Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [97]
‘So much the better.’
Fiona spoke with what was evidently deliberate loudness. At the same time she turned to glance in the direction of Murtlock. He had somewhat quickened his pace for the last lap, reaching the gravel of the drive. Small pockets of ordinary wedding guests still stood about chatting. Most of these were some distance away from the point where Murtlock would have to decide whether he made for the bulk of his followers, or for the splinter group represented by Widmerpool and Henderson. There was no special reason why the run-of-the-mill guests, having accepted the blue-robed intruders as an integral part of the wedding reception, should suppose Murtlock anything but an offshoot of the original body. Of the two groups – the one huddled together, robed or otherwise; the other, consisting of Widmerpool, Henderson, Fiona, Gwinnett, together with the beefy young man called Chuck – Murtlock made unhesitatingly for the second. He stopped a yard or two away, uttering his greeting gently, the tone not much more than a murmur, well below the pitch of everyday speech. I heard it because I had moved closer. It was possible to ignore squabbles between Widmerpool and Henderson; Murtlock had that about him to fire interest.
‘The Essence of the All is the Godhead of the True.’
Only Widmerpool answered, even then very feebly.
‘The Visions of Visions heals the Blindness of Sight – and, Scorp, there is —’
Murtlock, disregarding the others, held up a hand towards Widmerpool to command silence. There was a moment’s pause. When Murtlock answered, it was sharply, and in an altogether unliturgical maimer.
‘Why are you here?’
Widmerpool faltered. There was another long pause. Murtlock spoke again.
‘You do not know?’
This time Murtlock’s question was delivered in an almost amused tone. Widmerpool made great effort to utter. He had gone an awful colour, almost mauve.
‘There is an explanation, Scorp. All can be accounted for. We met Fiona. She asked us in. I saw an opportunity to take part in an active rite of penitence, a piece of ritual discipline, painful to myself, of the sort you most recommend. You will approve, Scorp. I’m sure you will approve, when I tell you about it.’
After saying that, Widmerpool began to mumble distractedly. Murtlock turned away from him. Without troubling to give further attention to whatever Widmerpool was attempting to explain, he fixed his eyes on Henderson, who began to tremble violently. Fiona let go of Gwinnett’s hand. She stepped forward.
‘Barnabas is leaving you. He’s staying here with Chuck.’
‘He is?’
‘Aren’t you, Barnabas?’
Henderson, still shaking perceptibly, managed to confirm that.
‘I’m going back with Chuck.’
‘You are, Barnabas?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you will be happier together than you were before you came to us.’
Murtlock smiled benevolently. He seemed in the best of humours. Only Widmerpool gave the impression of angering him. The defection of Henderson appeared not to worry him in the least. His reply to Fiona, too, had been in the jocular tone he had sometimes used on the crayfishing afternoon; though it was clear that Murtlock had moved a long way, in terms of power, since that period. Perhaps he had learnt something from Widmerpool, while at the same time subduing him.
‘A mystical sister has been lost, and gained. You are not alone in abandoning us, Fiona. Rusty, too, has returned to Soho.’
Fiona did not answer. She looked rather angry. Her general air was a shade more grown-up than formerly. Murtlock turned to Gwinnett.
‘Was not the Unicorn tamed by a Virgin?’
Gwinnett did not answer either. Had he wished to do so, in itself unlikely, there was no time. At that moment Widmerpool seemed to lose all control. He came tottering forward towards Murtlock.