The prospect of mounting the stairs, of going into bedrooms where people might well be stirring in preparation for a full awakening to the day, was beyond her courage. She went back into the drawing-room and stood uncertainly, under the gaze of Samantha’s enlarged photograph over the mantelshelf, trying to think what to do next. The Olives weren’t stupid people. The death of Sister Margaret following so closely on the death of the child must alert them to the possibility of a house to house search. By the time Detective Sergeant Mill got his warrant every video and photo album would be gone from the cellar. Probably burned piece by piece in the furnace that serviced the huge radiators that kept the house so warm. The house was cool now, more bearable. People who lived abroad generally felt the cold when they returned to England. That might be a possibility to mention to the sergeant when she saw him next.
‘Sister Joan, oh, how lovely to see you!’
She swung round, her heart jumping into her mouth and met Samantha’s uplifted gaze. The child had on shortie pyjamas patterned with rosebuds and her feet were bare.
‘Good morning, Samantha.’ What a blessing the automatic courtesies were! ‘I came to see your parents.’
And please God, don’t let the child think to enquire how I got in.
‘They’re asleep,’ Samantha said. ‘I’ve been lying awake, thinking. How old do you have to be before you can become a nun?’
‘At least eighteen, dear. Until then people often aren’t sure what they want to do with their lives.’
‘The Little Flower did.’
‘St Therese of Lisieux was a saint,’ Sister Joan said, wondering how many naive young girls fancied they could emulate a saint whose sentimental prettiness concealed an indomitable will.
‘Maybe I could get to be a saint,’ Samantha said wistfully. ‘It must be very safe in a convent.’
‘Yes, well—’ Sister Joan hesitated, then plunged. ‘You took the things from the convent chapel in order to protect yourself, didn’t you?’
‘I know that it was wrong.’ In the strengthening light the child’s sallow little face had flushed a dull red. ‘I could have asked for them, but if I’d asked then my parents might have got to hear of it. They don’t believe in God or things like that. I know that I should have asked, but you used to keep the convent chapel unlocked all night and I don’t mind long walks. My mother and father — they don’t pay much attention to me. They feed me and clothe me and buy me nice, expensive things, but they don’t often sit down and talk to me. When we were in India they left me with an ayah all the time and she was so stupid you wouldn’t believe. And then we came back to London and they started — well, their business and then they moved here. Daddy said that it would be — more prudent, to lie low for a bit until he could arrange the sale of — but I’m not supposed to talk about that. I’m not supposed even to know about that, but I do know and I get scared, Sister Joan. I get so scared.’
‘Everybody gets scared sometimes.’ Sister Joan moved to the window and drew back the curtain. ‘Is that why you killed Sister Margaret, Samantha?’
‘What?’ The child stared at her. ‘How could I—? Sister‚ that’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘It was a terrible thing to do,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You were afraid that she might remember where she dropped the rosary, weren’t you? So you went back to the chapel very early in the morning. It was locked. You said just now that we “used to leave the door open”. Used to, Samantha. How did you know we’d started locking it? Nobody has ever made any announcement about it.’
‘I guess that someone must have told me,’ Samantha said.
‘I don’t think so.’ Sister Joan kept her eyes steadily on the plain little face. ‘But it will be easy enough to check. We can go up to your room right now and take a look in the suitcase at the back of your wardrobe. I reckon we’ll find the candle there. The one that fell out of the candlestick when you were trying to get away from Sister Margaret.’
‘Well, you’re wrong, Sister. You’re just wrong! That candle was nearly burned down and it didn’t match any of the others,’ Samantha said triumphantly. ‘So I threw it away. I just tossed it into the furnace here. I’d like to toss everything into the furnace — all the rotten pictures and the videos and the — dirty, fucking — oh, I beg your pardon, Sister. That was a very bad word to use.’
‘Was it because of all that that you killed Petroc?’ She marvelled inwardly at the calmly conversational tone of her voice.
‘Petroc was a beautiful boy,’ Samantha said, licking her lips with her pointed little tongue. ‘I knew that sooner or later my parents would see him and invite him to the house and give him the sugared wine with the stuff in it, and then take photographs. In India they used to pick up street children you know. They gave them sweets afterwards and let them go, but people started asking questions. Damned rumour-mongers, Daddy said. So we came back to England but the children were all spoilt anyway. I didn’t want the ones at the school to be spoilt. Not any of them.’
‘You saw Petroc swimming with Hagar.’
‘They looked so — clean,’ Samantha said sadly. ‘I didn’t want them to be spoilt. So I told Petroc that he’d won the prize and he came to the house and I gave him the
