St. Peter's Finger

“Why do you want it investigated?”

“Well, surely, my own niece—and such a terrible verdict!”

“You mean you think the child’s death was accidental?”

“I do not believe it was suicide.”

“No,” said Mrs. Bradley, “neither do I.”

“M-murder?” said Mrs. Maslin, a gleam—was it of hope?—in her calculating grey eyes.

“There is no evidence that one could give to the police.”

“Oh, isn’t there?” said Mrs. Maslin, becoming volcanic. “You tell me what you’ve found out, and I’ll soon get something for the police, with that and what I know!”

“I have discovered,” said Mrs. Bradley, “that with Ursula Doyle and her cousin Ulrica dead, your stepdaughter Mary would inherit the grandfather’s fortune.”

“Yes, but that’s no good,” said Mrs. Maslin vigorously, refusing to admit the implication. “It’s Ulrica we must look at. Have you examined her movements? She’s a most peculiar child. Her father was a most dreadful man—an atheist—believed in nothing.”

“And Ulrica proposes to enter a convent.”

“Yes, don’t you see?— It’s abnormal.”

“What is? To enter a convent?”

“Well, in my opinion, it is. But that’s neither here nor there, and I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Mrs. Bradley, taking up her knitting again and doing some rapid decreasing which she felt she would regret later on. “You want me to trump up a case against your niece Ulrica to show that she murdered her cousin. As the law stands, no murderer may stand to gain by the results of his murder—in this case the family fortune—so the money, you hope, would automatically come to Mary.”

“I don’t think you’re being serious! You are not being serious!” said Mrs. Maslin, flushing in sudden fury. “It’s intolerable! It’s just making fun! No one would think that a dreadful tragedy had occurred— or that you were being paid to investigate it,” she added spitefully.

“On the second count he would be quite right,” said Mrs. Bradley, unperturbed, and counting stitches again. Mrs. Maslin bristled. Had she had hackles on her neck they would certainly have stood upright. Mrs. Bradley let her simmer, and then said:

“So you refuse to account for your movements on the afternoon of the crime?”

“Of course I don’t! It’s ridiculous! I walked back here to have a look at the school?”

“You walked? How long did it take you?”

“I don’t know, but all this is silly.”

“Did you speak to anybody here when you arrived?”

“No. I walked round the grounds.”

“Who opened the gate?”

“It was open.”

Mrs. Bradley reflected sadly that this was true. The gate was always left open during the day.

“Didn’t anybody see you?” she said. Mrs. Maslin suddenly looked frightened.

“It can’t possibly make any difference whether anybody did or not!” she blustered feebly, her foxy little face quite sharp with anxiety and fear. Mrs. Bradley wagged her head.

“A difficult position, most,” she observed without compunction.

chapter 14

hobbies

“The ever-flourishing and fruitful soil

Unpurchased food produced: all creatures were

His subjects, serving more for love than fear.”

george sandys: Deo Opt. Max.

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Mother patrick was grafting fruit-trees. It was the Saturday half-holiday for the private-school children, and the day, although dull, was calm and not cold. She descended the ladder when she saw Mrs. Bradley, and waved her grafting knife.

“Go and find me two sensible children, dear,” she said. Feeling rather like a sensible child herself, Mrs. Bradley grinned amiably and walked towards the school. But no children, sensible or otherwise (and, in any case, how she was to pick out the one kind from the other, since she could neither see with Mother Patrick’s eyes nor think with her mind, she did not know), were anywhere to be seen. At last, in a corner of the vestibule, she found a child, who, challenged, said that her name was Mary Maslin. Mary Maslin was crying.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Bradley formally, “but I have been asked by Mother Patrick to find her two