unnatural death. He has also told me about last night’s bonfire.”
“Sister Lucy has just identified the habit and Sister Anne’s glasses.”
“How very curious that both should be found on a guy at the Agricultural Institute. Do you connect them with Sister Anne’s death?”
“I can’t say, marm, at this stage. The glasses were hers, she couldn’t see without them; she was killed on Wednesday evening, and on Thursday evening they were found on this guy.”
“If,” said the Mother Prioress slowly, “the whole episode of the guy had been an anti-papist demonstration we, as a Community, would have been aware of feelings against us. After all, they are quite common. Sisters in our other Houses have them to contend with—but not without knowing the feelings existed. Hate is so very communicable. Mr. Ranby would have known, too, I think.”
“Granted, marm. But somebody took both the old habit and the glasses.”
She inclined her head. “It would seem that the world has been to us or that one of us has been into the world.”
Sloan had reached this conclusion himself the evening before and turned to another matter.
“Going back to Sister Anne, herself, marm, can you tell me anything about her? As a person, I mean.”
The Mother Prioress smiled faintly. “We try so very hard not to be persons here, you know. To conquer the self and to submerge the personality are part of our daily battle with ourselves in the quest for true humility. I would say that Sister Anne, God rest her soul, succeeded as well as any of us.”
“Er—yes, I see.” It was patent that he didn’t. “Now about her actual death. Did anyone stand to gain by that?”
“Just Sister Anne.”
“Sis…”
“It is part of our conviction, Inspector, that all true Christians stand to gain by death.”
He smiled weakly. “Of course. But apart from Sister Anne herself?”
“I cannot conceive that anyone could gain from her death.”
“In the worldly sense, perhaps?”
“I take it that you mean financially? That is what people usually mean.”
“Yes.”
“The disposition of any material wealth would be entirely a matter for the Sister concerned.”
“Was Sister Anne wealthy?”
“I have no idea, Inspector.”
“She came from a wealthy home.”
“That is not always a measure.”
“Who would know?”
“Just the Mother Prioress at the time she took her vows.”
“And that was?”
“Mother Helena…”
“And she’s dead?”
“… of blessed memory,” finished the Mother Prioress simultaneously.
That meant the same thing. Sloan was getting frustrated. “Is there no way of finding out?”
Sister Lucy coughed. “Mother, the Bursar’s accounts. They might show something at the time. We know the date of profession. It would take a little while, but if a dowry had been received it would show in the figures.”
“Thank you,” said Sloan, taking the Mother Prioress’s concurrence for granted. “That would be a great help. Now, what about a will?”
“That,” said the Reverend Mother, “would be at our Mother House. It is no part of our intention not to conform to the Common Law of the land in which our House is situated.”
“Quite.”
“Sister Lucy shall telephone them for you presently.”
“Marm, there’s another matter that has been troubling us. You told me that Sister Anne was at Chapel on Wednesday evening and that that was the last time she was seen alive.”
“That is so. At Vespers by Sister Michael and Sister Damien.”
“Do you remember what you had for supper on Wednesday?”
It was clear that she didn’t. She turned to Sister Lucy, who frowned. “It wasn’t a fast day, Mother. Was it steak and kidney pudding? I think it was. Yes, I’m sure. With peas and potatoes. And then a bread and butter pudding.”
“Thank you. Yes, I remember now. Is it important, Inspector?”
“What time did you have it?”
“At a quarter past six. That is when we always have it.”
“And then is when Sister Anne had hers?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“She couldn’t have had hers later?”
“Not without my knowing.”
“What happens immediately after supper?”
“Recreation. From a quarter to seven to eight o’clock. Sisters bring any sewing or similar work to the old drawing-room and they are permitted to move about and talk there as they wish.”
“I see,” said Sloan. Nice for them, that was. “And then?”
“They have various minor duties—preparing the refectory for breakfast, locking up the house, general tidying up at the end of the day and so forth. As they finish these the Sisters go into the Chapel for private meditation until Vespers at eight-thirty.”
“Thank you, marm, that is what I wanted to know. And Sister Damien and Sister Michael sat on either side of Sister Anne at Vespers?”
“That is so.”
“With the greatest repect, marm, that is not so. Dr. Dabbe, the pathologist, tells me that Sister Anne died immediately after supper. Her meal was quite undigested.”
There was a silence in the Parlour, then, “Someone sat between Sister Michael and Sister Damien.”
“So you tell us, marm.”
“So they told me, Inspector.”
“Where was Sister Anne’s place in the Chapel?”
“In the back row.”
“No one else need have noticed her then?”
“No. No, I suppose not. As I said, the Sisters come in when they are ready and kneel until the service begins.”
“I think we should see the Chapel and the two Sisters.”
“Certainly. Sister Lucy will take you there now.”
The Mother Prioress sat on in the empty Parlour, deep in thought. She almost didn’t hear the light tap on the door. She roused herself automatically. “Come in.”
It was Sister Cellarer. “Did he bring the keys, Mother?”
She stared at her. “Do you know, Sister, I quite forgot to ask him.”
9
« ^ »
Father MacAuley was the next visitor to the Parlour. Sister Gertrude brought him along.
“I had quite a job getting in. Polycarp thought I was the Press at first. I’ll have to have a password. ‘Up the Irish’ or some such phrase pleasing to her ear.”
“There were two reporters and a cameraman this morning,” said the Mother Prioress, “but she sent them away.”
“So she told me. She didn’t know if the photographer got his picture of her or not before she shut the grille.
