“Poor things,” said Sloan unsympathetically. “Now, about the case…”
She flung a smile at his assistant. “Constable Crosby has been putting me in the picture, Inspector.”
Sloan grunted. “It’s not a pretty one. Two murders in four days. I don’t know about your end of the county, but out of the ordinary run for us.”
“And us, sir. Just husband and wife stuff as a rule.”
Sloan picked up the sheets of paper the Mother Superior had sent him that morning. “They’ve given us a list of every nun in the place, her—er—given name and her religious one, and what she said she was doing after supper on Wednesday. Now I suppose we shall need to know what they said they were doing this morning.”
“Never mind, sir, it’s nearer than Wednesday. They’re not as likely to have forgotten.”
“There is that,” admitted Sloan. He’d obviously got an optimist on his hands, which made a change from the superintendent.
“How many are there of them, sir?”
“Just over fifty.” That should deaden anyone’s enthusiasm for interviewing. “And all falling over themselves backwards not to be too observant, inquisitive or whatever else you like to call it.”
She nodded.
“And,” he added for good measure, “they don’t seem to think it’s right to have normal human feelings about people. Have you ever tried interviewing people without normal human feelings, Sergeant?”
“Often, Inspector. I get most of the teenage work in Calleford.”
He did not laugh. Nobody in the Calleshire Constabulary ever laughed at the word “teenager.”
He turned to Crosby. “Any luck with that list?”
“Yes, sir. There are four nuns who came into the Order late like Miss Lome said. Sister Margaret, Sister Lucy, Sister Agatha and Sister Philomena. Judging by all the other dates and ages the rest came in straight from school.”
“Poor things,” said Sergeant Perkins impulsively.
“And the other four?”
“Late twenties—one, early thirties—two, early forties—one.”
“Which one was that?”
“Sister Agatha. She came here from”—he flipped the sheets over—“the Burrapurindi Mission Hospital.”
“It’s a republic now,” said Sloan briefly. “And the other late entries?”
“Sister Philomena and Sister Margaret seem to have been school-teachers first.”
“The blackboard jungle.”
“And Sister Lucy”—he turned the pages back— “there’s no occupation down for her—just that she came from West Laming House, West Laming. It’s not the best address though, sir.”
“No?”
“No, sir. One of them comes from a castle. Fancy leaving a castle to go and live in a convent.”
“Probably the only one who didn’t notice the cold. Which one was that?”
“Sister Radigund.”
Sloan nodded. “You might think Sister Agatha was the one to be in charge of the sick if she had been a nurse, but I suppose that would be too simple for them.”
“There’s a Lady, too, sir.”
“They’re all ladies, Crosby, that’s their trouble.”
“No, sir. I mean a real one. It says so here. Lady Millicent.”
“And what’s she now?”
“Mother Mary St. Bridget.”
Sergeant Perkins leaned forward. “Some are Mothers, are they then, Inspector?”
“A courtesy title, Sergeant, I assure you. For long service, I believe.”
Crosby made a noise that could have been a hiccup.
Sloan favoured him with a cold stare. “Was there anything else, Crosby?”
“Just the Mother Superior, sir.”
“What about her?”
“Her name was Smith, sir. Mary Smith of Potter’s Bar.”
The three of them stood on the Convent doorstep and rang the bell. It was quite dark now. They could hear the bell echoing through the house, and then the slow footsteps of Sister Polycarp walking towards them.
Sergeant Perkins shivered. “The only other thing I know about nuns is that they used to be walled up alive if they did anything wrong.”
Sloan was not interested. As a police officer he was concerned with crime, not punishment.
“There was the nun who was murdered in Thirteen Fifty-One,” proffered Crosby unexpectedly. “By a crazy younger son.”
“And which was she?” demanded Sloan.
In the reflected light of the outer hall Crosby could be seen to be going a bit red. He gulped and chanted:
“An extremely rowdy nun
Who resented it.
And people who come to call
Meet her in the hall.
“The Police Concert,” he stammered hastily. “We sang it—four of us—it’s Noel Coward’s.”
Sister Polycarp pulled the bolts of the door back. “Sorry to keep you. I was in the kitchen.”
“That’s all right,” said Sloan. “Constable Crosby here has been entertaining us with a refrain of Mr. Noel Coward’s.”
“Coward?” Polycarp sniffed. “Can’t say I’ve heard the name. Ought I to have done?”
Sloan looked at her respectfully. “Oh, Sister, you don’t know what you gave up when you left the world.”
“Oh, yes, I do, young man. Believe you me I do.”
The former Mary Smith of Potter’s Bar, now Mother Superior of the Convent of St. Anselm, was in the Parlour to greet them.
Sloan introduced Sergeant Perkins. “I’m very sorry about this further intrusion, marm, but my superintendent insists…”
“But our Bishop agrees, Inspector, so pray do not worry on that score. We appreciate your difficulties.”
An hour later he wondered if she did.
It was slow, painstaking work, seeing nun after nun, each with eyes demurely cast down, voices at low, unobtrusive pitch, each having to be asked specifically each question.
“What did you do immediately after supper on Wednesday evening, Sister?”
“The washing up, Inspector.”
“The vegetables for the next day, Inspector.”
“Prepared the Chapel, Inspector.”
“Swept the refectory, Inspector.”
“Some lettering on prayer cards, Inspector.”
“A little crochet, Inspector.”
“There was a letter I was permitted to write, Inspector.”
“Studied a book on the life of our Founder, Inspector.”
And to each one: “When did you last see Sister Anne?”
As one woman they replied: “At supper, Inspector.”
Someone had been in her stall at Vespers, they knew that now, but they had no suggestions to make. None had seen anything untoward then or at any other time. Or if they had they weren’t telling Sloan and that good- looking young woman he had with him.
It was not noticeably different when he asked about that morning.
The same pattern of cleaning, cooking, praying emerged.
“Admin stuff,” he observed to Sergeant Perkins in between nuns.
