“Hasn’t the Inspector finished with your thumb, Sister?” Sister Gertrude asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said mournfully. “He’s fingerprinted my hand, and confirmed that the blood did get on the Gradual from my thumb.”
“Well, then,” said Sister Gertrude a little testily, “surely you can put it away now?”
Sister Peter regarded the offending member. “He doesn’t know how the blood got on it and neither do I. I’ve shown him everything I did this morning after you woke me—my own door, two flights of stairs to the long landing, the gallery, this staircase and straight into the Chapel. The Chapel door was open, Sister Polycarp does that. Sister Sacrist had got the Gradual ready like she always does. Besides everywhere’s been cleaned by now. I just don’t know…” This last was said tremolo.
“Neither do I,” said Sister Gertrude firmly. “But you’ve helped all you can…”
“I can’t think why anyone should want to harm poor Sister Anne.”
“Neither can I,” said Sister Gertrude somewhat less firmly. “It might have been an accident, you know…”
Sister Peter looked unconvinced and continued on her way.
“Now, Sister St. Bernard, I realise that this business must have given you an unpleasant shock, but I would like you to describe how you found Sister Anne.”
Sloan was back in the Parlour with Crosby in attendance facing the Reverend Mother with Sister Lucy at her side. Sister St. Bernard was standing between them. There would come a time when he would want to see a nun on her own but that time was not yet. Sister Lucy looked anxious and strained, but the Reverend Mother sat calm and dignified, an air of timelessness about her.
Sloan was being the perfect policeman talking to the nervous witness. There was no doubt that Sister St. Bernard was nervous. Her damp palms trembled slightly until she hit on the idea of clasping them together in front of her, but she could not keep a faint quaver out of her voice so easily.
“We were asked to help look for Sister Anne about an hour after Mass this morning in case she had been taken ill anywhere. Sister Lucy and the others were going through the upstairs rooms and Sister Perpetua and I were doing the downstairs ones…”
Sloan was prepared to bet that Sister Perpetua was as young as Sister St. Bernard and that no one had expected either of them to find the missing Sister.
“I don’t know what made me open the cellar door… I had been in all the rooms along that corridor and—”
“Was it closed?”
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
“Yes.”
“Was it locked?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Oh, yes. It was because it was usually locked that I put the light on when I opened it. Otherwise I don’t think I would have seen Sister Anne.”
“The door is normally kept locked, Inspector,” explained the Reverend Mother in a very dry voice, “on account of the danger of falling down the steep steps in the dark.”
“I see, marm, thank you. Then what did you do, Sister?”
She had done very little, decided Sloan, except give the alarm and encourage the destruction of useful clues by opening and shutting the cellar door and fetching people who went up and down the steps.
And Sister Peter had been scarcely more helpful.
When she had gone the Reverend Mother beckoned Sister Lucy to her side. “What was that address?”
“Seventeen Strelitz Square, Mother.”
The Mother Prioress nodded. “Inspector, that was the address from which Sister Anne came to us.”
“It’s a very good one,” said Sloan involuntarily.
“She was a very good nun,” retorted the Reverend Mother dryly. “It was, of course, some time ago that she left home, but in the normal course of events I would telephone there to establish whether or not she still had relatives.”
Sloan took a quick look at his watch. “Perhaps I’ll telephone myself, marm.”
Standing in the dark corridor where the nuns kept their instrument he wondered if it wouldn’t have been wiser to go to London. When he was connected to 17 Strelitz Square he was sure.
“Mrs. Alfred Cartwright’s residence,” said a female voice.
“May I speak to Mrs. Cartwright, please?”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“The Convent of St. Anselm.” That would do to begin with.
“I will enquire if madam is at home.”
There was a pause. Sloan heard footsteps walking away. Parquet flooring. And then they came back.
“Madam,” said the female voice, “is Not At Home.”
“It’s about her daughter,” said Sloan easily. “I think if she knew that she—”
“Madam has no daughter,” said the voice and rang off.
Sloan went back to the Parlour. Only Crosby was there now.
“A bell rang, Inspector, and they both went—just like that. I didn’t know if you wanted me to stop them.”
“You? Stop them?” said Sloan unkindly. “You couldn’t do it. Now, listen…”
There was a knock on the Parlour door and Father MacAuley came in.
“Ah, Inspector, found the glasses?”
“Not yet, sir,” said Sloan shortly. It was bad enough investigating a death in the alien surroundings of a Convent without having a priest pattering along behind him. And MacAuley wasn’t the only one who wanted to know where Sister Anne’s glasses were. Superintendent Leeyes would be on to their absence in a flash, and a fat lot of good it would be explaining to him that he and Crosby had looked everywhere for them.
“Did you get anything out of Lady Macbeth?” asked the priest.
“We confirmed all of Sister Peter’s statements,” said Sloan stiffly.
“She’s walking up and down the corridor muttering ‘What! Will these hands ne’er be clean?’ ” He squinted at Sloan. “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten that little hand.”
“No, sir? The Mother Prioress tried an old Army remedy.”
“She did?”
“Spud bashing.”
“A fine leader of women, the Mother Prioress.” Father MacAuley grinned suddenly. “I hear that the chap across the way—Ranby at the Agricultural Institute—he’s gated his students for the evening. All to be in their own grounds by four o’clock this afternoon.”
“Can’t say I blame him for that,” said Sloan. “Last year they burnt down the bus shelter and there was hell to pay.”
“Nearly set the Post Office on fire, too,” contributed Crosby.
“Polycarp says all buildings burn well, but Government buildings burn better,” said the priest.
Sloan rose dismissively. “I don’t think Bonfire Night at the Agricultural Institute will concern us, sir.”
Wherein he was wrong.
6
« ^ »
It was still damp in the grounds, and for that Sloan was grateful. It meant that the footprints Crosby had found not far from the cellar door were perfectly preserved.
“Two sets, Inspector.” He straightened his back. They were in the shelter of one of the large rhododendron bushes. “One of them stood for a while in the same place. The earth’s quite soft here…” He slipped out a measure. “Men’s…”
“Perhaps.”
“It was a man’s shoe, sir…”
“But was there a man inside it? Don’t forget that this lot wear men’s shoes—every one of them.”
Crosby measured the depth. “If it was a woman, it was a heavy one.”
“Get a cast and we’ll know for certain.” He looked round. “It would be a good enough spot to watch the back of the place from.” From where he was standing he could see the kitchen door, the cellar steps, a splendid collection of dustbins and a small glass door which presumably led to the garden room. A broad path led round towards the front entrance of the house, and along this now was walking the Caller, Sister Gertrude.