“I should have thought it would be the other way about,” said Mrs. Bradley. So saying, she shed her benevolent smile, as the moon its light and the rain its mixed blessings, alike on the just and on the unjust, and slowly walked away. She looked back after a moment, for a howl of anguish had arisen. The Grand Duchess had tumbled over, but Mrs. Waterhouse, in a scolding, motherly voice, immediately reduced the howls in volume, and shortly silenced them.
Mrs. Bradley went back to Mother Francis. “In which room does Mrs. Waterhouse teach the little children?” she enquired.
“In the room opposite mine,” said Mother Francis. “I like to have the little ones near me.”
“And were you in your room, do you remember, at the beginning of last Monday week afternoon?”
Mother Francis glanced up at the framed time-table which hung opposite.
“I was, without doubt,” she replied. Mrs. Bradley thanked her, apologised for disturbing her so often, and went outside again. Mrs. Waterhouse was letting the babies collect up the mats and the other apparatus of the lesson. Screams from the Grand Duchess Natalie announced to the world her determination not to give up her mat without a struggle.
Mrs. Bradley grinned, and then sighed. It was impossible to suspect that Mrs. Waterhouse had left her class on that Monday afternoon. The Grand Duchess would certainly have brought Mother Francis into the room if Mrs. Waterhouse had been away long enough to get to the guest-house bathroom, unless— Mrs. Bradley stopped short in her walking and looked back. Holding her teacher’s hand in a pudgy fist, and looking proud, animated and happy, the Grand Duchess was leading the line across the netball court back into school.
“If she’d taken her with her,” Mrs. Bradley decided, walking on again, “that would have been a solution.”
She amused herself by walking over to look at the pigs who were housed along by the north-east angle of the grounds. There were other pigs opposite the little square laundry building, but these were managed, Mrs. Bradley understood, by the gardener. The pigs she was aiming for were the charge of the lay-sisters, who were proud of them. She halted at the sties and then looked over, but, lacking her nephew’s guidance, she failed to appreciate to the full the special points of their occupants, and turned away after a minute or two to stroll past the school and the children’s own small gardens, across the orchard where the pear-trees were already promising blossom, and through the low archway in the hedge towards the gatehouse. There was still Miss Bonnet to be interviewed, but that could be done after lunch.
chapter 12
guests
“
christopher harvey: The Enlarging of the Heart.
« ^ »
Sister magdalene, smiling, as usual, opened the gate for her, and stood beside it, waiting to shut it again.
Mrs. Bradley stopped in the entrance and said:
“Who else has a key to the gate?”
“A key hangs in the Common Room, Reverend Mother Superior has another, and a third is in the possession of Sister Saint Ambrose for letting the orphan children in and out to the guest-house after sunset.”
So that was that, Mrs. Bradley thought. She thanked the lay-sister, passed through the gate and walked into the guest-house just as the gong was being sounded for the midday meal.
The dining-room was twice as long as its width, and a table ran almost the whole length of it with a place set at the head and another at the foot. These places, she found, were allotted to herself and to the Dominican, a merry-looking man of forty or so, with a jowl which no amount of shaving could make any colour but blue, black eyes as sharp and bold as sloes, and a very beautiful voice. He was, Mrs. Bradley learned, convalescent after long illness, and was hoping to return to his monastery in the near future. He had read all her works, and discussed them with her during most of the meal. He was a learned, entertaining companion, and the fact that the length of the table lay between them did nothing to abate his enthusiasm. Mrs. Bradley attempted, now and again, to talk to her neighbours, but the Spanish lady, another refugee, Senorita Mercedes Rio, and one of the two young French girls, who were going to Rome later on for their novitiate in the mother house of the Order, had scarcely a word to say.
“My father, my brothers, my lover, all are killed,” the Spaniard said, and lapsed into a silence which Mrs. Bradley hesitated to disturb. When the meal was over and Dom Pius had, for the second time, said grace, Mrs. Bradley met him, of set purpose, in the doorway, and laid a claw on his sleeve.
“You have something you wish to ask me?” enquired the monk, inoffensively but definitely drawing away from her touch.
“I want to talk to you about something of considerable importance. Will you walk with me in the garden?”
They passed through the convent gate again, the Dominican, who was in orders, automatically blessing Sister Magdalene as he passed, and began to stroll together towards the orchard.
“Last Monday week, father,” said Mrs. Bradley slowly, “the day on which the guests took the little orphan children to the pictures…”
“I remember. I did not go. Oh—we are allowed to go—that is to say, there is nothing forbidden about it—the theatre, yes, the cinema, no, not at present —but actually I did not accompany the others.”
“That is exceedingly interesting. Did anyone else not go?”
