All were tired but unflagging, and Mrs. Bradley, not for the first time, admired without stint the soldierly courage and cheerfulness of the religious, as, impeded, one would suppose, by their habits, stumbling often in the unevenness of the way, they carried out the thorough, patient search. The thought in her own mind was that all her theories had been false; that the mysteries bore another character from that with which she had been crediting them, and that Mary Maslin was dead, and through her negligence.
She could hear Mother Benedict praying as they went down the dangerous path, not for her own safety— although, in that wild search, and in the darkness, all of them risked their lives—but for the health, life and safety of the child.
The path kept turning on itself in sharp-angled bends. The steps were unevenly cut and were slippery with rain. Twice Mrs. Bradley saved Mother Benedict from falling, and twice Mother Benedict saved her. The sound of the sea grew louder. A table of tides had indicated that they would reach the shore on an outgoing tide, and soon they were walking on shingle and stumbling on great heaps of seaweed, wet, salt and sticky, and of hideous, fishy fleshiness, left high by the out-going sea.
The sea boomed on the rocks which it was gradually uncovering. They could see them as they approached— great black shapes like leviathans sleeping in the waters, up to the buttocks in the brine which leapt at their heads and fell back, foaming and streaming. Even by night the sky was pale above the water, but the towering cliffs shut out the heavens to the south, for the convent faced north to the sea, owing to the shape of the bay on which it was built.
Clanging their bells like lepers warning the unspotted, or like those in charge of the “dead cart” in time of plague, the untidy little procession, weary, wet-footed, wet-skirted, muddy and hoarse—for they called the child’s name in addition to ringing the bells—walked for four miles up the coast, until they were two miles beyond the convent. Here the cliff was lower, and farther on it disappeared in sand-dunes covered with rough, spiked grass. Their shoes were full of sand, and they sat down as soon as they came to firm ground, and shook out the sand before they continued their journey. About a mile farther on, they heard the sound of a bicycle bell. Its continuous ringing attracted their attention. It was to bring them news that the child was found. The young policeman who was riding the bicycle got off and walked back with them to the convent. They were almost too tired to rejoice. Nothing more could be done that night. Those who had been left in charge at the convent had food and hot drinks ready for the searchers, and the Reverend Mother Superior put everyone under obedience to eat and drink.
The child had been put to bed. The police had arrived in time to round up the searchers. The story, said Reverend Mother, must wait for the telling until morning.
Mrs. Bradley, whose constitution was of iron, nevertheless felt glad at the thought of bed. She protested against being escorted by Mother Ambrose and Mother Jude to the guest-house, but, tired as they were, they would not leave her until she reached the front door. In she went, and was asleep as soon as she lay down.
In the morning she heard from Mother Francis the story of the finding of the child. The second search party had set off across the mile and a half of moorland which led to the village. It had been rough, uneasy going in the darkness, and they had no idea whether the child, supposing she had crossed the moor, had travelled east, west or south. Willing to obtain any help which might be forthcoming, the nuns had asked for assistance from the villagers, and a number of men had joined in the search, for the village of Blacklock Tor was not the home of the youths who had attacked the convent after the death of Ursula Doyle. Some had made their way to the big pond known as Larn Bottom, on the south side of the village about two miles away from the inn, in case the child had got drowned.
Whilst the search was thus progressing, the police had arrived at the convent and had asked a good many questions. Old Sister Catherine, however, had been thinking matters over in the ruminating manner of the aged, and, just before they arrived, had asked Reverend Mother’s permission to call upon the people who lived in the two private houses adjoining the convent grounds. So she, accompanied by old Mother Bartholomew, called upon the builder who lived next door to the guest-house (which he himself had put up in the form, at first, of three private houses, making a row of five) and straightway proved herself to be the most sagacious of all the people who desired the child’s safety and well-being. She said to the man:
“Have you seen our little girl who ran away?”
“Sure,” replied the man. “She had a nasty fall, and mother put her to bed and we telephoned the doctor. We dropped you a note in the door, and been expecting somebody over ever since tea. Didn’t know how you was placed, but made sure she’d be missed before this.”
Mrs. Bradley, in the morning, in conversation with Mother Francis, said:
“But what happened to the note that they sent?”
“It was found in the guest-house letter-box by Annie, and as it was not addressed to anyone, but bore the superscription, ‘Urgent,’ she put it on Sister Saint Jude’s desk for her to see directly she came over from the convent kitchen. But the postman, later, called with a pile of accounts, and these were placed on top. Sister Saint Jude’s habit is to deal with all her business correspondence in the morning immediately after church, so, of course, we did not find the man’s note because it was hidden.”
“And where is Mary Maslin now? In bed still, I suppose?”
“In the infirmary, yes. The doctor had said she could be moved if someone was there to carry her. She is not very badly hurt, but is suffering, the doctor thinks, from shock. Apparently she fell off the roof.”
“I wish you would let me have a short talk with Sister Catherine.”
Sister Catherine talked to Mrs. Bradley in the nuns’ parlour, a small, bare chamber more like a dentist’s waiting-room than anything else that Mrs. Bradley could think of, except that there were no magazines, and that a crucifix, very large, and carved with Spanish care for sadistic detail, hung on the high east wall.
“What I said to myself was: ‘They’re all alike,’ ” old Sister Catherine began. “They will do it. What one will do, another will do, just like sheep, as Our Lord knew, too.”
She nodded and mumbled, and looked at Mrs. Bradley with a kind of good-humoured craftiness. “I’ve seen them! I’ve seen them! I know!”
“On the roof?”
“On the roof. And I’ve said to myself: ‘She’ll fall!’ But the tricks these children get up to nowadays remind me of the time when I was a very young girl, and he climbed the balcony railings. Nearly seventy years ago, that was; and he was killed in battle, and so I came to the convent.” She appeared to have fallen into a dream, and after a minute or two Mrs. Bradley roused her again with a gentle question.
“When did you last see somebody on the roof?”
“Not very long ago; no, not very long ago.” She could not wrinkle her brow, for all her earthy old face was a network of wrinkles already, but her rheumy eyes became vacant in concentrated thought. She shook her head slowly, and smiled, a toothless, happy smile of great serenity. “No, I’m a stupid old creature. I can’t remember. I know that when I heard of the other poor little one I said to myself: ‘And lucky not to have broken her neck.’ That’s what I said to myself.”
“That child would have been about the size of this one?”
“No, no, bigger. One of the older girls, surely.”
“Was she dressed for climbing on roofs?”
“She was dressed as they dress for their drill, in a short tunic of grey serge and the scarlet girdle. When I was a girl we should have been whipped for appearing in public like that. But times change, and perhaps it’s all for the best.”