“Inspector, Mother says will you come please? She’s had a letter.”
“It was handed to Sister Polycarp a few minutes ago,” said the Reverend Mother, “by one of the village children from a gentleman who is staying at The Bull. He says in his letter that he proposes to call at the Convent at four-thirty this afternoon in the hopes of being able to see Sister Anne.”
“Does he?” said Sloan with interest. “Who is he?”
The Mother Prioress handed over the letter. “It’s signed ‘Harold Cartwright.’ A relation, presumably.”
“Do you know him? Has he been here before?”
She shook her head. “No. I do not recollect Sister Anne having any visitors. Do you, Sister?”
Sister Lucy looked up. “Never, Mother.”
“Would she have seen this man in the ordinary way?”
“Not if she did not wish it, Inspector. Nor if I did not wish it. Sometimes visitors are no great help— especially to young postulants and novices, and are therefore not allowed.”
“He says here he hopes no objection will be raised to his visit, which is of considerable importance,” said Sloan, quoting the letter.
“To him,” said the Reverend Mother. “Visitors are rarely important to us. Nevertheless, I think in this instance that we had better ask Sister Polycarp to show him to the Parlour when he comes.”
He arrived promptly at four-thirty, a man aged about fifty-five in a dark grey suit. He was heavily built and going grey. He wasted no time in getting to the point.
“I am Harold Cartwright, the cousin of Sister Anne, and I would very much like to see her for a few moments…”
“I am afraid,” said the Reverend Mother, “that that will not be possible…”
“I know,” said the man quickly, “that she probably does not wish to see me or any of her family, but it is on a matter of some importance. That is why I have travelled down here in person rather than written to her…”
“When did you travel down here?” asked Sloan.
Cartwright turned. “Last night. I stayed at The Bull.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“Is that any concern of—”
“I am a police officer investigating a sudden death.”
“I see.” Again the man wasted no time in coming to the point. “I got to The Bull about seven-thirty, had a meal and a drink in the bar and went to bed.”
“Straight to bed?”
“No. If you’re interested I went for a quick walk round the village to get a breath of air before going to my room.”
“I see, sir, thank you.”
“Mr. Cartwright,” the Mother Prioress inclined her coif slightly, “how long is it since you last saw Sister Anne?”
“Almost twenty years. I went to another Convent to see her. Hersely, it was.”
“That would be so. We have a House there.”
“I went to ask if there was anything she wanted, anything we could do for her.” His mouth twisted. “She said she had everything and I came away again.”
“Mr. Cartwright, you must be prepared for a shock.”
He laughed shortly. “I know she’ll be a changed woman. No one’s the same after twenty years. I’m not the same man myself if it comes to that.”
The Mother Prioress lowered her head. “I have no doubt that great changes have been wrought by the passage of time in you both but that is not the point. I am sorry to have to tell you that the sudden death into which Inspector Sloan is enquiring is that of your cousin, Sister Anne.”
Harold Cartwright sat very still. “You mean Josephine’s dead?”
“Yes, Mr. Cartwright.”
“When?”
“She died last night.”
“Why the police?”
“She was found dead at the foot of a flight of steps.”
“An accident, surely?”
“We hope so.”
“It couldn’t be anything else here. I mean, not in a Convent.”
“I would like to think not,” agreed the Mother Prioress, “but that matter is not yet resolved.”
Cartwright turned to Sloan again. “Why might it not be an accident? Would anyone want to harm my cousin?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was hoping that you might be able to tell us.”
“Me? I haven’t had sight nor sound of her for twenty years.”
“You’re not her only relation?”
“No. Her father—my uncle—died years ago, but her mother’s still alive…”
“Mrs. Alfred Cartwright, 17 Strelitz Square?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“The Convent records,” said Sloan briefly.
“They didn’t get on.”
“I inferred that.”
“My aunt is a very strong-minded woman. She greatly resented my cousin taking her vows. I don’t think she has ever forgiven her.”
“I am sure she has been forgiven,” interposed the Reverend Mother.
“I beg your pardon?”
“By Sister Anne.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, of course.” It didn’t seem as if Harold Cartwright had thought of this at all. He waved a hand vaguely. “Before she died, you mean…”
“Many years ago,” said the Mother Prioress firmly. “It would not be possible to live the life of a true religious and harbour that sort of unforgiveness.”
“No, no, I can see that.”
Sloan coughed. “Now, sir, perhaps you’ll tell us what it was that was so important that you had to see her about after all these years.”
But that was something Harold Cartwright obviously did not want to do. “What? Oh, yes, of course. What I’d come to see her about?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not really relevant now she’s dead. Just a family matter, that’s all. Nothing that would concern anyone now, you understand.” He gave a quick smile. “Death cancels all that sort of thing, doesn’t it?”
“No,” said the Mother Prioress directly. “Not in my experience.”
“No? Perhaps not, but it does alter them, and it has altered all I had come to see her about.”
Sloan let it ride. This was only the beginning. “Will you be leaving Cullingoak tonight?” he asked him.
“No. Not now—I think I’d better stay on, don’t you?” He frowned. “Though there’s my aunt. Perhaps I ought to go back to tell her…”
“I’ll do that,” said Sloan suddenly.
Harold Cartwright said, “Thank you.” He looked back to the Mother Superior and said diffidently. “There’ll be a funeral, I take it—would I be allowed to come to that?”
She nodded briskly. “Of course, Mr. Cartwright. But first there is, I understand, to be a post-mortem…”
Cartwright looked quickly at the inspector.
“To establish the exact cause of death,” said Sloan.
It was dark when Sloan came out to Cullingoak for the second time that day. There were bonfires and fireworks all about as the police car slipped through the streets of Berebury and out into the open country towards Cullingoak.
“Get a move on, man,” he muttered irritably, as Crosby slowed down for a crossroads. He sat beside the constable, his shoulders hunched up, hands sunk deep into his pockets, thinking hard.
As they swept into Cullingoak High Street he heard the clang of a fire engine’s bell. He saw the engine careering along ahead of them, firemen pulling on their boots as they clung to the machine. It did a giant swerve and headed unerringly between the gates of the Agricultural Institute. Crosby followed suit and bumped up the drive after the fire engine.
The fire was over on their right, away from the Institute’s buildings. It was well alight, with flames leaping high into the air. Standing round it like a votive circle were the students. Their faces stood out in a white ring in the darkness, the dancing flames reflected in them.