St. Peter's Finger

ideas. I don’t believe, any more than you do, that he’d like his money to go to the Church as the dowry of a nun. And go and take Mary away, Nessa, if you like. She can come to New York and we’ll let her make her impression on the old chap. He hasn’t seen her since she was quite a baby, and she’s not a bad sort of kid.”

“And, after all, her mother was his only daughter!” said Mrs. Maslin, emphasising the point.

“Yes,” said Mr. Maslin, dealing with this observation as briefly as possible. He had liked his first wife better than he liked his second. “But let me remind you, Nessa, that’s it’s no good to force the old boy. I met him once, and I know what I’m talking about. I don’t say there isn’t a chance, because, after all, Ursula was the kid he was really fond of. Her father, Michael Doyle, was the apple of the old chap’s eye, and he nearly pegged out when Mick was killed. He’s never thought for an instant of the money coming to Ulrica, or, for the matter of that, to Mary. I should say there’s an even chance to upset the will. But if once he gets the impression that you’re trying to get him to alter it in Mary’s favour, you might as well buy your ticket home and catch the next boat to Southampton, for he’s as obstinate as a mule. Look how he stuck to that Ming vase, when the police were after it as stolen property.”

“But he didn’t steal it, Percival. He knew he was perfectly safe. And over in New York, too. After all, it was only in England that all the fuss was made.”

“But the police knew jolly well that whoever had bought the thing had bought it cheap, and knew it to be stolen! He’d have been in an awkward fix if they’d ever traced it to him.”

“Well, they didn’t, and there you are.”

“That’s what I say. You can’t rattle him. If we do go across, and I think it’s a pretty good plan, all things considered, you leave the talking to me. Even if he divided his money between them there’d be a nice lump for Mary. He’s done pretty well, the old coper!”

chapter 4

athlete

“My unwashed Muse pollutes not things divine.”

thomas carew: To my worthy friend, Master George Sandys, on his translation of the Psalms.

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Mrs. bradley slept well, on a bed neither hard nor soft, in a room where the window would not open. The sheets were rough and smelt of lavender, and the floor was linoleum-covered except for a strip of what seemed to be discarded stair-carpet which had been placed by the side of the bedstead.

A little maid woke her in the morning and offered her tea and toast.

“A nice morning,” she remarked, as she set down the tray on a table near the head of the bed. She arranged Mrs. Bradley against pillows and carefully shut the door, which all night long had been left wide open.

“Did you leave the door gaping all night?” she enquired, returning to the bedside. She cut the toast into fingers, and brought the tray to the bed. “Can you balance it? There! That’s clever.”

Mrs. Bradley cackled.

“Air, child,” she said. “The window doesn’t open.”

“And why should it? Night air is no manner of good to anyone. Would you not fear to be murdered in your bed? I could never sleep with the door gaping, come what would! I’d sooner be smothered, I know.”

“Smothered?” said Mrs. Bradley. “Has anybody ever been murdered on these premises?”

“Lord, no, I hope not! Oh, what a dreadful idea!”

“It was yours,” said Mrs. Bradley, sipping tea.

“Oh, no! I’m sure, then, it wasn’t. But you can’t help thinking things, with all you see and hear.”

“You mean the convent?”

“Ah, that I do.” She sat down, folded her hands in a sociable manner and leaned forward, prepared to gossip. “Such goings-on, I can’t tell you. Some poor little maid poisoned in her bath, so they do say.”

“When? Lately?”

“Come a week. Happened last Monday afternoon, the poor little dear.”

“I suppose there had to be an inquest?”

“That’s the scandal of it.”

“What were the findings?”

“Soocide! A little dear of that age! As if she’d think of such a wicked thing! Of course, the coroner couldn’t speak against the convent.”

“Oh? I didn’t understand. But how do they know she was poisoned?”

“It’s common talk in the village. One of the schoolchildren brought it home to her dad, and he’s tooken her away and put her to the High School over to Kelsorrow. And I reckon other parents ’ull do the same. I know I would if I had a little dear there.”

“People nearly always exaggerate when they write or talk about convents. I don’t think we have the right to assume what has not been proved,” said Mrs. Bradley.

“Can’t get over Gunpowder Plot, though, can ’ee?” This reference to a deplorable historic event, the second she had heard since first she had taken up the case, roused Mrs. Bradley to retort,

“But what about 1829?”