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“Was the pantry door locked?” asked George.

“Lor’, no. Why should it be?”

“I wondered. People sometimes lock the downstair rooms at night, just in case.”

“In case of burglars, do you mean?”

George agreed that he did, but added carelessly: “Nothing to burgle here particular, I take it.”

“Nothing to signify. All the big takings goes to the bank each day. Of course, there’s the evening custom, but master sleeps on it all, as everyone round about know.”

George went along after breakfast to have a look at the window. There was nothing to show it had been forced, and yet to suppose that the murderer—he assumed that the unknown prowler had been after Mrs. Bradley—had had the luck to find a downstair window open on the only night that it was necessary to get into the inn, seemed far too great a coincidence to be likely. He went outside and carefully examined the ground, but it was crazy paving, and told him nothing. It had retained no marks, and there was no scrape of shoes on stonework, wood or paint round the window or in the pantry.

He went to the landlord.

“Have any unusual customers yesterday, barring us?”

The landlord thought for a minute, then shook his head.

“Not as I recollect. Why, what’s the trouble?”

“The pantry window was left open.”

“That? Oh, that’s my darter, I reckon. Does her Keep Fit in there each night, her do, and deep breathing opposite the window. Told her once to shut it after her and mind we didn’t get cats, I’ve told her a dozen times.”

“Does her exercises in the pantry, does she?”

“Ah, her do, on account of the window opening on to the garden. Mother won’t have her gallivanting overhead, on account of the plaster from the ceilings; there isn’t no room in the kitchen, and the other rooms downstairs is all public rooms, do you see.”

George said that he did see, and went to Mrs. Bradley with the news.

“So it isn’t a mystery, madam, and may have been the ordinary sort of burglar.”

“Most likely,” Mrs. Bradley agreed.

“Odd, though, madam, to pick the very night. And, after all, a good many people at the convent knew you were staying here, didn’t they?”

“Quite true, George; so they did.”

“Do you suppose it might be useful to prosecute an enquiry at the convent, madam?”

“No, George, I don’t think so. The children don’t seem to give one another away, and I can’t believe, somehow, that the nuns have designs upon my life.”

“Religion goes very odd at times, madam.”

“Don’t I know it, George! By the way, I had an interesting thought last night. There’s one nun that I don’t know at all. I’ve seen her but never spoken to her—the history teacher, Mother Lazarus.”

“Would that be the lady like a wax candle, madam?”

“An apt description. How do you know her, George?”

“Well, madam, it was taking a good bit of liberty on my part, and I meant to let you know, but it slipped my mind.”

“George, this is most intriguing! Don’t tell me you’ve been taking the nuns for joy-rides in my car!”

“Well, it almost amounted to that, madam, really, I must confess. They wanted to catch up an expedition to a castle, madam, several miles away, and a museum. This Mother Saint Lazarus was supposed to be in charge of the party—a historical outing, madam, for some of the children—and one of the young ladies was always sick when she travelled by train. Well, it seems she’s the star history pupil, and had to see this castle and museum if it killed her. So they wondered if they could hire a car off the landlord. Well, he couldn’t oblige, his two being in commission moving young pigs, so, before I thought, I had offered, and off we went.”

“So Mother Lazarus came here! And who was the child?”

“Well, madam, as it happens, it was the very same young lady I drove to Wandles with Sir Ferdinand.”

“Ulrica Doyle? That’s interesting. And which day, George, was this?”

“It would have been last Thursday morning, madam.”

“But the fourth form don’t have history on a Thursday.”

“I couldn’t speak as to that, madam, but Thursday is the cheap day’s outing from the halt here.”

“Oh, that explains it, then. Naturally they would want to do the outing at the cheapest possible rate. What was Mother Lazarus going to do if she could not hire a car?”

“I could not say, I’m sure, madam. She seemed greatly relieved at my offer, and said that the rest of the party had gone on with Mother Saint Gregory and Mother Saint Francis, madam.”

“Oh, Mother Saint Francis was there! That explains, then, why Mother Saint Lazarus could leave her major charge to accompany a solitary girl. I suppose there was another nun with her?”

“Yes; an elderly lady by the name of Mother Saint Bartholomew, whom I recollect having seen in Restoration Comedy, madam, before she took the veil.”

“Good heavens, George! I shouldn’t have thought you were old enough to have been taking an interest in Restoration Comedy when Mother Bartholomew was still on the stage. At any rate, thank you very much for your information. Again you have assisted materially in the enquiry.”

“May I be privileged to know in what way, madam?”

“I expected another attempt on my life on Thursday, George, that’s all. By driving those three, the two nuns and the girl, to their castle and museum, you’ve probably—I should say certainly—saved me from attack. Somebody saw the car go out, I expect, and probably thought I was in it.”

chapter 21

girls

“What brighter throne can brightness find

To reign on than an infant’s mind,

Ere sin destroy, or error dim

The glory of the Seraphim?”

john wilson: To a Sleeping Child.

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But the last thing we want,” said Mother Saint Francis, “is a lot of gossip going on among the girls.”

Mrs. Bradley agreed, but added that she supposed there was bound to be a certain amount of gossip, and that she thought her plan would lead to less of it, possibly, than might more secret measures. So the school, first thing on Monday morning, was surprised to have a little old woman with snapping black eyes and a terrifying, beautiful voice, step on to the platform beside Mother Francis, immediately prayers were over, and demand the writer of anonymous letters.

“Come here to me at once,” she said. There was a movement of the ranks, and out stepped Nancy Ryan.

“Come along,” said Mrs. Bradley, motioning her on to the platform. The child was so terrified that she added: “You have nobody but me to account to for your actions. I am Mother Saint Francis’ delegate.”

This did little to reassure Nancy, who stood, white-faced, and saw her surroundings through a mist, whilst her heart thumped horribly and she felt sure that if she were asked to say a single word she would be sick.

“How many letters did you write?” enquired Mrs. Bradley. There was no reply whilst Nancy struggled for control of her lips, which were dry with fright.

“One,” she replied at last.

“To whom did you send it?”

“To Mary Maslin. If you please, it was only in fun.”

“I believe that,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But it might have led to serious trouble, you know. As it is, it has been of considerable assistance to me, and so this is the last you will hear of it. Go away, child, and don’t write any more of the nasty, silly things. Get along with you.”

Nancy retired, and Mrs. Bradley addressed the assembled school.

“I want next all the girls who knew that Ursula Doyle was not in class on that Monday afternoon.”

There was barely a second’s hesitation; then the whole of the third form, seventeen of them, came forward, single file, and made a straight line in front of the platform. Most of them looked scared and guilty, as though they felt they were going to be blamed for what had happened.