“And so, when you heard of that poor child’s death, you removed your daughter from the school?”
“Well, what do you think? She came home full of it. ‘Oh, mother,’ she said, ‘whatever do you think? A girl called Doyle—not Ulrica Doyle, but her cousin, Ursula Doyle—has committed suicide at school, and Ulrica, who’s quite old—in the Fourth Form—had hysterics and had to be taken to the sick-room by Mother Francis.’ It was just like one of those horrid things in the papers. Well, of course, this has been in the papers. I gave five or six interviews myself. ‘You ought to be on the films, mother,’ Ellie said.”
“Are you sure that Ellie mentioned suicide on the very day it happened?“ asked Mrs. Bradley.
“That was the story that all the girls had got hold of. Strange it should turn out right. I always say to Stanley that children know more than we think. According to Ellie, this girl was never in trouble at school, and last week she had done something wrong—most unusual for her—and the nuns, or some of them, were angry. She was such a sensitive little thing, it seems—no parents, and her old grandfather in America with all that money to leave—it really does seem most sad. So Stanley withdrew all his arguments, and the High School had a place because a girl went back to India— a little Indian girl—always wore the native dress, so pretty, isn’t it, and graceful?—so down went Ellie, on their books, and this morning off she goes on her bicycle to Kelsorrow, just as pleased as Punch. ‘I’m sick of that old convent, mother,’ she said. ‘The nuns are ever so sweet, but we only have Miss Bonnet four half-days a week, and the Kelsorrow girls get her all the rest of the time; and another physical training mistress full time as well.’ Miss Bonnet takes the physical training, you know. Stanley doesn’t agree with so much of it for girls, but, as for me, I love it. I go to Kelsorrow every week myself, for the League of Health and Beauty. It keeps me cheerful, and Ellie and I do all our practice together. ‘Oh, mother!’ she said, the first time she saw me in shorts. But now she’s got quite used to it.”
“I’m interested to hear that the girls themselves concluded that Ursula Doyle committed suicide. Were the punishments at the convent very severe?” Mrs. Bradley said, as Mrs. Waller sat back and sipped her drink.
“Well, I shouldn’t call them anything at all, and Ellie always said they made her hoot. Of course, she’s very non-suggestible. I mean, it’s the atmosphere does it. I mean, actually, I believe, they just lose a badge which all the good girls are entitled to wear, but it’s the atmosphere. And not being allowed to be in the processions, I believe, that’s another thing; and not being asked in to sing and recite to the nuns while they do their mending. ‘Good Lord, I shouldn’t want to,’ said Ellie’s little cousin when she came down here for Christmas, but Ellie, who, mind you, as I said, is simply most non-suggestible, said, ‘Oh, yes, you would want to. They make you want to want to, whether you want to or not.’ And, of course, they do creep about, and that always gets on children’s nerves, I think. I’ve always said to Ellie, ‘Make a noise. When you’re making a noise I know what’s happening. If you’re quiet you’re probably in mischief.’ And I never found myself far wrong.”
There seemed nothing more to glean, but Mrs. Bradley felt that to take too early a departure would be unkind. When she did get away the car crawled slowly along the coast road and discovered three-quarters of a mile of promenade, untidy at the ends, and a café or two, closed at that season, for Easter was some weeks off and there was scarcely a visitor in the town. Mrs. Bradley did not care for Hiversand Bay, and directed George to drive on. They inspected Kelsorrow, a respectable market-town about a dozen miles farther east, and then Mrs. Bradley announced her intention of turning about and presenting herself at the convent.
Six miles on the road George stopped the car in the middle of open moorland because Mrs. Bradley thought that they would be too early, and sat on a boulder and smoked whilst his employer strolled off to take the air and admire the rolling scenery. Whilst both were thus occupied, a small car, driven fast, shot by, two wheels on the road and two on the heather, and suddenly pulled up. The driver, a stocky young woman of medium height dressed in a tweed three-piece suit and a little suède hat, got out, slammed the door, and came briskly up to George, who rose and saluted.
“In trouble?” the young woman asked, in a deepish, self-confident voice.
“No, thank you, miss.” He looked at her with respectful interest, and continued, “Just killing time, because my employer thought she might be a bit too early at the convent.”
“The convent? Oh, they’ve finished lunch, if that’s what you’re thinking of. I’ve just had mine there, so I know. I believe they’re full up, though, at the guest-house; or has your employer booked her room?”
“I couldn’t say, miss. We’re lodging, just at present, in the village.”
Mrs. Bradley came up to them.
“I hope you’ve booked your room,” said the young woman, extending a hand. “Friends of the nuns are friends of mine. I think they’re simply splendid at that convent. Marvellous people! So simple and sweet, I think. Of course, I happen to get on rather well with them, working, as I do, for half-pay.” She laughed loudly, stridently and unconvincingly.
“Interesting,” said Mrs. Bradley. “A strange life, don’t you think, though, that of a nun?”
“Shouldn’t care for it myself. But there’s no doubt some are called to it.”
“I met a man yesterday who thought the life iniquitous.”
“Men will think anything. Thank goodness I’ve no use for them.”
“Still, a man,” said Mrs. Bradley reasonably, “would have seen that a geyser was properly installed.”
“Geyser? What do you mean? Of course it was properly installed! They had the Gas Company down to look at it the very same day, as soon as they had got the child out of the bath.”
“No flue, then, I imagine.”
“But there was a flue. Look here, are you a reporter?”
“No, no. The case was in the papers and I cannot accept the suicide theory, that’s all. I suppose you were at the convent when it happened?”
“Well, I ought not to have been, but I was. Look here, I don’t in the least know who you are, but I suppose, if you’re not a reporter, it’s all right, and you’re bound to hear gossip if you’re staying in the village. We—I mean the convent—have had a lot of trouble. There are some perfectly bloody people living round about here. After all, a child who intends to commit suicide will do it wherever she is. The fact that this little idiot, poor wretch, was at a convent, makes no earthly difference.”
“So you were actually on the premises when it happened?”
“Kelsorrow School, where I do the P.T., had a day’s holiday. I hadn’t enough money to do anything decent, so I thought I might as well put in the time at the convent. That’s how it was, and a jolly good thing it was so, too, in a way.”
“What do you mean, I wonder?”
“Artificial respiration. No stone unturned. Worked over the child until the sweat streamed off me. Nobody could have done a better job. No go. Child quite finished. Been dead, the doctor said, at least three quarters of an hour—probably more—before we found her. That was accidental, too. I’d been playing netball with the orphans, and felt pretty sticky and grubby, so I asked Mother Jude for a bath. The kid was in it, of course, and a good old smell of gas. No window open. I flung open the window and we picked up the kid and took her into the nearest bedroom and there I got to work on her at once, but it wasn’t a bit of good. Nice child, too, in her way—which wasn’t mine.”
“Not good at her lessons?”
“Lord knows. Probably. No good at games or swimming. Timid as a rabbit. Just the type for suicide, of course. These quiet, mousy kids are always the ones. You never know what they’re thinking, then off they go and do it, and most people feel surprised. Not me, though. I’ve seen so much of it. Germany, now. Kids commit suicide there if they can’t get through their exams. I knew two boys—most brilliant kids—hanged themselves when the results came out. Too terrible.”