“I cannot conceive that anyone could gain from her death.”
“In the worldly sense, perhaps?”
“I take it that you mean financially? That is what people usually mean.”
“Yes.”
“The disposition of any material wealth would be entirely a matter for the Sister concerned.”
“Was Sister Anne wealthy?”
“I have no idea, Inspector.”
“She came from a wealthy home.”
“That is not always a measure.”
“Who would know?”
“Just the Mother Prioress at the time she took her vows.”
“And that was?”
“Mother Helena…”
“And she’s dead?”
“… of blessed memory,” finished the Mother Prioress simultaneously.
That meant the same thing. Sloan was getting frustrated. “Is there no way of finding out?”
Sister Lucy coughed. “Mother, the Bursar’s accounts. They might show something at the time. We know the date of profession. It would take a little while, but if a dowry had been received it would show in the figures.”
“Thank you,” said Sloan, taking the Mother Prioress’s concurrence for granted. “That would be a great help. Now, what about a will?”
“That,” said the Reverend Mother, “would be at our Mother House. It is no part of our intention not to conform to the Common Law of the land in which our House is situated.”
“Quite.”
“Sister Lucy shall telephone them for you presently.”
“Marm, there’s another matter that has been troubling us. You told me that Sister Anne was at Chapel on Wednesday evening and that that was the last time she was seen alive.”
“That is so. At Vespers by Sister Michael and Sister Damien.”
“Do you remember what you had for supper on Wednesday?”
It was clear that she didn’t. She turned to Sister Lucy, who frowned. “It wasn’t a fast day, Mother. Was it steak and kidney pudding? I think it was. Yes, I’m sure. With peas and potatoes. And then a bread and butter pudding.”
“Thank you. Yes, I remember now. Is it important, Inspector?”
“What time did you have it?”
“At a quarter past six. That is when we always have it.”
“And then is when Sister Anne had hers?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“She couldn’t have had hers later?”
“Not without my knowing.”
“What happens immediately after supper?”
“Recreation. From a quarter to seven to eight o’clock. Sisters bring any sewing or similar work to the old drawing-room and they are permitted to move about and talk there as they wish.”
“I see,” said Sloan. Nice for them, that was. “And then?”
“They have various minor duties—preparing the refectory for breakfast, locking up the house, general tidying up at the end of the day and so forth. As they finish these the Sisters go into the Chapel for private meditation until Vespers at eight-thirty.”
“Thank you, marm, that is what I wanted to know. And Sister Damien and Sister Michael sat on either side of Sister Anne at Vespers?”
“That is so.”
“With the greatest repect, marm, that is not so. Dr. Dabbe, the pathologist, tells me that Sister Anne died immediately after supper. Her meal was quite undigested.”
There was a silence in the Parlour, then, “Someone sat between Sister Michael and Sister Damien.”
“So you tell us, marm.”
“So they told me, Inspector.”
“Where was Sister Anne’s place in the Chapel?”
“In the back row.”
“No one else need have noticed her then?”
“No. No, I suppose not. As I said, the Sisters come in when they are ready and kneel until the service begins.”
“I think we should see the Chapel and the two Sisters.”
“Certainly. Sister Lucy will take you there now.”
The Mother Prioress sat on in the empty Parlour, deep in thought. She almost didn’t hear the light tap on the door. She roused herself automatically. “Come in.”
It was Sister Cellarer. “Did he bring the keys, Mother?”
She stared at her. “Do you know, Sister, I quite forgot to ask him.”
9
« ^ »
Father MacAuley was the next visitor to the Parlour. Sister Gertrude brought him along.
“I had quite a job getting in. Polycarp thought I was the Press at first. I’ll have to have a password. ‘Up the Irish’ or some such phrase pleasing to her ear.”
“There were two reporters and a cameraman this morning,” said the Mother Prioress, “but she sent them away.”
“So she told me. She didn’t know if the photographer got his picture of her or not before she shut the grille. The flash, she said, reminded her of the dear old days in Ireland. Apparently the last really good flash she saw was the day the I.R.A. blew up the bridge at—”
“I have warned the Community,” continued the Mother Prioress, “that they may have to go in the grounds in pairs as a precaution against their being— shall we say, surprised—by reporters. I feel there will be more of them.”
“They do hunt in packs as a rule.”
“Also there has been what I understand is called a new development in the case.”
“There has?”
“The pathologist has said that Sister Anne died immediately after supper which finishes at a quarter to seven. Sister Michael and Sister Damien say she sat between them at Vespers at eight-thirty.”
The priest nodded sagely. “The Press would like that.”
“I do not, Father. The implications are very disturbing. If Sister Anne was dead at half past eight, who sat in her stall at Vespers?”
The priest sat down heavily. “I don’t know. The fact that we do not believe in—er—manifestations will scarcely influence the public—who don’t know what they believe in. They, and therefore the Press, dearly love a ghost. Can’t you see the headlines?”
The Mother Prioress winced.
In intervals between inspecting the Convent Chapel, Sloan took one telephone call and made another from the old-fashioned instrument in the corridor. Both were London calls, but neither would have conveyed very much to Mrs. Briggs at the Cullingoak Post Office, who monitored all calls as a matter of course.
“With reference to your enquiry,” said the London voice, “we have found a very interesting will in Somerset House, made by one Alfred Cartwright, father of Josephine Mary Cartwright. It was made a long time ago, and, in fact, several years before his death. Sounds as if he and his brother Joe were pretty cautious blokes. They’d got everything worked out carefully enough. If Alfred died first his widow was to have the income from his share of the Consolidated Carbon partnership for her lifetime. If he had children they were to get the share when their mother died. If he didp’t have any children or if those children predeceased him or his brother, Joe, then the share in the Cartwright patent was to go to Joe and then his heirs and successors.”
“Keeping it in the family,” said Sloan.
“That’s the spirit, old chap. Well, they seem to have gone along fairly slowly with the business—all this was just after the old Queen died, remember. Turn of the century and all that. Then suddenly—and without any warning either—Alfred ups and dies. Pneumonia, it was. We looked up the death certificate, too, while we were about it…”
“Thank you.”
“He doesn’t leave very much but not to worry. Not many years afterwards along comes World War One and Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons can’t help making money. Lots and lots of it. Of course, our Alfred doesn’t get the benefit being dead by now, but the stuff keeps on coming in. Must have been pretty well running out of their ears by 1918.”