The flash, she said, reminded her of the dear old days in Ireland. Apparently the last really good flash she saw was the day the I.R.A. blew up the bridge at—”
“I have warned the Community,” continued the Mother Prioress, “that they may have to go in the grounds in pairs as a precaution against their being— shall we say, surprised—by reporters. I feel there will be more of them.”
“They do hunt in packs as a rule.”
“Also there has been what I understand is called a new development in the case.”
“There has?”
“The pathologist has said that Sister Anne died immediately after supper which finishes at a quarter to seven. Sister Michael and Sister Damien say she sat between them at Vespers at eight-thirty.”
The priest nodded sagely. “The Press would like that.”
“I do not, Father. The implications are very disturbing. If Sister Anne was dead at half past eight, who sat in her stall at Vespers?”
The priest sat down heavily. “I don’t know. The fact that we do not believe in—er—manifestations will scarcely influence the public—who don’t know what they believe in. They, and therefore the Press, dearly love a ghost. Can’t you see the headlines?”
The Mother Prioress winced.
In intervals between inspecting the Convent Chapel, Sloan took one telephone call and made another from the old-fashioned instrument in the corridor. Both were London calls, but neither would have conveyed very much to Mrs. Briggs at the Cullingoak Post Office, who monitored all calls as a matter of course.
“With reference to your enquiry,” said the London voice, “we have found a very interesting will in Somerset House, made by one Alfred Cartwright, father of Josephine Mary Cartwright. It was made a long time ago, and, in fact, several years before his death. Sounds as if he and his brother Joe were pretty cautious blokes. They’d got everything worked out carefully enough. If Alfred died first his widow was to have the income from his share of the Consolidated Carbon partnership for her lifetime. If he had children they were to get the share when their mother died. If he didp’t have any children or if those children predeceased him
“Keeping it in the family,” said Sloan.
“That’s the spirit, old chap. Well, they seem to have gone along fairly slowly with the business—all this was just after the old Queen died, remember. Turn of the century and all that. Then suddenly—and without any warning either—Alfred ups and dies. Pneumonia, it was. We looked up the death certificate, too, while we were about it…”
“Thank you.”
“He doesn’t leave very much but not to worry. Not many years afterwards along comes World War One and Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons can’t help making money. Lots and lots of it. Of course, our Alfred doesn’t get the benefit being dead by now, but the stuff keeps on coming in. Must have been pretty well running out of their ears by 1918.”
“What about brother Joe?”
“There’s no will registered of his, so presumably he’s still alive. He probably made a reciprocal will at the same time as his brother, but of course he could have altered it since… By the way, we confirm Mrs. Alfred Cartwright’s statement that there was only one child of the marriage. This girl Josephine. Her husband died soon after the baby was born.”
“And brother Joe?”
“He had one son by the name of Harold. He must be all of fifty-five now.”
“We’ve met son Harold.” A thought struck Sloan. “So Joe Cartwright will be quite an age.”
“Practically gaga, I should say,” said the voice helpfully.
“What about the firm now?”
“Ah, you want he whom we call our City Editor. I’m only an historian. Fred Jenkins is the chap for the up-to- the-minute stuff. The only policeman who does his beat in striped pants and a bowler. No truncheon either. Says his umbrella’s better. I’ll give you his number.”
“Much obliged,” said Sloan. He rang it immediately.
“Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons? Very sound, Inspector. Good family firm. A bit old-fashioned but most good old family firms are these days. Well run, all the same. Not closed minds, if you know what I mean.. They’re not entirely convinced that one computer will do the work of fifty men, but if you prove it to them they’ll buy the computer and see the fifty men don’t suffer for it.”
“The family still manage it?”
“Lord, yes. Harold Cartwright’s the M.D. Knows the business backwards. Learnt it the hard way, I should say. Let me see now, I think there are two sons and a daughter. That’s right. The daughter married well. Iron ore, I think it was. The boys went to a good school and an even better university. The elder boy had a year at Harvard to see what our American cousins could teach him about business, and the younger one a year on the Rand.”
“You know a lot about them off the cuff.”
“One of the largest
“I think,” said Sloan slowly, “I can tell you the reason why they’ve stayed private all these years.”
There was no mistaking the interest at the other end of the line. “You can?”
“There was a residual legatee here in Calleshire in a convent.” There was a lot of satisfaction in being able to tell London something.
“That’s it then. What sort of share?”
“If she survived her uncle I’d say she was stuck in for half.”
Jenkins whistled. “Buying her out would upset the applecart. I don’t suppose they would have enough liquidity to do it. That’s the trouble with that sort of heavy industry. On the other hand, if they go public and leave her in they could be in a mess. They might lose control, you see. Tricky.”
“Not quite so tricky now,” said Sloan. “She was killed on Wednesday evening. I don’t know how these things are managed, but I would like to know if this question of going public comes up again now.”
“I’ll have a poke round the Issuing Houses. Might pick something up. Where can I get you?”
“Berebury Police Station.”
Sloan collected Crosby and Sister Lucy from the Chapel. She accepted the money he offered her for the telephone call without embarrassment or demur. “Thank you, Inspector. Bills are quite a problem.”
All three of them went back to the Parlour.
“It would seem, Mother,” said Sister Lucy carefully, “that Sister Anne brought no dowry with her when she came. The Bursar’s accounts for that year show no receipt that is likely to be hers.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“I have had her will read to me over the telephone,” went on Sister Lucy. “It was made at our Mother House the year she took her vows. It bequeaths all of that of which she died possessed to our Order.”
“How much is likely to be involved?” asked Sloan casually.
Sister Lucy looked at him. “As far as I am aware, nothing at all. Sister Anne brought nothing with her and had no income of any sort while she was here.”
Father MacAuley coughed. “Aren’t we forgetting the potential?”
“What potential?” asked the Mother Prioress.
“Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons. That right, Inspector?”
“That’s right, Father. I don’t know where you get your information…”
“You don’t live in Strelitz Square on twopence ha’penny a week.”
The Mother Prioress leaned forward enquiringly. “Had Sister Anne something to do with—er—Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons?”
“She did, marm. They are a chemical company formed by her uncle and father to exploit an invention of theirs of a method of combining carbon with various compounds for industrial chemists.”
