Murder in the Mill-Race

and had agreed obsequiously with all Anne’s cheerful commonplaces. Later they had seen the children at tea; twelve infants between the ages of three and five sat in dreadful decorum at a long low table, presided over by an elderly woman in nurse’s uniform. When Sister Monica entered, all the children stood up in silence, and Anne had a sense of horror. How did you make infants of that age stand in silence? Sister Monica murmured their names; then a small girl recited a verse of poetry—“I once had a beautiful doll, dears . . .” and finally they sang a verse of a hymn, which made Anne want to scream, so automatic were the thin shrill tuneless little voices. Then Anne had been conducted round the house and shown the white dormitories and whiter bathrooms, the playroom, the kitchens, the chapel room. It was all very well equipped, faultlessly tidy, and clean to the point of the aseptic. The staff consisted of “Nurse,” who had presided at the children’s tea, a dour-faced cook, and three uniformed maids aged about sixteen, who looked at Anne with owlish suspicious eyes.

“Don’t the children ever make a noise?” she asked, and Sister Monica replied:

“Indeed, yes. It’s right that little children should be noisy, but we teach them to be quiet at meals. It’s so much better for their health. It’s wonderful to see how the little newcomers get into our ways. Never any trouble after the first day or two. I have a great belief in the healing influences of quiet and cleanliness and orderliness. Ours is such a simple, gentle routine, and they respond to it wonderfully.”

Walking down the steep path which led to the mill, Anne thought, “That’s the most dreadful place I ever was in. They’re not children at all, they’re little automatons. It’s enough to make potential criminals of all of them . . . and that awful hymn.” When she reached river level, she went and stood on the little wooden bridge which crossed the millstream and watched the play of light and shadow in the deep clear water as it swirled by to rejoin the main stream. She was aware of a deep perturbation in her mind, as though she had been having a strenuous argument in which she had been worsted. She loathed Sister Monica, but she was aware of the woman’s strength of character; somehow, all through that inane conversation over the tea table, there had emerged that feeling of struggling with something like an eel, something which eluded your grasp and defeated you because you couldn’t come to grips with it. A footstep on the far side of the bridge made her look up quickly, and she saw John Sanderson, the bailiff: Anne and her husband both liked Sanderson, and Raymond had taken to asking him to their house for a drink occasionally.

“Why, Mrs. Ferens, you’re looking worried,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to stand on this bridge and meditate. It’s rather a melancholy spot.”

“Why?” she asked. “I was thinking how fascinating the water is, so clear and deep and swirling. I came here to cheer myself up. I’ve just been to tea at Gramarye.”

“Oh dear,” he said, and Anne caught his quick glance round.

“Are you afraid somebody’s listening in?” she said. “Walk up through the park with me and come in for a drink. I feel I need one.”

“Thanks very much,” he replied, and they left the bridge and turned uphill.

“I think that children’s home is simply ghastly,” she said. “It gave me the horrors: such little children—and they’re all frightened. Have you ever been there?”

“Yes, quite often,” he replied. “It’s my business to survey the fabric and order decorations and repairs. I hate the place. To me it has the authentic flavour of a Victorian orphanage, in which fear was the dominant factor.”

“But can’t the committee members see what we see?” asked Anne.

“No. For one thing, they don’t want to; for another, they’re all old: Lady R., Colonel and Mrs. Staveley, Dr. Brown, the vicar and Mrs. Kingsley, and old Mr. and Mrs. Burlap from Coombe. The fact is that all these worthies are overjoyed to perceive what they call discipline in the home: they don’t like modern ideas or modern children and they do like charity children to seem like charity children.”

“I’m certain there’s something fundamentally wrong there,” said Anne. “Even the little maids looked as though they were bullied.”

“They probably are—for their souls’ good. That’s what they’re there for. They are girls who have gone wrong in one way or another, and Sister Monica is responsible for their moral welfare. Shall we change the subject until we get inside the house? Some of the estate men use this path, and if walls have ears, the same is true of trees and thickets.”

“As you will. I’ll pick that one up again later,” said Anne. “Meantime, what books have you been reading lately?”

“Travel books. I always do. Someday I’m going to exciting places, by sea for preference. A nice leisurely tramp steamer which expects to be at sea for a couple of years and stops at every port from Gib. to Sydney.”

3

“Your very good health, sir,” said Anne, raising her glass to Sanderson with an air half gallant, half mirthful, and wholly charming. “And now will you tell me why you’re frightened of Sister Monica?”

“I’m not frightened of her,” he replied. “I’m aware that she’s dangerous, in the same way that a virus or blood poisoning can be dangerous. I take steps to avoid trouble from them. You see, I like my job here. There aren’t many good jobs going in estate management, and this is an interesting job. Sister Monica nearly got me sacked some months after I came here. If I gave her the opportunity, she’d try it again.”

“How?”

“By telling lies about me with a grain of truth in them. She is one of those people who cannot only lie plausibly and with conviction,