“She told you about the mouse, I suppose,” Mother Ambrose surprisingly remarked.
“You knew about the mouse, then?”
“Certainly I did. Sister Bridget talked of nothing else for two days.”
“Was the mouse—who discovered the mouse in the bathroom?”
“You were going to suggest that the mouse was rendered unconscious by breathing carbon monoxide gas,” said Mother Ambrose. “How can I tell? It seems likely. As to who discovered it—Sister Bridget discovered it herself. It was fond of the bathroom. Sister Saint Jude spoke to Sister Bridget, because it would nibble soap, a habit which disgusted the guests and was expensive for the convent.”
She folded her hands—a tall, Amazonian woman, military, faithful, and, to Mrs. Bradley, enigmatic—and waited, with the unique patience of her sisterhood. Mrs. Bradley chuckled, and then looked guiltily towards the bed. But Sister Bridget’s rest remained undisturbed.
“And at what time in the day—I am assuming that it was on the day of the child’s death—did Sister Bridget find the mouse?”
“The mouse was not found on the day of the child’s death, but on the previous Thursday, after Compline.”
“If the mouse had been found on the Monday, I suppose you would have mentioned it to me?”
“I think I might have done so. I cannot tell. It proves, of course, that the Gas Company were wrong, and that there must be an escape of gas in at least one of the bathrooms.”
“I don’t think it proves that unquestionably, but we shall see. Did people continue to use the bathroom after the mouse had been found there?”
“When we had heard Sister Bridget’s story, we made every effort to discover whether there was an escape of gas in the room, but we could not find one. We tried every joint in the pipes, for instance, with a lighted taper, and Annie and Kitty sniffed their hardest to detect the smell. There was nothing. Kitty, who is inclined to be nervous, declared several times that she could smell gas, but neither Annie nor I, when we tried, could agree with her. We thought it safe, therefore, to allow the guests to use the bathroom, but we put up a warning placard, advising them to keep the window open at the top.”
“I am surprised that you did not mention all this to me,” said Mrs. Bradley. The nun bowed her head politely at the tone of rebuke, but said nothing in explanation of her omission. “Do your guests attend all the religious services?” Mrs. Bradley went on, after a very slight pause.
“Neither the guests nor the children,” Mother Ambrose replied, in tones of imperturbable courtesy. “They may do so if they wish, of course, but we do not suggest nor particularly desire it. Of our spiritual exercises, only Compline is sung. Everybody here attends Mass. Mass is served by Father Clare, except during the visits of ordained priests of our own order. Father Clare, of course, is of the Order of the Society of Jesus.”
Apparently deciding once again that she had sufficiently answered the question, Mother Ambrose retired into immobility again. Mrs. Bradley sighed inaudibly, and then remarked that she supposed that Mother Ambrose would be glad to go to bed.
“What would
“By no means. Let me sleep in the Orphanage. I shall enjoy it,” Mrs. Bradley replied. So they went down the stairs and out at the front door together.
The night was very dark and still. There was no sound to be heard except the distant wash of the sea at the foot of the cliffs, and the fall of their own footsteps as they walked to the gatehouse and pushed the iron gate open.
“Compline is an evening service, I believe?” Mrs. Bradley observed.
“We sing it at five o’clock,” the nun replied, “and, except at Pascal time, the Angelus bell is rung at six.”
“At what time did Miss Bonnet leave the school on that Thursday?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.
“She is free to leave at four-twenty,” Mother Ambrose replied; but beyond this bare and uninformative statement she volunteered no further answer to the question, and Mrs. Bradley did not press the point. She waited whilst the nun both closed and locked the gates. She could not see the key, because the night was so dark, but she was interested to notice that Mother Ambrose seemed to have no difficulty in finding the lock.
“I wonder what brought Sister Bridget to this pass,” she said, as Mother Ambrose fumblingly put back the key on a chain at her waist. “I suppose that she must have been of normal mentality when she was accepted as a lay- sister?”
“Certainly. She suffered a considerable shock once when the part of the building in which she was working with two others caught fire, and the other two were suffocated. Sister Bridget was badly burned in trying to save them, and was very ill for months afterwards. When she recovered she seemed normal, but gradually lapsed until she was as you see her now. The curious feature is that she loves to play with matches.”
Mrs. Bradley nodded. Shock had strange effects, and in the case of Sister Bridget must have upset the work of the thyroid gland. She had not had a similar case, and was interested.
“I would like to undertake her case,” she said. “I am pretty sure she could be cured. How old is she?”
“Sixty-seven.” The nun hesitated and then added: “She has been like this, afflicted, for twenty years.”
They talked no more, for the Orphanage was in darkness and its occupants presumably asleep. Mrs. Bradley was shown into Sister Bridget’s room to find that the bed had been occupied and that the lay-sister, moreover, must have gone to bed in her muddy outdoor shoes.
“Oh, dear!” Mother Ambrose exclaimed, and, despite Mrs. Bradley’s protests, she insisted upon entirely remaking the bed. Then, giving the counterpane a last twitch and the eiderdown a friendly and comradely pat, she bade Mrs. Bradley good-night, commended her to God, and disappeared with the same complete and ghostly celerity as that with which it appeared she had arrived at the guest-house bedroom.
Mrs. Bradley went to bed and was glad to get there. The day had been extraordinarily fatiguing. Bessie came in in the morning with tea and toast.
