“Could be worse.”
Leeyes grunted. He did not like the Press. “Wait till you’ve seen the Sundays. Especially if they get hold of this time business.”
“Or the trio who got the habit. A pretty picture they would make. By the way, sir, it was Bullen and Tewn’s footprints Crosby found. He’s just checked. Bullen stood in one spot under the rhododendrons while Tewn went down in the cellar for the habit. That’s what they told us, and the footprints tie up with that.”
“Not Harold Cartwright’s?”
“No, sir.”
“Can’t understand what the devil he’s doing here, Sloan.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing, but he’s working,” said Sloan. “I’ve got a man keeping an eye on him. Lots and lots of paper work, telephone calls, tape recorders, the lot.”
“He’ll be lucky if he gets anything done that way. I never do. Quiet thinking is what gets things done, Sloan. More things are wrought by—er—quiet thought than you would believe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Logical thought, of course, Sloan.”
“Of course, sir.”
“There’s one aspect of this case I’ve been thinking about a lot…”
“Sir?”
“This weapon that Dabbe talks about…”
Sloan nodded. “He said it was something smooth and round and heavy.”
“That describes a paperweight
“Not yet, sir.” Sloan liked the “we.”
“We instituted a search on Thursday morning but found nothing. That Sister Peter wasn’t what you could call a good witness. Too worked up for one thing. Swore she showed us everywhere she’s been, and that wasn’t very exciting, but no sign of any blunt instruments.”
“It must have been there, Sloan.”
“It must have been there when she touched it, sir. Crosby and I didn’t see it. We went back for another look afterwards when she’d gone off to tell her troubles to somebody else, but we couldn’t pick any lead up anywhere.”
“Narrows the field a bit, doesn’t it?” said Superintendent Leeyes, just as Crosby had done.
“I don’t see why,” said Sloan obstinately. “Someone had only to know what it—whatever it was—was there, hadn’t they? Comes to the same thing.”
Leeyes pounced. “Ah, so you think it’s an outside job, do you?”
Sloan shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Not yet. I’ve an open mind.”
“Have you?” Leeyes glared at him. “I hope that you don’t mean an empty one.”
“No, sir. On the contrary, the possibilities are still infinite.”
The concept of infinity had already come up in the superintendent’s Logic course. It was now a word he treated with respect and no longer understood. He let the inspector get as far as the door. “Sloan…”
“Sir?”
“Do you know what they make nuns’ habits from?”
“Wool, I suppose, sir.”
“Ah, but what sort of wool?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“From black sheep, Sloan.”
The day was still relatively young when Sloan and Crosby reached the Convent. The Mother Superior and Sister Lucy received them as if it was already half over. The Mother Superior handed him a list of names.
“Thank you, marm. I feel we need all the information we can get in this matter.”
“Such knowledge as I have is, of course, at your disposal, Inspector.”
“First, marm, I have some news for you. Mr. Ranby has traced the culprits of Thursday night’s incident— three of his students were responsible for making the guy. He intends to bring them over this morning to apologise in person.”
She inclined her head graciously. “There is no need for him to go to such trouble, but if he wishes it… Has their escapade any bearing on Sister Anne’s death, would you say?”
“If,” countered Sloan carefully, “she had happened upon them in the grounds or in the Convent itself it might have—but I think it unlikely.”
“So do I,” said the Mother Superior firmly. “Sister Anne—God rest her soul—would have reported such intruders to me immediately. I do not like to think that the students would have reacted to discovery with murder.”
“No, marm, nor do I.”
They faced each other in the small Parlour. Irrelevantly it spun through Sloan’s mind that he had never seen such fine skin on two women before. The older, more flaccid face of the Mother Superior reminded him of cream, the younger, firmer skin of Sister Lucy of the peaches that go with it. He remembered reading somewhere that good skin—like a good car—only needed washing with water. He must make a note to tell his wife about their complexions.
“Marm, there is a question that I must put to you.”
“Yes, Inspector?”
“Do you have anyone here who would rather not be here?”
“I do not think so.”
“No one who would—er—figuratively speaking, of course—like to leap over the wall?”
“No, Inspector. We are a Community here in the true sense. I do not think any Sister could reach a state of wanting to be released from her vows without the Community becoming aware of it. That is so, Sister Lucy, is it not?”
“Yes, Mother. It is something that cannot be hidden.”
“Likes and dislikes?” put in Sloan quickly.
The Mother Superior smiled faintly. “Neither are permitted here.”
“You realise, marm,” he said more crisply, “that any—shall we say, disaffection—would be pertinent to my enquiry, and that my enquiry must go on until it determines how Sister Anne died.”
She inclined her head. “Certainly, Inspector, but if we had any disaffected Sister here, or even one unable to subdue her own strong likes or dislikes, she would have been sent away. There are fewer locks in a Convent than the popular Press would have one believe.”
Sloan looked up suddenly. “
“Yes, as it happens they have.”
“Who?” He should have been told this before.
She looked at him. “I cannot see that the departure of a Sister from the Convent before the unhappy events of the past week can pertain to your enquiry.”
“I must be the judge of that.”
She gestured acquiescence. “Sister Lucy shall find her secular name for you. It was Sister Bertha.”
“When did she leave?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“I do not know.”
“You don’t know?” echoed Sloan in spite of himself.
“It was not properly our concern to enquire,” said the Mother Superior. “She felt that she could not continue in the religious life and asked to be released from her vows. This was done through the usual channels and she left.”
“Just like that?” asked Sloan stupidly.
“Just like that, Inspector.”
