“What about brother Joe?”
“There’s no will registered of his, so presumably he’s still alive. He probably made a reciprocal will at the same time as his brother, but of course he could have altered it since… By the way, we confirm Mrs. Alfred Cartwright’s statement that there was only one child of the marriage. This girl Josephine. Her husband died soon after the baby was born.”
“And brother Joe?”
“He had one son by the name of Harold. He must be all of fifty-five now.”
“We’ve met son Harold.” A thought struck Sloan. “So Joe Cartwright will be quite an age.”
“Practically gaga, I should say,” said the voice helpfully.
“What about the firm now?”
“Ah, you want he whom we call our City Editor. I’m only an historian. Fred Jenkins is the chap for the up-to-the-minute stuff. The only policeman who does his beat in striped pants and a bowler. No truncheon either. Says his umbrella’s better. I’ll give you his number.”
“Much obliged,” said Sloan. He rang it immediately.
“Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons? Very sound, Inspector. Good family firm. A bit old-fashioned but most good old family firms are these days. Well run, all the same. Not closed minds, if you know what I mean.. They’re not entirely convinced that one computer will do the work of fifty men, but if you prove it to them they’ll buy the computer and see the fifty men don’t suffer for it.”
“The family still manage it?”
“Lord, yes. Harold Cartwright’s the M.D. Knows the business backwards. Learnt it the hard way, I should say. Let me see now, I think there are two sons and a daughter. That’s right. The daughter married well. Iron ore, I think it was. The boys went to a good school and an even better university. The elder boy had a year at Harvard to see what our American cousins could teach him about business, and the younger one a year on the Rand.”
“You know a lot about them off the cuff.”
“One of the largest private companies in the country, Inspector, that’s why,” retorted Jenkins promptly. “They’re always getting write-ups in the City pages suggesting they will be going public but they never do. They’d be quite a good buy when the time comes, of course, that’s why there’s the interest.”
“I think,” said Sloan slowly, “I can tell you the reason why they’ve stayed private all these years.”
There was no mistaking the interest at the other end of the line. “You can?”
“There was a residual legatee here in Calleshire in a convent.” There was a lot of satisfaction in being able to tell London something.
“That’s it then. What sort of share?”
“If she survived her uncle I’d say she was stuck in for half.”
Jenkins whistled. “Buying her out would upset the applecart. I don’t suppose they would have enough liquidity to do it. That’s the trouble with that sort of heavy industry. On the other hand, if they go public and leave her in they could be in a mess. They might lose control, you see. Tricky.”
“Not quite so tricky now,” said Sloan. “She was killed on Wednesday evening. I don’t know how these things are managed, but I would like to know if this question of going public comes up again now.”
“I’ll have a poke round the Issuing Houses. Might pick something up. Where can I get you?”
“Berebury Police Station.”
Sloan collected Crosby and Sister Lucy from the Chapel. She accepted the money he offered her for the telephone call without embarrassment or demur. “Thank you, Inspector. Bills are quite a problem.”
All three of them went back to the Parlour.
“It would seem, Mother,” said Sister Lucy carefully, “that Sister Anne brought no dowry with her when she came. The Bursar’s accounts for that year show no receipt that is likely to be hers.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“I have had her will read to me over the telephone,” went on Sister Lucy. “It was made at our Mother House the year she took her vows. It bequeaths all of that of which she died possessed to our Order.”
“How much is likely to be involved?” asked Sloan casually.
Sister Lucy looked at him. “As far as I am aware, nothing at all. Sister Anne brought nothing with her and had no income of any sort while she was here.”
Father MacAuley coughed. “Aren’t we forgetting the potential?”
“What potential?” asked the Mother Prioress.
“Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons. That right, Inspector?”
“That’s right, Father. I don’t know where you get your information…”
“You don’t live in Strelitz Square on twopence ha’penny a week.”
The Mother Prioress leaned forward enquiringly. “Had Sister Anne something to do with—er—Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons?”
“She did, marm. They are a chemical company formed by her uncle and father to exploit an invention of theirs of a method of combining carbon with various compounds for industrial chemists.”
“I see.” The Mother Prioress nodded. “That presumably was the source of the family income?”
“Yes, marm. You didn’t know?”
“Not personally. My predecessor might have been told by Sister Anne. I do not think,” she added gently, “that it would have concerned us in any way.”
“Yes,” interrupted Sister Gertrude unexpectedly. “Yes, it would, Mother.”
Suddenly finding herself the object of every eye in the Parlour, Sister Gertrude blushed and lowered her head.
“Pray explain, Sister.”
“This potential that you are talking about was some money that Sister Anne was to come into, wasn’t it?”
Sloan nodded.
“Well, she knew about it. She told Sister Damien that the Convent would have it one day and then we could have our cloister.”
There was silence.
Sister Gertrude looked from Inspector Sloan to Father Benedict MacAuley and back again. “I don’t know if there would have been enough for a cloister or not,” she said nervously, “but Sister Damien thought so, and so did Sister Anne.”
“I think,” said the Mother Prioress heavily, “that we had better see Sister Damien and Sister Michael now.”
Sister Damien came first. Tall, thin and stiff-looking even in the soft folds of her habit, she swept the assembled company with a swift look and bowed to the Mother Prioress.
“The inspector has some questions for you, Sister. Pray answer them to the best of your recollection.”
Sister Damien turned an expectant glance to Sloan.
“I want you to take your mind back to the events of Wednesday evening,” he began easily. “Supper, for instance—what did you have?”
“Steak and kidney pie, and bread and butter pudding. The reading was of the martyrdom of Saint Denise.”
“And Sister Anne sat next to you?”
“Naturally.”
“Did you speak to her then?”
“Talking at meals is not permitted.”
There was an irritating glint of self-righteousness in her eye that Sloan would dearly love to have squashed. Instead he said, “When did you see her again?”
“Not until Vespers.”
“What about Recreation?”
“I didn’t see her then. I was talking to Sister Jerome about some lettering ink for prayer cards. We are,” she added insufferably, “permitted to move about at Recreation.”
“When did you go into the Chapel?”
“About a quarter past eight.”
“Was Sister Anne there then?”
“No. She came much later. I thought she was going to be late.”
“But she wasn’t?”
“No, not quite.”
“Did you speak to her?” asked Sloan—and wished he hadn’t.
“Speaking in Chapel is not permitted,” said Sister Damien inevitably.
“Did you notice anything about her particularly?”