that should she chance to check again there was nothing to show that it had been opened and closed again in the meantime.
The Mother Superior greeted those who had come by the front door, keeping Sister Polycarp by her side.
“Father, how kind of you to come back, and Mr. Ranby too.”
“We don’t like to think of you alone here all night with a murderer at large.”
She bowed. “It is indeed difficult to sleep with that thought. We have been more than a little perplexed.” She lowered her voice, “You see we cannot exclude the possibility that the—er—perpetrator of these outrages is within our own house.”
Both men nodded.
“Especially,” went on the Mother Superior, “now that the police have discovered the murder weapon was here all the time.”
“They have?” said Ranby.
“The orb on the top of the newel post. Inspector Sloan has taken it away.”
“Now, about tonight…” said the priest.
“Mr. Cartwright has come up from the village, too,” said the Mother Superior. “He is just looking through the cellars for us now. We felt a little uneasy about the cellars.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Father MacAuley soothingly. “I think it would be as well if Cartwright, Ranby and I worked out some scheme for patrolling the building, cellars and all.”
“We had already decided to do that ourselves,” said the Mother Superior, “but if you would be so kind as to augment our—rather feminine efforts it would be a great kindness.”
“An hour each on,” suggested Ranby, “and two off. That is if Cartwright agrees?”
“Right,” said MacAuley.
“With one Sister…”
“With two Sisters,” said the Mother Superior firmly.
“With two Sisters in the gallery at the top of the stairs.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. That should keep us safe through the night. I will detail the Sisters immediately. They are quite used to night vigils, you know. In Lent we keep them between the Offices of Compline and Lauds.”
Sergeant Gelden rang Sloan at Berebury Police Station at a quarter to ten.
“That you. Inspector? About a Miss Felicity Ferling of West Laming House.”
“I’m listening, Sergeant.”
“It’s like this, sir…”
Sloan listened and he wrote, and he thanked Sergeant Gelden. Then he drove out to Cullingoak. He parked his car at The Bull and walked to the Convent from there, timing the walk. Then he, too, went round to the garden door and tapped very quietly. He was admitted by no less a personage than the Mother Superior herself.
She produced a list for him. “From ten to eleven, Father MacAuley and Sisters Ninian and Fidelia; from eleven to twelve Mr. Cartwright and Sisters Damien and Perpetua, and from twelve to one Mr. Ranby and Sisters Lucy and Gertrude.”
“And so on through the night?”
“Yes, Inspector, unless anything untoward happens. Sister Cellarer has sent a supply of hot coffee and sandwiches to the Parlour for those not actually watching.”
“Any difficulties?”
“None. All three gentlemen were quite agreeable to my suggestions.”
“Let’s hope they’ve swallowed everything. And the rest of the Community?”
“Gone to bed, Inspector, as usual.”
“Good. And the arrangements for changing over the watch so to speak?”
“The retiring Sisters will knock on their successors’ doors ten minutes before the hour.”
“Excellent. Is Sister Lucy in bed?”
“Sister Lucy has perforce been in bed for some time now, Inspector.”
He gave her a quick smile. “We’re nearly there, marm.”
“Pray God that you are,” she said soberly.
Sloan made himself as comfortable as he could in the flower room and settled down to wait. And to wonder.
If he opened the door the minutest fraction he could see the hall and its sentinel. First it was Father MacAuley who paced up and down the hall and then did a methodical round of doors and windows. Sloan had to retreat behind a curtain for that. And then Harold Cartwright, noisier than the priest, conscientiously poking about along the corridor and talking quietly up the stairs to Sister Damien and Sister Perpetua.
He heard them at about quarter past twelve and again at a quarter to one.
“Everything all right up there with you?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Cartwright. It’s all quiet, thank God.” Sister Damien’s thin whisper came floating down the stairs in reply. “We’re just going along to wake the others. We’ll see you at two o’clock again.”
“Right you are.”
Sloan heard him do one last quick round and then nip back towards the Parlour. Then the Parlour door opened and Ranby came out. He came straight to the garden room, and Sloan was hard put to it to get behind his curtain in time. Ranby pulled back the bolts and left the door slightly ajar and then went back to the hall.
Sloan came out from behind his curtain and held the door open. Ranby was standing at the foot of the stairs, calling softly upwards.
“Are you there, Sister Lucy?”
Sister Gertrude came to the balustrade and leaned over. “We’re both here, Mr. Ranby. Is there something wrong?”
“No. I just wanted a word with Sister Lucy about Tewn. It’s something she said earlier this morning. It’s just occurred to me it might be important.”
Sister Gertrude withdrew and Sister Lucy appeared in her stead on the landing and began walking slowly down the polished treads, her head bent well down, her massive bunch of keys swinging from her girdle.
Ranby retreated a little as she descended, backing away from the small well of light in the hall, away from the gaze of Sister Gertrude. He came, as Sloan thought he would, towards the dark corridor where Sister Anne had died, the corridor where Sloan stood waiting and watching.
“Felicity,” Ranby whispered urgently to her, “come this way. I must talk to you.”
The nun turned obediently in his direction and walked exactly where he said.
“This way,” he urged. “So that the others don’t hear us.”
She was almost level with him now, his eyes watching her every movement, not seeing at all the dim shadowy figure that was following her down the stairs, pressed against the furthest wall.
As she drew abreast of him he put up an arm as if to embrace her. It quickly changed to a savage grasp, his other hand coming up in front of her neck searching for soft, vulnerable cartilage and vital windpipe.
The eager questing fingers were destined to be disappointed in their prey.
The nun did a quick shrug and twist and Ranby let out a yelp of pain. The arm fell back, but he came in with the other. That did him no good at all. The nun caught it and flung herself forward against it. Ranby fell heavily, her weight on top of him.
And then Sloan was there and the dark shadow on the wall was translated into Detective-Constable Crosby with handcuffs at the ready. Along the corridor the Parlour door opened and Father MacAuley and Harold Cartwright came hurrying out.
The nun clambered off Ranby, hitching up her habit in an un-nun-like way. “These blasted skirts,” she said, “certainly hamper a girl.” She struggled out of the headdress and shook her hair loose. “But this is worse. Fancy having to live in one of these.”
“That’s not Sister Lucy,” gasped Ranby.
“No,” agreed Sloan. “That’s Police-Sergeant Perkins in Sister Lucy’s habit.”
19
