The Rebel Angels

"- The other package, the big one, is the complete typescript of my novel Be Not Another. I am writing to the papers, Clem, to tell them what I have told you here, and to say that you have my book, that it is rare and fine, and that applications from publishers who hope to get it must be made to you. And there will be applications! Oh, indeed, there will be applications! Publishers will fight to publish a murderer, when they had no time to spare for a philosopher. It's a hot property, so make the toughest deal you can, dear Clem. Revenge me, dear old boy; roast 'em, squeeze 'em, gouge 'em for every possible dollar. And keep a sharp eye on the kind of publicity they give it; I have provided the material for a first-rate campaign – 'The book a man murdered to place in your hands! – A great, misunderstood genius speaks to his times! – The philosopher-criminal bares his soul!' – that's the first line of fire, after which you'll easily get some eminent critic to plump it all out with praise as the distilled essence of a mighty, ruined spirit.

"- As for the monies accruing, I leave it to you to set up a handsome research fund at Spook, so that people like yourself can get some of the dibs to further their work. And I want it named the Parlabane Bounty, so that every pedant who wants a hand-out has to burn a tiny pinch of incense to my memory. You know how these things are managed. Don't worry that Spook won't take the money. The dear old coll. will sanctify my gift to its use, never fear.

"- That's all, I think. I hope you and Molly won't come to quarrelling over the Gryphius. Because I mean it for both of you, and if either one tries to bag it all, or cheat the other out of her due – you, Clem, appear to me as the most likely to try a dirty trick – there will certainly be hell to pay, if I have any influence in hell.

"- All that now remains is for me to put myself beyond the reach of the law. Not, let me assure you, because I fear it, but because I despise it. I could get a lot of interest in my book by hanging around, going to trial, and having my say from the dock. But you know what would happen in a modern court. Could I expect justice? Could I, who have planned a murder and killed a man in cold blood, expect to have my own life exacted as poetic justice (the only really satisfactory kind) demands? Not a chance! What a parade there would be of psychiatrists, eager to 'explain' me! They would assure the court that I was 'insane' because of course no man in his right mind ever wants revenge or personal advancement. People drunk with the cheap wine of compassion would assure one another that I was 'sick'. But I'm not insane and I am in robust health, and I will not expose myself to the pity of my inferiors.

"- So, one last tiny joke. Everybody will assume that I have committed suicide. Well, if I have, let them prove it. But you, dear friends, shall know. I am going to dress myself now in my habit; then I shall lie down on my bed with my prayerbook at hand, and I shall inject into a vein in my foot – there are lots of them – a few cc.s of potassium; in thirty seconds I shall be dead, and that will just give me time, I trust, to drop the needle through a hole in the floor under Ma Mustard's bedside carpet. Neat, don't you think? I shall be encharnelled (good, romantic word) before anybody thinks to look under the carpet. Keep this under your hat. I should like to puzzle my old friends, the police. Their doctors are very unimaginative.

"- However, should any snooper decide to dig me up, I make a final bequest under the provisions of the Human Tissue Gift Act of 1971. I leave my arsehole, and all necessary integument thereto appertaining, to the Faculty of Philosophy; let it be stretched upon a steel frame so that each New Year's Day, the senior professor may blow through it, uttering a rich, fruity note, as my salute to the world of which I now take leave, in search of the Great Perhaps. My blessings on you both, my dears,

John Parlabane

(sometime of the Society of the Sacred Mission)

When Darcourt had finished reading, Hollier was already deep in the letters from the back flap of the Gryphius; his face glowed, and when Darcourt spoke to him he seemed at first not to hear.

"Clem?"

"Hmm."

"We ought to talk about that manuscript."

"Yes, yes; but I'll have to go through it carefully before I can say anything definite."

"No, Clem."

"What?"

"You mustn't go through it. I know it's exciting, and all that, but you must realize it isn't yours."

"I don't follow you."

"It's stolen goods, you know."

"McVarish stole it. Now we've got it back."

"No. Not 'we'. You have no right to it whatever. It belongs to the Cornish Estate, and it's my job to see that it is returned to its owners."

Darcourt rose, and took the Gryphius Portfolio and the precious letters out of Hollier's hands, folded it up in its original wrappings, and left the room.

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