“Peter.”
“Did she touch it that morning?”
“She thinks she did. She won’t swear to it, but she thinks she sometimes touches it.”
“She thinks she sometimes touches it,” .mimicked the superintendent. “What a crowd! And did she sometimes touch it on Thursday morning?”
“She can’t remember for certain. She might have done.”
“When was it cleaned?”
“First thing after breakfast. Before Terce and Sext.”
“What are… ?”
“Their Office, sir.”
“Before they’d realised it was blood on that book?”
“The Gradual? Yes, sir. They didn’t examine the book until afterwards. The staircase, landings and hall are always cleaned immediately after breakfast each day.”
Leeyes drummed his fingers on the desk. “So it could still be anyone, Sloan.”
“Anyone, sir, who knew that part of the newel post came out and would constitute a nice heavy weapon, ideal for murder.”
Hobbett was easy meat really.
“You can’t keep me here, Inspector. I haven’t done nothing wrong and I can prove it. I wasn’t running away neither. I allus come into Berebury Sat’day afternoons.”
“What you did wrong, Hobbett, was agreeing to let those young gentlemen into the Convent. I know an old habit isn’t worth much, but look at the trouble you’ve caused. And now you’re involved in a double murder case whether you like it or not, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t ’ave nothing to do with no murder. I just fergot to lock up Wednesday night, that’s all. Clean went out of my mind.”
“You arranged—for a small consideration,” said Sloan in a steely voice, “to leave the old habit in your wood store in the cellar and to forget to lock up. And three students named Parker, Bullen and Tewn were to creep in and collect it. Tewn did the creeping and Tewn’s dead.”
“It weren’t nothing to do with me,” protested Hobbett. “I only did like you said. Moving an old piece of cloth from one place to another and forgetting to lock up—that’s not a crime, is it? What’s that got to do with murder?”
“Everything,” said Sloan sadly. “It provided the opportunity.”
The telephone was ringing as Sloan got back to his room.
Crosby handed over the receiver. “For you, sir. London.”
“Inspector Sloan? Good. About our friends the Cartwrights and their Consolidated Chemicals…”
“Yes?”
“Something I think will interest you, Inspector.”
“Yes?”
“Harold—the principal subject of our enquiry— highly respected, highly respectable business man. Hard but straight.”
“Well?”
“His father—Joe—not such a good business man but quite a fellow with the chemicals in his day. Past it now, of course.”
“Of course. He must be about eighty-five.”
“That’s just it. He is. And he had a stroke on Tuesday night. He’s still alive but not expected to recover.”
Sloan whistled. “So that’s what upset the applecart!”
“At a guess—yes.”
“Thank you,” said Sloan. “Thank you very much.”
“I’m glad it was useful information,” said the voice plaintively, “because I should have been at Twickenham this afternoon.”
Sloan pushed the telephone away from him.
“So, Crosby, if Sister Anne died before Uncle Joe all was well. If she consented to the firm going public all was not well but better than it might have been. If she neither died nor consented, Cousin Harold inherited his father’s half minus death duties leaving Sister Anne with her half intact and a strong leaning to the Mission field and making restitution.”
“Tricky,” said Crosby.
“Tricky? Cousin Harold must have been in a cold sweat in case his father died before he got to Cullingoak and Sister Anne.”
“Sir, what about that awful old woman we saw in London, Sister Anne’s mother—doesn’t she come into this?”
Sloan shook his head. “No. She’s only got a life interest that reverts to either her daughter, brother-in-law or nephew according to the order in which they survive. We can leave her out of this. Give me that telephone back, will you? I’m going to ask Cousin Harold to go up to the Convent.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight, Crosby. After the good Sisters have had supper and Vespers.”
Crosby started to thumb through the telephone directory.
“Crosby, where’s Sergeant Perkins?”
“In the canteen, sir.”
“Get them to save me something, and then tell her I want to see her. I’m going back to see the superintendent when I’ve spoken to Cousin Harold.”
“It was blood then, Sloan.”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Dabbe’s just sent along his report. Minute traces, dried now and mixed with polish, but indubitably blood.”
“Group?”
“The same as Sister Anne’s, the same as on the Gradual.”
“And as a possible weapon?”
“Ideal.” Sloan tapped the pathologist’s report. “He won’t swear to it being the exact one…”
“Of course not,” said Leeyes sarcastically. “They never will.”
“But it fits in every particular.”
“Good enough for the jury, but not the lawyers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you propose to do now?”
Sloan told him.
18
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Neither the Mother Superior nor Sister Lucy were present at Vespers that Saturday evening. If any member of the Community so far forgot herself as to notice the fact, they took good care not to look a second time at the two empty stalls. The welfare of the Convent of St. Anselm sometimes necessitated their presence in the Parlour with visitors. So it was this evening.
There were three of them, and a grumbling Sister Polycarp had let them in and taken them to the Parlour. The Convent of St. Anselm did not usually have visitors at the late hour of eight-thirty in the evening and she resented the interruption of her routine. She would have resented still further—had she known about it—two other visitors who had come privily to another door a little earlier. They had tapped quietly on the garden room door that Sister Polycarp had so carefully locked and bolted only an hour before that. But it was mysteriously opened for them and they stepped inside, a man and a woman, locking it as carefully behind them as Sister Polycarp had done so
