“She must have been,” said Peel. He dared not meet Lady Ridding’s eye, for the most heterodox thoughts were going through his worldly mind. A hundred and twenty pounds a year…and any good cook could get three pounds a week…had somebody been making a bit out of the Gramarye funds? Her ladyship was said to be as hard as nails over a business deal.
“You will realise that charities dependent on invested funds are finding it increasingly difficult to carry on,” continued Lady Ridding, exactly as though she could read Peel’s thoughts, and he felt his face getting even hotter. “And now, Sergeant, are there any further questions which must be dealt with at this very moment? I do not wish to impede your enquiries, but I have much to arrange.”
“Quite so, madam. Could you tell me if Sister Monica had any old friends, outside this village?”
“I cannot give you a precise answer either way,” she replied, “but think for yourself. If you had made your home in one place for thirty years, identifying yourself with the life of that place, giving all your affection and loyalty and devotion to the work you had made your life, is it not probable that other interests and friendships would have slipped into the background? I think this was so in the case of Sister Monica. To the best of my knowledge and belief she neither wrote letters nor received them, apart from those concerning her work at Gramarye. That was what I meant when I said it was her life.”
A few minutes later sergeant and constable were walking away from the house, across the garden of the manor house.
“What’s your opinion of all that, Briggs?” asked Peel. He knew Briggs well, and trusted him.
“Well, since you’re asking me, Sergeant, I reckon she laid it on a bit too thick,” said the constable. “I’ll make allowances: deceased was a rum ’un, we all know that, but I can’t swallow all this selfless stuff, if you see what I mean. Too much of it, if you ask me. Makes you wonder.”
“Too much of all of it,” thought Peel. “Too much dizziness. Too much devotion. Ten pounds a month…paid in cash. Doesn’t sound natural, somehow. None of it.”
3
“If you won’t take it amiss, doctor, I’m coming to you for a bit of straight plain commonsense,” said Sergeant Peel, and Raymond Ferens grinned sympathetically.
“Have a glass of beer first, and then tell me your troubles,” said Ferens.
“Well, thank you kindly, sir. I reckon I could do with it,” said Peel. “All this high-falutin’s got my goat. There’s not a soul in the place can even mention deceased in an ordinary voice. They clasp their hands and lower their eyes and tell you she was a saint.—Thank you, sir,” he added, taking a deep draught of well cooled ale. “What do you make of all this saint stuff, sir?”
“It’s no use asking me, Sergeant. I’m sorry, but it’s not my province. As you know, the children’s home was not in my care. Dr. Brown retained his position as M.O. there. My own contacts with Sister Monica were of the brief and casual variety—time of day, the weather, and such like. And I’m not going to repeat gossip.”
“Very good, doctor. Are you willing to answer this question: so far as your observation of her goes, was she a normal, healthy creature?”
“I’ve no ground for opinions about her health. From the look of her, I should have judged her to be physically strong; she looked tough to me, but my opinion is of no more value than your own. As for normal in the usual sense of the word, no, I don’t think she was. Her appearance was eccentric and her manner studied. She was a bit odd. But women who stick to the same limited environment for thirty years, and are in absolute authority in a small establishment, do tend to get odd.” He broke off, and then added: “I take it you’ve seen Dr. Brown?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no disrespect to Dr. Brown when I say this. He’d known her for so long that he couldn’t see her as she really was. You understand what I mean when I say a person can become a legend. They all say, ‘She was a wonderful woman.’ Dr. Brown said it, too. I came to you because you’re a newcomer, sir. You saw this place with a fresh eye, and if I’m anywhere near the mark, you’re not one who’d be hoodwinked by a legend.”
Sergeant Peel was trying hard to express what was in his mind without giving offence, and he mopped his face as he spoke, while Ferens chuckled.
“Very astute of you, Sergeant. You’re quite right. I’m not impressed by legends. Say if you tell me what you’re really trying to get at. I’m quite trustworthy. I won’t repeat anything you say, but I’ll tell you if I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Thank you, sir. You couldn’t put it fairer than that. You ask me what I’m getting at. It’s something like this. I’ve got a feeling they’re all putting on an act, and it’s the same act. Sister Monica was a saint. Well, sir, was she?”
“I suppose it depends on what you call a saint,” replied Ferens. “I’ve never met one. I shouldn’t know.”
“This village has always kept itself to itself,” went on Peel. “We never heard anything much about it at Milham Prior, but since the older children have been sent down to our schools, it’s been a bit different. Children chatter to each other, and a bit of what they chatter about gets through to the parents. The children don’t think
