It was just eleven-thirty. The rain fell steadily. Obviously, it was going to be one of those days when the rain never lets up. He had left his umbrella in Theresa Street. With unusual extravagance he bought a new one and then he walked jauntily, like a young man, towards Elm Green tube station.
19
But if the inhabitants . . . will not dwell with them to be ordered by their laws, then they drive them out of those bounds which they have limited and appointed out for themselves.
IT was a bit like Kenbourne Vale, the district of South London that was neither Camberwell nor Kennington but a dismal area lying between them called Wilman Park. The resemblance lay in the slummy grayness of the place, the absence of trees, rather than in the houses, for those in Wil- man Park were small and tightly packed in streets standing at true right angles to each other. Wexford supposed that the third temple of the Children of the Revelation was probably situated in a similar district of some industrial city in the north of England. Strange sects do not abound among the rich who have their heaven here and need not rely on future bliss.
He found Artois Road which bisected Wilman Park and walked briskly along it between the puddles, passing women coming back from the shops before they shut for early closing. They were mothers and daughters mostly, with the daughter's children shielded from the rain in hooded prams. He recognised it as the working-class pattern, mother and daughter going everywhere together, shopping together, not divided by the girl's marriage. Somewhere here there might be a mother who walked alone because her daughter had been divided from her. Or were the Children excluded from such patterns, as they seemed to be excluded from everything, rnalring their own customs and denying society?
The temple was so small and the rain so torrential that he almost went by without seeing it. He retraced his steps and contemplated it, glad of his umbrella. It was recognizable as the sister, if not the twin, of the one in Garmisch Terrace. The circle of red glass was smaller, the gable shallower, the gardenshed door painted a sticky green, but an identical plaque, signifying the nature of the place, had been cemented into the brickwork which in this case was a plain dull red. The shrubs, against which Loveday had posed, were now a leafless tangle, dripping water on to the pavement.
As in Garmisch Terrace, the temple was the connecting link between two rows of houses, squat mean houses here of yellow brick with stone bays. In one of its immediate neighbours Morgan had been a lodger. In which? Newspapers give the names of streets where defendants and witnesses live, not their house numbers. But it wasn't difficult to guess. One of the houses had daffodils coming into bud in a window box, a television aerial on its roof, red and yellow curtains; the other squatted, its windows blanked out with dark green blinds, behind a tiny front garden whose soil was hidden beneath a layer of concrete.
One of the blinds lifted an inch when he banged on the door there was no bell, no knocker, only a letter box but it fell again instantly. The activities of private detectives are limited. They cannot demand entrance or get warrants. He knocked again, and this time there was no movement at the window. He could hear nothing from inside the house, but he sensed hostility as if the people within were ill-wishing him. Strange. Even if they had something to hide, they couldn't know who he was. He might be the gasman, he might be delivering something. A voice behind him made him turn round. A postman with parcels coming out of a red van.
'You won't get in there, mate. They never let no one in.'
'Why not, for God's sake?'
'That's it,' said the postman, grinning. 'For God's sake. They're too religious, see, to talk to the likes of you or me. They call themselves Children of the Revelation. A lot of them live around here, and they won't none of them let no one into their houses.'
'What, not even open their doors?'
'Some do that,' the postman admitted, 'but you can't get inside.'
'Can you tell me where the others live?'
'One lot at 56 and another lot at 92. The 56 lot, they'll speak to you, I'll give them that.'
So the refusal to admit him on the part of the occupants of the house next to the temple held no particularly sinister implication. He went to number 56, another grim little house with weeds instead of concrete in its front garden, and the door was answered rather reluctantly by an elderly man in a shiny black suit.
'I'm sorry. I know it's raining, but I can't let you in. What do you want?' His was a flat, cold voice, almost mechanical. Words were necessary for the business of living, Wexford thought, not to grace life, not to be chosen with care for smoothing the path, expressing feelings, pleasing the listener. He remembered what Teal had said.
'I'm writing a book on Christian sects,' he lied unblushingly. 'I wondered if you could give me . . . ?'
In the same dull monotone the man reeled off a list of dates, named the three temples and told Wexford that there were five hundred of the elect on the face of the earth.
'And your Shepherd?' Wexford interrupted him.
'He has a room in the house next to the temple, but they won't open the door to you there.' He gave a sigh as of one who had striven in vain against the temptations of the world. 'They have kept to a purer and straighter way then I. I married out.'
'How about number 92?' Wexford began. He got no further for the door was firmly closed in his face. There was nothing for it but to go to Ivy Street, and if that failed, begin a house-to-house in search of the 'brides'.
He had a sandwich in a pub and, feeling almost as guilty as a Child of the Revelation who had opened the door to one of God's rejects, a pint of bitter. Then he phoned Dora to stop her worrying, telling her he was off on a tour with Dearborn and didn't know when he would be home. The rain had slackened slightly. He asked the barman the way to Ivy Street and set off into the back doubles of Artois Road.
The house was a little detached villa with gnomes and an overflowing birdbath in its front garden. It looked shut up. No one answered when he rang the bell and he turned away to come face to face once more with the helpful postman.
'Mrs Morgan's away. Her married daughter's ill and she's gone to look after the son-in-law. Half a tick, while I take this parcel next door.'
Having decided to pump him, Wexford waited impatiently for the postman to return. What he called 'half a tick' became ten minutes' chat with the recipient of the parcel, but at last he came back, whistling cheerfully.
'What about the other daughter?'
'Got a day off from work. I saw her go out half an hour back.'
'I see.' Another disappointment, if you could call finding someone's daughter alive instead of dead a disappointment. 'Did you know Morgan?'
'Not to say know,' said the postman. 'I know of him. I used to see him about.'
'Did you ever see him about with a girl?'
The postman laughed. He didn't seem to want to know who Wexford was or why he was asking. 'Morgan was a dark horse,' he said. 'Most of Revelationers didn't know what he was up to till it all came out. Except the girls, that is. One or two of them called themselves Mrs Morgan, had letters addressed to them as Mrs Morgan, as bold as brass.'
'Can you remember which ones?'
'I remember Hannah Peters all right. She was the one as he went through a form of marriage with. That's how his little games came to light. Young Hannah got a letter addressed to Mrs Morgan, her dad got suspicious and then the bomb went up. A lot of other women started complaining. Mind you, his wife had chucked him out years ago but they're not divorced. She says she's never divorce him. A very vindictive woman is Mrs Morgan and you can't blame her.'
'Can you tell me where Miss Peters lives?'