Conversation over dinner

The hall of the manor is large, well-appointed and hung with fine paintings. The table is illumined by candles in three-branched holders. The fare is modest but excellent of its kind, the company small yet illustrious in their way; the squire, his lady, their son and daughter, the parson and his wife, the colonel, recently widowed, and a sober personage in black, sitting at the far end of the table and picking at his food with an air of distaste.

Unwisely, the host attempts to engage this person in the conversation.

"So, sir," he offers, with an air of uneasy jocularity, "how many did you find in our village today?"

The black-clad one puts down his fork.

"Seventeen, sir," he replies. "Indeed this region is mired in evil. The work of cleansing shall be hard in truth."

"Seventeen?" the squire's son echoes disbelievingly. "I find that hard to credit."

"Do you now?" The man in black purses his lips. "Nonetheless it is so."

"How terrible," the squire's wife remarks, "that such things should be in an ordinary English village." She stops, as if immediately aware that something is amiss. The man in black is looking at her intently.

"Would it then be your opinion," he says, his voice a dagger barely sheathed in silk, "that an English village should be less prone to sin than a village of another land?"

"No indeed." The lady is pale. "I merely said 'an English village' because this is...an English village."

"Why do you lay such stress on the fact, my lady? You have mentioned it three times now already. Should I perhaps be impressed? You seem strongly convinced that English villages are in some way exceptional. Better than, say, Scottish villages, or Welsh--"

"I'm sure I meant nothing of the kind, sir." The lady takes refuge in dignity. "And I am not used to having my utterances pounced upon and taken apart with such zeal."

"I believe you are not," the man in black says. "It seems clear that you regard your privileged position as a licence to speak in any way you choose. So, you regard English people as superior to all others. This is clearly established by your own words."

"Come now," the squire blusters. "My wife was simply making conversation. It is surely no great matter--"

"Sin," the man in black snaps, the silk now gone, "is always a very great and grievous matter. It pains me, sir, to observe that you take so lightly such blatant expressions of bigotry. No doubt they form the substance of your daily table talk here at the manor. I am truly saddened to find the rot has spread thus far--that your sensibilities are so blunted that you seek to excuse your wife's heinous hate speech. Among the poor and ignorant, one expects it, but hardly in the halls of the educated."

"Sir," the squire's son says, standing up abruptly, "you surely cannot mean to accuse my mother--"

"And why should I not?" says the man in black. "Do you imply that she may be excused because of her sex? That a woman is to be held less responsible for her speech than a man? Is this your contention, sir?" He has now produced a small black notebook, and is writing in it. "I see that sin has truly taken deep root in this very house. No wonder that your village is rotten with it, when such is the quality of their leadership." He looks up. "Does anyone else have anything to say?"

The squire is empurpled but furiously silent, his lady sobbing, his son white-faced and rigid. The parson clears his throat.

"I am sure," he says, "that this is nothing but an unfortunate misunderstanding. The lady spoke hastily, and--"

"Do you say so?" the man in black counters sharply. "Do you assert that I, who have followed my calling for nine years now, have no understanding in these matters? Perhaps you have some other intent. Perhaps there are yet more grievous matters to be uncovered, and you seek with your soft words to divert me from them. Perhaps you have some guilt yourself?"

"The lady spoke hastily," the clergyman mumbles doggedly.

"In hasty speech the truth comes most often to light," the man in black says. "I perceive that you have been hasty yourself, parson, and thus placed yourself in line with these hate criminals."

"No, no!" the parson's wife shrieks. "My husband hates no man!"

"Then it is women who are the target of his loathing," the man says crisply. "I wonder that you can bear to be associated with him, madam. We shall discover the reason, no doubt, in time. You need not rise, colonel. Your name is already upon my list, as a warmonger and a despoiler of other nations. I had hoped to interview you separately, on another occasion, but it seems I shall have my work cut out for me here.

He gets to his feet. "By the authority vested in me," he proclaims, as his men emerge from various doorways, "the squire, his wife, his son, the parson, his wife, and the colonel, are all charged with racism, sexism, and other hate crimes to be determined. They shall be taken to the village lockup tonight, and tomorrow," he smiles coldly, "shall be put to the question. This house is now confiscate as an abode of hate and prejudice, and it shall be my heavy task to cleanse it in the name of truth and righteousness. No," he says, as a burly ruffian lays a hand on the shoulder of the squire's daughter, "she remains. I shall put her to the question myself, later tonight. I believe she may be the only soul in this foul den of vileness with a gleam of virtue remaining, but before I can make a determination she must be tested, with the pernicious influence of these others removed."

He looks around the room, with an air of great satisfaction.

"I shall begin my work of sanctification in the former squire's bedchamber. See these others safely imprisoned, and then send the wench to me there."