“I half-expected that my son would come back in the car.”
“He thought he had better be there to keep an eye on the young lady, madam, I fancy. He specifically referred to her as the apple of your eye, and said he must watch his step, as you would expect an account of his stewardship.”
“Quite right. I shall. Go and send off a wire, George, to tell my son that Miss Doyle can go to New York as soon as she likes, and that the next boat sails on Wednesday.”
“Very good, madam.” He hesitated. “I was to be sure and ask after the other young lady, madam, so the young lady we took with us got me to promise.”
“She’s lucky to be alive, from what I can make out. She fell off a roof before you left.”
“We heard nothing of it, madam.”
“No. By the way, I suppose Miss Doyle said nothing about returning here when you found she had been cut on the arm, George?”
“She mentioned it frequently, madam, but Sir Ferdinand said he had his orders, and would proceed, as planned, to Wandles.”
“Interesting. You knew she wanted to say good-bye to her cousin, and couldn’t find her, did you?”
“I was not so informed, madam, no.”
“Curious, George.”
“She’s a curious kind of young lady, if you ask me, madam.”
“Yes, fanatical, very. I don’t somehow think she will make a very good nun. She’d make a fine missionary, though. She’s quite unscrupulous.”
“Is it the young lady’s intention to take the veil, madam?”
“It is her ambition, I understand. You go to Blacklock Tor, George, with the car, and get them to book me a room. I shall want it to-morrow night for certain, and very likely for to-night. So book it for to-night, in any case, and call for me at half-past nine or so. I feel I ought to go to Church this evening, as it’s Sunday, and I’m not sure at what time to go.”
“Very good, madam.”
“Don’t forget the telegram. If you can’t send it from Blacklock Tor—and ten to one you can’t— telephone it from Kelsorrow.”
“Yes, madam, very good. If I may venture to make a suggestion, you’ll keep an eye skinned for trouble, madam, with Mrs. Maslin still about the place?”
“I’ll bear the warning in mind, George, thank you kindly.”
He saluted, climbed into the car and drove away. Mrs. Bradley went back to the infirmary, this time to visit Sister Bridget. After that, she thought, it would be a good time to interview the inhabitants of the two private houses. The clue she had been waiting for— that she had known must manifest itself sooner or later— was now in her possession. There was little else to wait for.
She walked quietly up the Orphanage staircase and entered Sister Bridget’s darkened room. She smiled at the nun on duty, and then bent over the patient. Sister Bridget’s chief need was for rest and quiet. She lay like a corpse in the silent, darkened room, and either a nun or a lay-sister remained with her all the time. Their devoted nursing amazed Mrs. Bradley, used, as she was, to the selflessness of nurses.
She went down the stairs and out to the orchard where the trees were showing buds and the pear and the plum were nearly out. Nobody was about. She walked briskly to the gate and past the front of the guest-house.
The first man, in his shirt-sleeves, a hammer in his right hand, was not helpful and sounded surly. Yes, he had heard about the death of the little girl, and had complained to the police about the damage done by the hooligans who had demonstrated against the convent. Beyond that he knew nothing, cared less, and would not answer any questions.
“It ain’t my business,” he said, “and what ain’t my business, I keep out of.”
Outfaced by this admirable sentiment, Mrs. Bradley took her leave. She had learned from Sister Geneviève, the boarders’ matron, a good soul not at all averse to gossip so long as it was not malicious, that the man had lost his wife and was very unhappy. He shut himself off from everybody, except when he went on wild jaunts (Sister Geneviève’s words) to London, returning in a couple of days or a couple of months, just as the fancy took him. He was a superstitious man, and had told the builder next door to be sure to let the convent have the guest-house (three houses, actually) cheap.
The builder was a different kind of man from his neighbour. He and his wife invited Mrs. Bradley in, and were anxious and willing to discuss the roof-climbing feat of Mary Maslin. He described the episode fully. It appeared to have caused him some amusement. He was vague, however, about the date on which he had seen the other girl on the roof. Mrs. Bradley attempted to get a description of the girl whom old Sister Catherine had referred to, but this, she found, was impossible. The man appeared to have very little visual memory, and, in any case, the girl had been dressed like all the girls. There was nothing distinctive about her. She was a biggish sort of girl, he would say. Mrs. Bradley then asked him what time of day it was when he saw the first girl. He thought it was early afternoon. It was quite light, he remembered, yet he did not think it was in the morning, although it might have been. He remembered thinking it was a funny kind of convent to allow such goings-on, and suggested that if one of the children broke her neck the coroner’s next set of remarks might be a little sharper.
“Did you go to the inquest, then?” asked Mrs. Bradley. Well, yes, he had; living in the neighbourhood, and so forth, he and his wife had been interested, especially as they had seen the girl on the roof.
Oh, he had thought of the child he had seen on the roof that afternoon, then?
Yes, it had crossed his mind.
Had he mentioned having seen the child?
Not until he mentioned it to the other kid who had tumbled off the roof into his front garden, and lucky for her he’d dug down a couple of spits that afternoon!
Did not he think it important?
He did not know whether it was important or not, but it wasn’t on his roof she was climbing, and he wasn’t going to get himself mixed up in anything if he knew it. Everybody knew that the girl had climbed somehow into that bathroom, didn’t they? And if the nuns were not capable of looking after their pupils and seeing that they didn’t turn on gas taps, and drown themselves in the bath, that was their look out, not his. No, he wasn’t a Catholic. Had no time for religion. Frills, he called it; just frills—and got you nowhere. Cissy, he called it. No, it had been no trouble to answer the questions. He had liked the child he had rescued; nice little kid. No nonsense about her, either. Might have been bellowing her head off after a tumble like that, and must have been hurt, but if so, had not shown it. Wouldn’t mind one of his own like her. No girls. A couple of boys; apprenticed, both of them. Not that there was anything doing anywhere, was there, nowadays? That’s what they always said. Things were bad. Trade was bad. Nobody wanted skilled labour. All the professions were full. He believed neither in Fascism nor Communism. Thought they came to the same thing exactly in the end. Took away your liberty, and what did they give you in exchange? Look at Germany and— No, been no trouble. Yes, there would be some good weather now, he thought. Yes, that was the ladder. He kept it in the front garden. Wasn’t afraid of being burgled. Nothing worth nabbing in their house. Yes, quite a light ladder, considering its length.
He’d got plenty more round the back. Discount allowed to the trade, like in everything else.
Mrs. Bradley perceived that there was nothing more to be gained from the friendly man. George came at half-past nine, according to orders, and drove her to Blacklock Tor.
“Did you telephone, George?” she enquired.
“Yes, madam. Pardon me, madam, but don’t you think it rather a risky proceeding to let Miss Doyle go to New York?”
“I do not anticipate that Miss Doyle will murder her grandfather, George.”
“Very good, madam. May I enquire how the injured party is getting on now, madam?”