“Then what happened?”
“After Office the Sister Infirmarium went to her cell to see if she was unwell.”
“And?”
“She reported to me that her cell was empty.”
“Had her bed been slept in?”
“I do not think Sister Infirmarium would have been in a position to know that. All the beds are made by the Sisters themselves…”
“It might have been warm.” Sloan shifted his weight on the hard chair. “You can usually tell with your hand even if the bed has been aired—especially in winter.”
The Mother Superior’s manner stiffened perceptibly. “I do not suppose such a procedure occurred to Sister Infirmarium.”
“Of course not,” appeased Sloan hastily. Did he imagine the priest’s sympathetic glance? For all he knew “bed” might be a taboo word in this Convent— in any Convent. Probably was. He took refuge in a formula. “I should like to see Sister Inf… Infirmarium presently. And this Sister Peter.”
“Ah, yes, Sister Peter.” The Reverend Mother’s eyes rested reflectively on the inspector. “The blood seems to have appeared on her thumb before Mass, and some of it was transferred to the Gradual during the service…”
“You left it?” interrupted Sloan.
“Yes, Inspector,” she said gently, “we left it for you.”
“What did you do when you were told about the blood and that Sister Anne was missing?”
“I asked Sister Lucy here to help look for her.”
“Just Sister Lucy?”
“At first. A Convent is a busy place, Inspector.”
“Yes, marm, I’m sure”—untruthfully.
“When their search failed to reveal her in any of the places where she might have been expected to have been taken ill, I asked other Sisters to go over the house and grounds very carefully.”
“I see.”
“This is a big house and it took some time, but, as you know, Sister St. Bernard opened the cellar door and put the light on… you will want to see her, too, I take it?”
“Yes, please, marm.”
“We telephoned Dr. Carret and he came at once. It was he who was so insistent on our leaving her lying on that cold floor.”
“Very right, marm.” He answered the unspoken reproach as best he could. “I’m afraid this will be a police matter until we find out exactly what happened. Tell me, marm, at what time would everyone have gone to bed last night?”
At the boarding school it had been “lights out.”
“Nine o’clock.”
“And after that no one would have gone into anyone else’s bedroom…”
“No one is allowed in anyone else’s cell at any time except the Caller, who is Sister Gertrude, the Infirmarium and myself.”
“I see. Presumably no one checks that the Sisters are in their cells?”
“No.”
This was not, after all, a boarding school.
“I am seeking, marm, to establish when Sister Anne was last seen alive.”
“At Vespers at half past eight.”
“By whom?”
“Sister Michael and Sister Damien. Their stalls are on either side of Sister Anne’s.”
“And you can tell me of nothing that might have caused Sister Anne to leave her cell last night?”
“Nothing. In fact, it is forbidden.”
That, decided Sloan, settled that. For the time being.
“I see, marm, thank you.” He stood up. “Now, if you would be so kind as to get in touch with your—er —head office…”
“Inspector…”
“Yes, marm?” Sloan was ready with a handful of routine phrases about inquests, post-mortems and the like.
The Mother Prioress’s rosary clinked. “It is one of the privileges of Convent life that strangers do not perform the Last Office. We always do that for our own Sisters ourselves.”
It was something that he had never considered.
4
« ^ »
The cellar was quite crowded by the time Sloan and Crosby got back there. Two police photographers had joined the unmerry throng and were heaving heavy cameras about. Dr. Dabbe was still contemplating the body from all angles. The two Sisters were still praying —and the photographers didn’t like it.
“Hey, Inspector,” whispered one of them. “Call your dogs off, can’t you? Giving us the creeps kneeling there. And getting in the way. I want some pictures from over that side but I’m blowed if I’m going on my knees beside them.”
“It might give them the wrong idea, Dyson,” agreed Sloan softly. “They don’t know you as well as I do.” He glanced across the cellar. “They’re not upsetting the doctor.”
“He’s a born exhibitionist. All pathologists are and nothing upsets him. Nothing at all. I sometimes wonder if he’s human.” Dyson screwed a new flash bulb into its socket. “Besides, I don’t want those two figuring in any pix I do take. Or I’ll be spending the rest of my life explaining that they’re not ravens from the Tower of London or the Ku Klux Klan or something.”
“Too much imagination, Dyson, that’s your trouble.”
Nevertheless, he went back upstairs and found Sister Lucy.
“Certainly, Inspector,” she said, when he explained. “I will ask the Sisters to continue their prayers and vigil in the Chapel.”
Sloan murmured that that would do very nicely, thank you.
At a word from her the two Sisters in the cellar rose from their knees in one economical movement, crossed themselves and withdrew.
“That’s better,” said Dyson, changing plates rapidly. “It’s our artistic temperaments, you know, Inspector. Very sensitive to atmosphere.”
“Get on with it,” growled Sloan.
Dyson jerked a finger at his assistant and crouched on his knees in a manner surprisingly reminiscent of that of the two nuns. Instead of having his hands clasped in front of him they held a heavy camera. He pressed a button and, for a moment, the whole cellar became illumined in a harsh, bright light.
A moment later the pathologist came up to him.
“I don’t know about Mr. Fox over there,” said Dr. Dabbe, “but I’ve finished down here for the time being. I’ve got the temperature readings—did you notice she was in a draught, by the way?—and all I need about the position of the body. It’s cold down here but not damp. At the moment I can’t tell you much more than Carret—a good chap, incidentally—that she died yesterday evening sometime. The body is quite cold. You’ll have to wait for more exact details—which is a pity because I dare say it’s important…”
“Yes,” said Sloan.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” He paused. “From what I can see from here there’s a fair bit of post-mortem injury—I think she was dead before she was put in this cellar and then damaged by the fall and so forth.”
“Nice,” said Sloan shortly.
“Very,” agreed the pathologist. “Especially here.”
“Cause of death?”
“Depressed fracture of skull.”
“Can I quote you?”
“Lord, yes. I don’t need her on the table for that. You can see it from here. That’s not to say she hasn’t other injuries as well, but that’ll do for a start, won’t it?”
Sloan nodded gloomily.
Dabbe picked up his hat. “I’ve got a sample of the dust from that step and the shoe—I can tell you a bit more about that later. And the time of death…”
The quiet of the cellar was shattered suddenly by a bell ringing. No sooner had it stopped than they could hear the reverberations of many feet moving about above them.
“In some ways,” observed Sloan sententiously, “this place has much in common with a girls’ boarding school.”
“You don’t say?” Dabbe cast a long, raking glance over the body on the floor. “Of course, I don’t get about as much as you chaps… What’s the bell for? Physical jerks?”