the disquieting
Mrs. Bradley, English enough to feel uncomfortable at the thought that Mother Ambrose could be guilty of breach of confidence, did not reply to this. Instead she said:
“Did Miss Bonnet spend time at the Orphanage between two-thirty and the time she went across to the guest-house for her bath, Mother Saint Francis, do you know?”
“I have no idea. It seems possible, as she had been taking the netball game with the orphans.”
“She did not go to the guest-house until half-past three or so, did she?”
“I believe not. It was after four o’clock when I received the news that the child was dead.”
“That allows for the interval during which they were trying artificial respiration, telephoning the doctor, and so on.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Mother Francis agreed. “But to obtain a full report of her movements I am afraid you will have to go to see her at Kelsorrow School or wait until she comes here again on Thursday. She lives in Kelsorrow. I do not know her private address or I would give it you.”
“There is no particular hurry,” said Mrs. Bradley. School finished for all the children at twenty past four. Tea at the guest-house was at half-past four, so Mrs. Bradley missed it in order to question the child who had been injured in the game of netball.
She proved to be a big, strongly-made girl of fourteen. The scars of her injuries were still visible, and she showed them with obvious pride.
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Bradley, examining with very great interest the marks of battle. “You must have had a very bad fall.”
“I did, madam. Didn’t half hurt.”
“Yes, I should say it did. Do all you children come from London?”
“Mostly, except for the Irish. And lots of them are London born. Father Thomas sends us, mostly, and helps to pay for some of us, too and all.”
“He must be a very wealthy man.”
“He’s rich in good works, madam,” the child quaintly responded, “and his place is prepared in heaven.”
As this proposition was unarguable, Mrs. Bradley accepted it with a nod. She had heard much from her son about Father Thomas and his London-Irish flock.
“Now, how long were you out of school on the afternoon that this happened?” she asked, pressing a kneecap delicately with her long, thin, yellow fingers. “That hurt? Yes, and you limp a bit still, don’t you? You ought to rest that leg. I’ll see Mother Saint Ambrose about it.”
“I never went in school that afternoon. I couldn’t walk, and the classrooms are up the stairs,” the girl responded.
“I see. Who was with you all that time?”
“At first, when Miss Bonnet carried me in, Mother Saint Ambrose came. Then Mother Saint Jude, she came. Then they had to go, and Miss Bonnet came, but she didn’t stop very long.”
“How long?”
“Not hardly five minutes. Then she said: ‘Oh, lor! I’d forgotten those private school kids. You’ll be all right here, won’t you?’ So I said I would, and she give me a comic, what I shoved away under the cushion if I heard any steps, because we’re never allowed to have comics because Mother Saint Ambrose says they’re low and wicked, although the lay-sister winks the other eye—”
“So Miss Bonnet left you and went to the private school. Did she come back later on?”
“Just poked her head in at half-past two, and asked me how I was, but my belief she meant to bunk straight off again, only we heard Mother Saint Ambrose coming back, so Miss Bonnet took a seat and never moved off it until Mother Saint Ambrose had gone off to check all the laundry.”
“Does she check the laundry every Monday afternoon?”
“Yes, to see what we’ve tore, and whether we’ve kept ourself clean. She tells by the pillow-cases mostly.”
“I understand. What does she do, then, on Monday mornings?”
“She learns us in school.”
“I see.”
“The private school washing gets done of a Monday, you see, and ourn gets done of a Tuesday.”
“Ah, yes. I understand. Did Miss Bonnet come back any more?”
“Yes, popped her head in about playtime, and asked how I was, and said she was going to ask for a bath and go home. She said she was ever so sorry she knocked me down, and give me a tanner, and then she hopped it. She never came in any more.”
“Thank you very much, my dear. What’s your name?”
“Minnie Botolph.”
“I see.” Mrs. Bradley wrote it down and added a note. “Now mind you rest that leg. There’s slight fluid, and we must disperse it. Have you had the doctor?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
