocktail bar which occupied the whole of one long wall. A coffee-pot and a plate of sweet biscuits were on a smaller table beside Shard and he appeared to be enjoying himself, for he waved a biscuit cheerily at Dame Beatrice as she entered, and called out, ‘Meet the gang!’

Polly Hempseed proved to be a charming and courteous host, Cassie McHaig an assiduous and capable hostess and the party went well. Except that it gave her an opportunity of seeing all the tenants together, however, the evening was wasted from Dame Beatrice’s point of view, since what she had hoped for was to have a word in private with Hempseed and Cassie.

As, on this occasion, there was no opportunity for so doing, she amused herself by studying the company, chatting with this one and that and noting the by-plays and interrelationships which, under the influence of the blushful Hippocrene, gradually began to manifest themselves. Particularly she became aware that her hostess was keeping not only a watchful eye but also an alert and suspicious ear (difficult though it must have been to do so amid the clack of almost a dozen shrill or booming literary voices, each aggressively eager to assert itself against all comers) upon her husband (or whatever he might be). The tall, handsome, debonair Polly Hempseed seemed to combine the attitudes and easy self-assurance of a man of the world with the equally easy charm and unsophisticated attractiveness of a well-mannered under-graduate, and it was not at all difficult to see why the homely, downright, superficially unglamorous Cassie had not only chosen him for a life-partner, but was accustomed to keep eye and ear on him.

It was almost impossible to conjecture why he had selected her to live with, thought Dame Beatrice.

‘She’s up to his weight,’ said Latimer Targe, as though he had read her thoughts. ‘You’re wondering about our host and hostess, aren’t you? So did I when I first met them. It’s the old story of the immovable whatever it is and the irresistible something else. They are for ever locked in a useless and exhausting struggle for supremacy. They can’t overcome one another and that means they can’t get away from one another. We see a lot of it in our business, you know.’

‘In your business?’

‘The literary battle ground. Passionate friends who’d give anything for a chance to part but are held together as a magnet holds a collection of iron filings; deadly enemies whose raison d’etre would dissolve like the dew on the grass if they ceased to have one another to contend with. The whole world of art and letters is a seething cauldron, Mrs Farintosh. You may well regret having entered it.’

‘I wonder whether Miss Minnie regretted having entered it?’ said Dame Beatrice.

‘I believe she was already in it. She edited some esoteric journal for some off-beat religious community, you know. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if one of the congregation did her in for expressing subversive views in her editorials. These off-beat sects are a pretty weird lot, in my opinion.’

‘You have attended the meetings of Miss Minnie’s particular group, perhaps?’