Then there was the thin-lipped Sister Damien, who unbent not one fraction without the restraining presence of the Mother Superior.
“Had I seen anything suspicious I would have told Mother immediately,” she said.
“And this morning?”
“I was dusting the Library. I saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary.”
“You know Miss Eileen Lome, of course?”
She shook her head. “The name means nothing to me, Inspector.”
“Sister Bertha that was…”
“Ah, yes.” Her narrow features assumed a curious expression compounded of regret and disapproval. “The former Sister Bertha.”
“Have you seen her since she left?”
“None of us have seen her, Inspector, since she renounced her vows. It would not have been proper.”
And, nearly the last, Sister Lucy.
She came in and sat down, hands folded serenely in her lap, waiting expectantly for Sloan to speak.
“It’s a little strange, Sister, interviewing you in your own Parlour, but—er—needs must. This is Sergeant Perkins who has come over from Calleford.”
Two women in two very different uniforms regarded each other across the room. It did something for each, decided Sloan, but then uniforms usually did.
“You’ve got your keys back, Sister, I see.”
She patted the huge bunch which hung from her girdle. “Yes, indeed, Inspector, my badge of office. I was lost without them.”
“Sister, this dead boy, William Tewn, did you know him?”
“No, Inspector. I had never heard of him until this morning.”
“Nor seen him before?”
She shook her head. “Never. Nor the two other boys who came over with Mr. Ranby. The students can be seen from the Convent grounds if they are working on their own land, but they’re not usually near enough to identify and I’m sure no Sister would ever…”
“We have to ask any number of questions in our job,” he said placatingly. “And they may seem irrelevant.” But they weren’t, he thought to himself. She had been pale and shaking when she met him at the Convent door this morning after the second murder. He had seen that with his own two eyes, which made it cold, hard evidence.
“Sister, you came later than most to the Convent…”
She bowed her head. “That is so. I’ve been professed for only ten years now.”
It was quite comical to see Woman-Sergeant Perkins doing a quick calculation of Sister Lucy’s age on the material available to her.
“Happy years?” queried Sloan.
“Everything was very strange at first, Inspector, but it gradually becomes a very rewarding way of life.”
“Most of your—er—colleagues came here straight from school—it is permitted then to enter later?”
She nodded. “It is permitted, Inspector. It does not happen very often. I had not intended to become a nun when I left school, you see, but my aunt—I was brought up by an aunt—she was able to get dispensation from the Very Reverend Mother General.”
“I see,” said Sloan. “Thank you, Sister.”
He didn’t see, but Sergeant Perkins did.
“What’s a good-looking woman like that doing in a Convent?” she asked shrewdly, when Sister Lucy had retired. “There’s waste for you. Put her into a decent frock and she’ll still stop the traffic. I’ll bet she’s got good legs, too…”
“We shall never know,” said Sloan. “Shall we?”
“Of course,” went on Sergeant Perkins, “all that shy stuff that they play at—eyebrow fluttering, not looking at you and that sort of thing—that’s all very fetching anyway, but she’s a real good-looker, isn’t she?”
“It’s double murder we’re investigating,” said Sloan dryly. “Not abduction. And it wasn’t the good-looking one that bought it either. It was the one with the fifty per cent holding in Cartwright’s Consolidated Chemicals.”
“And she was plain?”
“Not as bad as some we’ve seen this afternoon,” said Sloan fairly, “but plain enough.”
Sergeant Perkins sighed. “So it wasn’t her Sir Galahad at Vespers, disguised as a nun and come to rescue her?”
“If it was anyone at all,” said Sloan, “it was the murderer.”
“Like the joke says?”
“What joke?”
Sergeant Perkins opened her eyes wide. “Haven’t you heard it, sir?”
“Not yet,” said Sloan grimly, “but I’m going to. Now,” he looked from one to the other, “Crosby, have you heard it?”
“Yes, sir. Often.” He coughed bashfully. “They sing it every time I go into the canteen.”
“Do they indeed? Suppose you sing it to me now…”
“Not sing it, sir. I can’t sing.”
“I want to hear it, Crosby, and fast.”
Crosby cleared his throat and managed a sort of chant:
“You may kiss a nun once,
You may kiss a nun twice,
But you mustn’t get into the habit.”
17
« ^ »
That you, Sloan?”
Sloan held the Convent telephone receiver at a distance suitable for the superintendent’s bellow.
“Leeyes here,” said the voice unnecessarily.
“ ‘Evening, sir.”
“Just to let you know,” trumpeted the superintendent, “that the rest of the Force haven’t been idle while you’ve been sitting around in that Parlour with Sergeant Perkins.”
“And fifty nuns, sir.”
Leeyes chose not to hear this. “We’ve got Hobbett for you.”
“Good,” said Sloan warmly. “I want a few words with him.”
“They picked him up in The Dog and Duck just after opening time.”
“Keep him, sir, I’ll be back.”
“I wasn’t proposing to let him go, Sloan, though he’s invoking everyone you’ve ever heard of. And then some. They tell me he’d hardly had time to sink his first pint and he’s very cross.”
“That suits us nicely, sir. Can you leave him to cool off while I go on from here to the Institute? There’s something I want to ask them there.”
“I don’t mind, Sloan, though I dare say the Station Sergeant might. However, you can make your own peace with him later. Talking of Sergeants, Sloan…”
“Sir…?”
“Sergeant Gelden’s turned up at last. With that bigamist. Silly fool.”
It was only fairly safe to assume he meant the bigamist.
“Do you want him back instead of Crosby?”
Sloan sighed. “No, sir. Not at this stage. I’ll keep Crosby now I’ve got him, but if you can spare Gelden I’d very much like him to go to West Laming for me.”
“Tonight?” They would have finished the nineteenth hole too before the superintendent got to the golf club. “Funny place to send a man on a Saturday night.”
“Yes, sir.” Sloan turned through the pages of his notebook, peering at his own handwriting. The electric light bulbs in this corridor couldn’t be a watt over twenty-five. “I want him to find out all he can about a Miss Felicity Ferling, who left there about ten years ago.”
“I suppose you know what you’re doing, Sloan.”
“Yes, sir.” Someone had once said, “Never apologise, never explain.” Someone with more self-confidence than he had. Disraeli, was it? “And tell him,” added Sloan boldly, “to ring me from there. Not to wait until he gets back.”
“He won’t get back, not tonight anyway. It must be the best part of ninety miles away.”
“Yes, sir, but if he starts now I should hear from him before ten.”
The superintendent came in on another tack. “Getting anywhere with all those women?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” parried Sloan. “They’re a strange crew. Not like ordinary witnesses at all. They don’t wonder about anything because they don’t think it’s right.”