Sloan watched the superintendent drive off towards his home and next meal, and went back to his own room. Crosby was there with two large cups of tea and some sandwiches.
“Well, Crosby, what did you make of Sister Damien’s story?”
“Someone wanted us to think Sister Anne was still alive at eight-thirty.”
“Ah, yes, but was it Sister Damien who wanted us to think that? Or was it someone else?”
Crosby took a sandwich but offered no opinion.
“And why did they want us to think that?”
“Alibi?” suggested Crosby.
“Perhaps. No one missed Sister Anne at Recreation so presumably they can move about then more or less as they like.”
“More or less, sir,” echoed Crosby darkly.
Sloan grinned. The man had a sense of humour after all. “Did you give them back their keys?”
“Yes, sir. I went round all their cupboards with that Sister Lucy and opened them up. Nothing much there —food, stores and what have you. It was a hefty bunch of metal all right. Sister Lucy wears it round her waist all the time. They were certainly glad to have them back again.”
“What about their local standing?”
“High, sir. I checked with quite a few people in the village. They like them. They aren’t any trouble. Their credit is good and they pay on the nail for everything. They live carefully, not wasting anything, and they do as much of their shopping as possible in Cullingoak.”
“That always goes down well.”
“I got on to Dr. Carret, too. Only on the telephone though. He was out when I went there. He was called to the Convent when Sister Anne was found, realised she hadn’t fallen downstairs in the ordinary way and sent for us.”
“Very observant of him, that was. Is your standing with the canteen manageress good enough for another couple of cups?”
Apparently it was, for Crosby brought two refills back within minutes.
Sloan picked up a pencil. “Now, Crosby, where are we now?”
“Well, sir, yesterday we had this body that we thought had been murdered. Today we know it has been. Weapon, something hard but blunt, probably touched by Sister Peter early yesterday morning.”
“And still to be found.”
“Yes, sir. We know that Sister Anne was also Josephine Mary Cartwright and that her mother said ‘Never darken these doors again’ a long time ago. And that when her mother dies she was due to come into a lot of money.”
“Only if she outlived her, Crosby. If she died first it reverts to Uncle Joe and his heirs, one of whom is camping at The Bull for some reason not yet revealed tous.”
“Well, there’s money for someone in it somewhere, sir.”
“Show me the case where there isn’t, Crosby, and I may not know how to solve it.”
“Sir, did that thin one, Damien, know that if Sister Anne died before her uncle, the uncle got the lot?”
Sloan nodded approvingly. “That is something I should dearly like to know myself. You realise we have only got her word for it that Sister Anne—or someone she thought was Sister Anne—was at Vespers at eight-thirty? The other one—Sister Michael—what she said wasn’t evidence. More like hearsay.”
Crosby stopped, his cup half way to his lips. “You mean Sister Damien might be lying about that?” It was clearly a new idea to him.
“Don’t look so shocked, Crosby.”
“I didn’t think they would lie, sir.”
“Someone, somewhere,” he said sarcastically, “is being untruthful with us, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes, sir, but I didn’t think nuns would lie.”
“Not quite cricket, Crosby?”
“Yes, sir—I mean—no, sir.” Until he joined the Police Force, Crosby’s ethics had been of a Sunday School variety—“speak the truth and shame the devil.”
“If,” went on Sloan, “Damien knew only that the Convent was to come into a lot of money when Sister Anne died—or thought that was so, she could just have thought she was doing the Convent a good turn— and Sister Anne, too if it came to that—by hurrying things along.“ He finished his tea and said profoundly: ”Who can tell what people will do if they are cooped up together like that for year upon year without any sort of outlet? What do you do, Crosby, when you start getting on each other’s nerves? Say a few more prayers?”
“I saw a film about a prisoner-of-war camp once,” volunteered Crosby helpfully, “where they killed a chap because he sniffed.”
Three loud knocks on the table at the end of a meal by the Mother Prioress indicated that she wished to speak to the Community. Half a hundred female faces turned attentively towards the Abbatial chair. There were round faces, oval faces, faces of the shape known outside the Convent (but never, never inside) as Madonna-type, fat faces, thin faces.
There were as many faces looking expectantly at the Reverend Mother as there were types of woman—almost—from the neat face of Sister Ignatius to the cheerful visage of Sister Hilda; from the calm features of Sister Jerome to the composed efficiency of Sister Radigund, the Infirmarium; from the still anxious look of Sister Peter to the intense concentration of Sister Damien.
“My daughters…” The Mother Prioress surveyed the dim Refectory. It was long since dark outside, and the mock electric candles in their sconces on the wall provided only the minimum of light. “My daughters, through the centuries those of our Order have gone through many trials and tribulations, compared with which our present discomforts are as nothing. What we now endure is unfamiliar and distasteful to us—intrusion and enquiry are an anathema to the religious life—but it is not for us to complain now or at any time of what we suffer.” Her gaze travelled down the ranks of nuns. “When we renounced the world we did not automatically leave doubt and sorrow behind. Nor are we immune from the physical laws of cause and effect. Nor should we wish to be.”
One of the novices, she who was sitting nearest to the pepper-pot, sneezed suddenly. The Novice-Mistress leaned forward slightly to identify the culprit.
“Sister Anne,” went on the Mother Prioress unperturbed, “died on Wednesday evening some time after supper, probably in the corridor leading from the Great Hall to the kitchens. Her body was put into the broom cupboard and later thrown down the cellar steps. As you know, she was found there after a search on Thursday morning. It is now Friday evening. I should like you all to go back in your minds to Wednesday evening and consider if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary pattern of religious behaviour.” She did not pause here as she might have done but went straight on to say, “On Thursday evening, Guy Fawkes’ Night, the effigy of a nun was burnt on the bonfire lit by the students of the Agricultural Institute. In the ordinary course of events I should not have troubled the Community with this information, believing that the incident was more in the nature of high spirits than bigotry, but the guy was dressed in the habit that normally hangs behind the door of the garden room.”
It was evident that this was news to some of the nuns.
“Moreover, the guy was wearing Sister Anne’s glasses.”
This was a bombshell. Heads went up. Grave glances were exchanged between the older Sisters. The younger ones looked excited or frightened, according to temperament.
“You will not, therefore, be surprised to know that the police require to know the exact whereabouts of every Sister from supper-time on Wednesday until they retired to their cells. If you spoke to Sister Anne after supper, or if you have any other information, it should be communicated to me, and only to me. I shall be in the Parlour until Vespers.” She paused. “The police also wish to be told the secular name of every member of the Community, the date of her profession, and the address from which she came to the Convent of St. Anselm.”