tunic.”
“Interesting,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“Of course, if the unfortunate child was breaking the rules by being in a guest-house bathroom, I suppose she would naturally tear off her clothes in a hurry,” Mother Ambrose observed.
“I wonder whether it would be possible for me to examine the clothing at some time? I must see Sister Genevieve about it. And now, Mother Saint Jude, I must ask you to let me have, at your convenience, a list of all the guests who were here when the death occurred. I should like to be able to find out exactly where they were, and what they were doing during that afternoon.”
“I will write you a list and I can tell you what they were doing,” said Mother Jude promptly. “They took the youngest orphans to the cinema, and they and the children had lunch very early. The cinema at Hiversand Bay charges at a cheaper rate until three o’clock in the afternoon, and the guests, including the priest from Bermondsey, Father Thomas, had arranged to leave the convent at half-past twelve so as to arrive for the commencement of the performance, which was at half-past one. One of the contractors at Hiversand Bay had lent a lorry, in which the party travelled, and Sister Saint Ambrose and I, and the older orphans, saw them upon their way before we had our own meal.”
“And every guest went with the children?”
“Every one. I will write you the list. ”
“It was the day before Shrove Tuesday, was it not?” said Mrs. Bradley. “I see. So that means that none of the guests would have been using the bathrooms, and nobody will be able to give any information about the movements and operations of the child.”
“That is so. It was because I knew that the bathrooms would not be required that afternoon that I was able to tell Miss Bonnet that she might use one, after the game.”
“That brings me to my next question. It was unusual, I take it, for the guest-house to be completely denuded of guests?”
“It was most unusual,” said Mother Ambrose vigorously, and almost as though Mother Jude was in some way to blame. “I do not declare that it has never happened before, but I do not recollect its having happened.”
“Nor I,” said Mother Jude, with matter-of-fact placidity.
“Now, then: to how many people, besides the guests themselves, was it known that the guest-house would be empty that afternoon? And for how many days beforehand had it been known?”
“The younger orphans, those who were given the treat, had the news on the previous Thursday, at the end of morning school. The guests had made all the plans, and then had sent the invitation half-way through Thursday morning. I do not know which other people had information that the guest-house would be empty, although I see the purport of your question. You want to know, I think, whether the children of the private school could have known?”
“Yes, but I see that you cannot tell me. Perhaps Mother Saint Francis would know that. It is indeed kind of you to have been so patient in answering my questions. I think I had better see Mother Saint Francis next.”
“There is one more thing,” said Mother Ambrose, determined, it seemed, to find Mother Jude somewhere in fault. “Did lay-sister Bridget go to the cinema that day?”
“No, she did not.” Mother Jude turned to Mrs. Bradley, who was writing hasty hieroglyphics in a notebook. “This Sister Bridget is a poor, afflicted woman who is staying in our guest-house. She was not told about the outing because, for one thing, she does not go to the cinema, and, for another, because she is tiresome, poor thing. We take her out ourselves, but we do not let strangers go with her. It is embarrassing for them. You will understand when you see her.”
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Bradley, “whether we might go downstairs to the parlour?” When they were seated— the nuns bolt upright on the straightest-backed chairs they could find—she added, “That is extremely interesting. Did Sister Bridget remain in the guesthouse, then, whilst the others were out with the children?”
“Not all the time. It would have been dull for her. She loves company. She went into the Orphanage,” Mother Jude explained. “And washed currants,” said Mother Ambrose, taking up the tale. “She is quite good, and does not eat the fruit.”
“She says,” observed Mother Jude, “that all dried fruit belongs to the good Saint Paul. She has heard, at some time, I think, that currants take their name from the city of Corinth.”
“She came over at twenty-past twelve—”
“I did not want her to see the others go—”
“And she had her dinner with the older children, and then washed currants until a little before two o’clock.”
“From two until half-past two she was with us at Vespers, and when we resumed our duties after Vespers she had her afternoon sleep in her bedroom here.”
The nuns, concluding this triumphant duologue, closed their mouths and modestly dropped their eyes.
“In her bedroom here in the guest-house?” asked Mrs. Bradley.
“Yes,” said Mother Jude, for the guest-house was her province.
“Did the noise made by Miss Bonnet, when she discovered the child’s body, disturb Sister Bridget, do you know?”
“I do not know. Her room is on the same floor, but I saw nothing of her. I did not think of her. There was so much to be done, and the whole affair was so dreadful that my mind was filled completely.”
“And you, Mother Saint Ambrose?”
“I saw nothing of Sister Bridget. I did think of her, though. I hoped that she would not come out upon us because we were so much occupied.”
“Can you tell me anything more about her? I labour the point because it seems as though she must have been
