“Was it closed?”
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
“Yes.”
“Was it locked?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Oh, yes. It was because it was usually locked that I put the light on when I opened it. Otherwise I don’t think I would have seen Sister Anne.”
“The door is normally kept locked, Inspector,” explained the Reverend Mother in a very dry voice, “on account of the danger of falling down the steep steps in the dark.”
“I see, marm, thank you. Then what did you do, Sister?”
She had done very little, decided Sloan, except give the alarm and encourage the destruction of useful clues by opening and shutting the cellar door and fetching people who went up and down the steps.
And Sister Peter had been scarcely more helpful.
When she had gone the Reverend Mother beckoned Sister Lucy to her side. “What was that address?”
“Seventeen Strelitz Square, Mother.”
The Mother Prioress nodded. “Inspector, that was the address from which Sister Anne came to us.”
“It’s a very good one,” said Sloan involuntarily.
“She was a very good nun,” retorted the Reverend Mother dryly. “It was, of course, some time ago that she left home, but in the normal course of events I would telephone there to establish whether or not she still had relatives.”
Sloan took a quick look at his watch. “Perhaps I’ll telephone myself, marm.”
Standing in the dark corridor where the nuns kept their instrument he wondered if it wouldn’t have been wiser to go to London. When he was connected to 17 Strelitz Square he was sure.
“Mrs. Alfred Cartwright’s residence,” said a female voice.
“May I speak to Mrs. Cartwright, please?”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“The Convent of St. Anselm.” That would do to begin with.
“I will enquire if madam is at home.”
There was a pause. Sloan heard footsteps walking away. Parquet flooring. And then they came back.
“Madam,” said the female voice, “is Not At Home.”
“It’s about her daughter,” said Sloan easily. “I think if she knew that she—”
“Madam has no daughter,” said the voice and rang off.
Sloan went back to the Parlour. Only Crosby was there now.
“A bell rang, Inspector, and they both went—just like that. I didn’t know if you wanted me to stop them.”
“You? Stop them?” said Sloan unkindly. “You couldn’t do it. Now, listen…”
There was a knock on the Parlour door and Father MacAuley came in.
“Ah, Inspector, found the glasses?”
“Not yet, sir,” said Sloan shortly. It was bad enough investigating a death in the alien surroundings of a Convent without having a priest pattering along behind him. And MacAuley wasn’t the only one who wanted to know where Sister Anne’s glasses were. Superintendent Leeyes would be on to their absence in a flash, and a fat lot of good it would be explaining to him that he and Crosby had looked everywhere for them.
“Did you get anything out of Lady Macbeth?” asked the priest.
“We confirmed all of Sister Peter’s statements,” said Sloan stiffly.
“She’s walking up and down the corridor muttering ‘What! Will these hands ne’er be clean?’ ” He squinted at Sloan. “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten that little hand.”
“No, sir? The Mother Prioress tried an old Army remedy.”
“She did?”
“Spud bashing.”
“A fine leader of women, the Mother Prioress.” Father MacAuley grinned suddenly. “I hear that the chap across the way—Ranby at the Agricultural Institute—he’s gated his students for the evening. All to be in their own grounds by four o’clock this afternoon.”
“Can’t say I blame him for that,” said Sloan. “Last year they burnt down the bus shelter and there was hell to pay.”
“Nearly set the Post Office on fire, too,” contributed Crosby.
“Polycarp says all buildings burn well, but Government buildings burn better,” said the priest.
Sloan rose dismissively. “I don’t think Bonfire Night at the Agricultural Institute will concern us, sir.”
Wherein he was wrong.
6
« ^ »
It was still damp in the grounds, and for that Sloan was grateful. It meant that the footprints Crosby had found not far from the cellar door were perfectly preserved.
“Two sets, Inspector.” He straightened his back. They were in the shelter of one of the large rhododendron bushes. “One of them stood for a while in the same place. The earth’s quite soft here…” He slipped out a measure. “Men’s…”
“Perhaps.”
“It was a man’s shoe, sir…”
“But was there a man inside it? Don’t forget that this lot wear men’s shoes—every one of them.”
Crosby measured the depth. “If it was a woman, it was a heavy one.”
“Get a cast and we’ll know for certain.” He looked round. “It would be a good enough spot to watch the back of the place from.” From where he was standing he could see the kitchen door, the cellar steps, a splendid collection of dustbins and a small glass door which presumably led to the garden room. A broad path led round towards the front entrance of the house, and along this now was walking the Caller, Sister Gertrude.
“Inspector, Mother says will you come please? She’s had a letter.”
“It was handed to Sister Polycarp a few minutes ago,” said the Reverend Mother, “by one of the village children from a gentleman who is staying at The Bull. He says in his letter that he proposes to call at the Convent at four-thirty this afternoon in the hopes of being able to see Sister Anne.”
“Does he?” said Sloan with interest. “Who is he?”
The Mother Prioress handed over the letter. “It’s signed ‘Harold Cartwright.’ A relation, presumably.”
“Do you know him? Has he been here before?”
She shook her head. “No. I do not recollect Sister Anne having any visitors. Do you, Sister?”
Sister Lucy looked up. “Never, Mother.”
“Would she have seen this man in the ordinary way?”
“Not if she did not wish it, Inspector. Nor if I did not wish it. Sometimes visitors are no great help— especially to young postulants and novices, and are therefore not allowed.”
“He says here he hopes no objection will be raised to his visit, which is of considerable importance,” said Sloan, quoting the letter.
“To him,” said the Reverend Mother. “Visitors are rarely important to us. Nevertheless, I think in this instance that we had better ask Sister Polycarp to show him to the Parlour when he comes.”
He arrived promptly at four-thirty, a man aged about fifty-five in a dark grey suit. He was heavily built and going grey. He wasted no time in getting to the point.
“I am Harold Cartwright, the cousin of Sister Anne, and I would very much like to see her for a few moments…”
