the NSPCC, the headmistress of the village primary school, the local Catholic
priest, and, last of all, the middle- aged nun, dressed in a chocolate-brown
habit and white wimple, who was expecting him and who found little difficulty
in answering his brief, pointed questions.
Five nuns, all of them resident, looked after the school, which was
specifically dedicated to the physical and spiritual well- being of girls
between the ages of four and eleven (currently
eighteen of them) who for varied reasons poverty, indifference, criminality,
cruelty had been ill-used in their family homes. In spite of a modest
benefaction, the school was a place of limited resources, at least in human
terms; and was appropriately designated 'Private', with the majority of
parents paying fees of between 1,000 and 1,500 per term.
Alice Barron, yes now aged six was one of the pupils there, referred to the
school by her mother. She had been abused: not sexually, it seemed; but
certainly physically; certainly psychologically.
No, Alice was not one of our Lord's brightest intellects; in fact she was in
some ways a slow-witted child. This may have been the result of her home
environment, but probably only partially so. Her younger sister (the
teaching staff had learned) was as bright as the proverbial button; and such
a circumstance could well have accounted to some degree for an impatient,
expectant, aggressive parent to have . . .
'The father, you mean?'
'You're putting words into my mouth. Sergeant.'
'But if you were a betting woman which I know you're not, of course . ..'
'What on earth makes you think that?' Her eyes momentarily glinted with
humour.
'But if I were, I would not be putting much money on the mother, no.'
'How are the accounts for each term settled?'
'I looked that up, as you asked me. I can't, be quite sure, but I suspect
it's been in cash.'
'Isn't that unusual?'
'Yes, it is.'
'Does Alice know about her father's death?'
'Not yet, no.'
'Do you think this whole business is going to . . . ?'
'Difficult to tell, isn't it? She's improving, right enough. She's stopped
wetting her bed, and she doesn't scream so loudly in the night.'
'But if you were going to have another bet?'
'If I were a bookmaker, I'd lay you even money on it.'
As he drove back up to the A40, Lewis felt fairly sure he knew only a quarter
as much about horse-racing (and probably about life) as Sister Benedicta.
a8o
chapter sixty-one character (n. ) handwriting, style of writing:
Shakes. Meas. for M. Here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the
character, I doubt not (Small's Enlarged English Diet. 18th ed. ) back at
HQ Lewis found a handwritten note for his personal attention: Well worthwhile
going to the crem. One or two interesting conversations and one or two new
ideas (or is it one? ) . Super and I off to have a jug (or is it two? ) .
Tell anybody who wants me that I 'm out to lunch and shall't be available till
tomorrow morning no Monday morning. M. It was in Morse's hand, that small,
neatly formed upright script that was recognizable anywhere; as indeed, for
that matter, was Strange's hand large, spidery, with a perpetual list to
starboard, and often only semi-legible.
But Lewis was unconcerned. He would type up a report on his wholly
satisfactory morning's work. And then he would sit back and let things
slowly sink in, for it had now become clear that the Repp-Flynn-Barron
mystery was solved. Completely solved now, with the knowledge that it was
Linda Barren who
had taken the hush-money; Linda Ban-on who must have
insisted that if her husband ever thought of syphoning some of it off for
himself she would expose him for the child-abuser that he was, and expose him
to Social Services, to the police, to the folk in the village, to the Press.
And she would have meant it, for she was past caring. My God, yes! And
