“Someone, somewhere,” he said sarcastically, “is being untruthful with us, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, sir, but I didn’t think nuns would lie.”
“Not quite cricket, Crosby?”
“Yes, sir—I mean—no, sir.” Until he joined the Police Force, Crosby’s ethics had been of a Sunday School variety—“speak the truth and shame the devil.”
“If,” went on Sloan, “Damien knew only that the Convent was to come into a lot of money when Sister Anne died—or thought that was so, she could just have thought she was doing the Convent a good turn— and Sister Anne, too if it came to that—by hurrying things along.“ He finished his tea and said profoundly: ”Who can tell what people will do if they are cooped up together like that for year upon year without any sort of outlet? What
“I saw a film about a prisoner-of-war camp once,” volunteered Crosby helpfully, “where they killed a chap because he sniffed.”
Three loud knocks on the table at the end of a meal by the Mother Prioress indicated that she wished to speak to the Community. Half a hundred female faces turned attentively towards the Abbatial chair. There were round faces, oval faces, faces of the shape known outside the Convent (but never, never inside) as Madonna-type, fat faces, thin faces.
There were as many faces looking expectantly at the Reverend Mother as there were types of woman— almost—from the neat face of Sister Ignatius to the cheerful visage of Sister Hilda; from the calm features of Sister Jerome to the composed efficiency of Sister Radigund, the Infirmarium; from the still anxious look of Sister Peter to the intense concentration of Sister Damien.
“My daughters…” The Mother Prioress surveyed the dim Refectory. It was long since dark outside, and the mock electric candles in their sconces on the wall provided only the minimum of light. “My daughters, through the centuries those of our Order have gone through many trials and tribulations, compared with which our present discomforts are as nothing. What we now endure is unfamiliar and distasteful to us—intrusion and enquiry are an anathema to the religious life—but it is not for us to complain now or at any time of what we suffer.” Her gaze travelled down the ranks of nuns. “When we renounced the world we did not automatically leave doubt and sorrow behind. Nor are we immune from the physical laws of cause and effect. Nor should we wish to be.”
One of the novices, she who was sitting nearest to the pepper-pot, sneezed suddenly. The Novice-Mistress leaned forward slightly to identify the culprit.
“Sister Anne,” went on the Mother Prioress unperturbed, “died on Wednesday evening some time after supper, probably in the corridor leading from the Great Hall to the kitchens. Her body was put into the broom cupboard and later thrown down the cellar steps. As you know, she was found there after a search on Thursday morning. It is now Friday evening. I should like you all to go back in your minds to Wednesday evening and consider if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary pattern of religious behaviour.” She did not pause here as she might have done but went straight on to say, “On Thursday evening, Guy Fawkes’ Night, the effigy of a nun was burnt on the bonfire lit by the students of the Agricultural Institute. In the ordinary course of events I should not have troubled the Community with this information, believing that the incident was more in the nature of high spirits than bigotry, but the guy was dressed in the habit that normally hangs behind the door of the garden room.”
It was evident that this was news to some of the nuns.
“Moreover, the guy was wearing Sister Anne’s glasses.”
This was a bombshell. Heads went up. Grave glances were exchanged between the older Sisters. The younger ones looked excited or frightened, according to temperament.
“You will not, therefore, be surprised to know that the police require to know the exact whereabouts of every Sister from supper-time on Wednesday until they retired to their cells. If you spoke to Sister Anne after supper, or if you have any other information, it should be communicated to me, and only to me. I shall be in the Parlour until Vespers.” She paused. “The police also wish to be told the secular name of every member of the Community, the date of her profession, and the address from which she came to the Convent of St. Anselm.”
The dining-room at the Agricultural Institute was also known as the Refectory, but there the resemblance ended. It was brightly lit and very noisy indeed. One hundred and fifty healthy young men were just coming to the end of a substantial meal. Fourteen staff were having theirs at the High Table on a dais at one end of the long room. Sundry maids were rattling dirty dishes through a hatch into the kitchen, and making it quite clear that they thought any meal which began at seven-fifteen should end by eight o’clock.
Marwin Ranby, sitting in the centre of the High Table, let the maids finish before he stood up. Students were easy to come by, maids much more difficult.
“Gentlemen, in its short life this Institute has acquired a reputation for outrage on the night that commemorates the failure of the Gunpowder Plot…”
There were several cheers.
“Usually the damage can be repaired by the use of one simple commodity. Money.” More cheers.
“And apologies, of course.”
“Good old Mr. Ranby, sir,” called out a wit. Ranby gave a thin smile. “Well, it isn’t good old anyone this time. Granted, in the ordinary run of events, we might have got by with a handsome apology to the Mother Prioress and an even more handsome contribution to the Convent funds…” Loud groans.
“This time it’s much more serious…” More groans.
“Yesterday, as you know full well, was November the Fifth. The evening before that—Wednesday—a nun died in the Convent. The police, who, as you know, performed an excellent rescue job on the guy…”
Loud laughter, interspersed with more groans. “The police,” said Ranby firmly, “tell me that that habit came from the Convent, probably the same day the nun died. Now, they’re not accusing anyone of being implicated in this death but they do need to know who it was who was in the Convent, how they got in and when. I think you can all understand that,” He looked quickly from face to face. “Now, I’m asking those responsible—however many of you there are with a hand in this—to come to my study at nine o’clock tonight.”
11
« ^ »
Celia Faine was in the Principal’s study with Marwin Ranby when Sloan and Crosby arrived. A maid had just deposited a tray of coffee on the table.
“Come in, Inspector, come in. How’s the chase going?”
“Warming up nicely, sir, thank you.”
Ranby eyed him thoughtfully. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve got good news for you, too. We’ve got the culprits who made the guy.” He turned. “Celia, my dear, will you be hostess while I tell the Inspector about Tewn and the others?”
Celia Faine smiled and took up the coffee pot. “Don’t be too hard on them, will you? They’re nice lads and I’m sure they meant no harm.”
Ranby frowned. “No, I don’t think they did, but you can’t be too sure. William Tewn is the chap you’re looking for, Inspector. As far as I can make out, three of them initiated the scheme—a third-year man called Parker, and Tewn and Bullen, who are second year. Parker’s the cleverest of the three—clever enough to organise the expedition without going to any risk himself, I should say. Bullen and Tewn went over the fence into the Convent property on Wednesday night, while Parker kept watch. Bullen went as far as the outside wall, and Tewn went inside the building. He came out with the habit.”
“One moment, sir. How did you discover this?”
He gave a wry laugh; “They—er—gave themselves up so to speak, in response to my appeal after supper this evening. I’ve just been speaking to them and they’re waiting in my secretary’s room for you.”
“Sugar?” Celia Faine handed round the coffee cups expertly. Sloan saw she would be a great asset to the rather too-efficient Principal. “Tell me, Inspector, where do you think they kept the guy until Thursday evening?”
