Convent on Styx (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “What you tell me is extremely interesting, Inspector. To return to Sister Marcellus, have you decided why she did not receive one of the letters?”

  The inspector grinned.

  “I reckon she’d have marched straight up to Miss Lipscombe and challenged her,” he said. “She wouldn’t be the sort to worry about proof, and the general feeling was that Miss Lipscombe was the poison-pen and, what’s more, nervous of being found out and exposed. I can’t see Sister Marcellus mincing her words—she’s a very outspoken lady and not, I would say, quite so educated as the other nuns—and she’d have taken good care to tear her off a strip in front of witnesses. I can see her lambasting Miss Lipscombe good and proper, can’t you?”

  At this moment a tall man of about forty came up to them and raised his hat to Dame Beatrice. The inspector said, “Good morning, sir. Dame Beatrice, this is the Chairman of our Bench, Mr. Fennell. I think you’ve met his good lady. Mr. Fennell, Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley.”

  “I thought it must be,” said the tall man. “Well, Cramond, what do you mean by letting the jury get away with a verdict like that?”

  “I know, sir. Pitiful. No real examination of the evidence at all. The coroner had made up his mind beforehand, I would think. Didn’t want the convent let in for a lot of stink, I suppose. He’s Sister Mary Fabian’s uncle, you know.”

  “Come, come! A little discretion, Cramond!”

  “Oh, that’s off the record, sir. What verdict would you have preferred?”

  “Murder, of course. And now, if she’ll permit me, I’m going to take Dame Beatrice out to lunch.”

  Over the luncheon table Dame Beatrice took stock of her host. She saw a broad-shouldered man, probably in his early forties or about to enter them—a blue-eyed man with reddish hair, a high-coloured complexion, and a resolute mouth that could relax into kindliness and good humour.

  Fennell saw a formidable old lady who could be anything between seventy and ninety, small and thin, with sharp black eyes which he was convinced would miss nothing and, having summed up what they saw, would regard it with resignation and amusement. Apart from her costume, which was of a particularly villainous shade of green topped off by a purple silk shirt-blouse, other noticeable features were her yellow, claw-like hands, her shrewd, beaky little mouth, and the unnerving cackle with which she received his lighter remarks.

  She also had a beautiful speaking-voice and Fennell, who combined with a feeling for architecture a great love of music, thought that in her youth she could have been a contralto of some note, if her meagre-seeming body had had sufficient power for the concert hall.

  The head-waiter, who seemed to know Fennell well, had given them a table in a secluded little alcove, so, when they had ordered and been served, Fennell got down to the serious matter of discussing the death of Lilian Charlotte Lipscombe.

  “I’ve been talking to my wife about this business,” he said. “She was confident that the verdict would be suicide. This theory of accidental death is ridiculous. I’m very sure of that.”

  “Your reasons for your certainty would interest me.”

  “I’ve a strong feeling that yours will go along with them. What was an elderly, nervous woman doing down by that pond after dark?”

  “Did you ever wonder whether some of the anonymous letters hinted at blackmail?”

  “So that’s what you think! No, it certainly had never occurred to me. It opens up possibilities, what?”

  “Of a kind.”

  “And the blackmailer met her by appointment and murdered her? To my mind, it’s a likelier story than that she tumbled into the pond by accident and got drowned. Have you mentioned it to the inspector?”

  “I fancy he would have thought of it for himself, but for the fact that she was in what appear to have been her nightclothes. All the same, she could have been walking in her sleep, and, that being so, could have followed the path which leads past the pond. Therefore the theory of a slip in the dark, resulting in a fatal accident, cannot be ruled out altogether, I suppose, doubtful though it seems.”

  “Yet, surely, if all she did was to slip and take a toss into the water, she could have scrambled out again? That pond isn’t like a gravel-pit. It doesn’t shelve steeply enough to be dangerous, however deep it may be in the middle.”

  “True. How I wish I could see one of the more violent of the letters, or one that uttered threats. I have seen those sent to the nuns, but, although they are spiteful, ill-natured, and unseemly (considering that the recipients belong to a religious community) they are neither obscene nor threatening. The secular members of the school staff all seem to have destroyed their letters, as seems natural enough under the circumstances. From what I am told, however, they were far more objectionable than anything that was sent to the nuns. I feel there is something to be learned from that fact.”

  “My wife had one of the letters. She, like the other women teachers, destroyed it. It wasn’t anything very terrible, though. In fact, we laughed about it.”

  “Yes, I know. I also know . . .”

  “That another letter, making the same accusation against Frances, was sent to me? That is so. But, although it was similar in substance, it was couched in very different terms. It was so very nasty, in fact, that I kept it. I firmly intended to take it to the police, but my wife persuaded me to procrastinate. Then, of course, that wretched old creature was drowned, and so added another dimension to the beastly business.”

  “Have you still got your letter?”

  “Oh, yes, I have, and you shall see it if you wish, but it won’t throw any light upon the matter of Miss Lipscombe’s death. Unless, of course,” he added, “you think I murdered the foul-minded old crone. I could have done so, too, and with pleasure!”

  “The suggestion is yours, not mine I should be most interested to read your letter.”

  “It’s pretty hot stuff, let me warn you.”

  “I am not easily shocked.”

  “Right, then. Would you care to come back to my house and look it over as soon as we’ve finished our lunch?”

  “Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, when she had read the letter in the Fennells’ large, light, charming drawing room, “poetical, profane, picturesque, and pagurian.”

  “Pagurian?” queried Fennell.

  “Partaking of the nature of the hermit-crab.”

  “Ah, yes. An apt description of the Miss Lipscombes of this world, you think. They have no protection of their own, so they make for an empty shell—in her case, a room in a convent. What else do you think about the letter?”

  “I think—in fact, I am sure that most of the expressions and objurgations in it can be found in the Authorised Version of the Old Testament. Did you know that Miss Lipscombe’s massive Family Bible was dragged from the pond after her body was found on the brink?”

  “Oh? So the death could have been accidental, after all. I suppose her idea was to get rid of the evidence—my wife told me there had been some pretty plain speaking in the common room at the end of last term—and in throwing the book (I know these old Family Bibles; they have brass corners and brass fasteners and weigh about a hundredweight!) she could have slipped and fallen in and maybe stunned herself if her head collided with one of the brass-bound corners of the book.”

  “There are two points which make that deduction unlikely. There was no injury to the head or any other part of the body. Moreover, the book was found in four feet of water in the middle of the pond, where she could hardly have struck her head on it. Again, unless she was prepared to wade up to her waist in muddy water, she could not have put the heavy book into the middle of the pond. As a matter of fact, we are almost certain that she got young Mr. Chassett—Quince found him carrying the Bible—to get rid of it for her some days before her death.”

  “Suicide, then, you think?”

  “For what reason? Once she had rid herself of the evidence she had nothing to fear. Oh, no, I am sure she was murdered, but whether the murder was premedita
ted, or whether it was done on the spur of the moment, I imagine we shall never know.”

  “Then you know who the murderer is!”

  “Far from it. I think a man is a likelier suspect than a woman. Miss Lipscombe may have been elderly, but I do not receive the impression that she was frail. Some old ladies are remarkably tough, you know.”

  “That brings us back to the three men on the staff.”

  “And Quince himself, of course. A person who states that he has found a body is always open to suspicion, no matter how soon that suspicion can be dissipated or shown to be groundless.”

  “You don’t really suspect Tom Quince?”

  “Well, let us say that in fairness to others I feel I should keep him in mind.”

  “How much longer do you propose to stay at the convent?”

  “I shall need to consult Sister St. Elmo as to that. I am going to suggest that I leave tomorrow, provided she is satisfied that the business of the anonymous letters is now cleared up without any help from me.”

  “Well, look, if you do leave tomorrow, my wife and I would be delighted if you would put in a week or two with us.”

  “Extremely kind of you,” said Dame Beatrice. “I should very much like to see more of this business.”

  “If the poor wretched woman was murdered, so should I, although this”—he flipped a finger at the letter that Dame Beatrice had laid down—“doesn’t make me feel inclined to pity her.”

  “No, but I think something more lies behind her death than, so far, we know.”

  “Most likely. After all, we don’t know much, do we?”

  Dame Beatrice returned to the convent to find Sister Marcellus hovering in the entrance hall.

  “Oh, Dame Beatrice,” she said, “Sister St. Elmo is anxious to speak to you. I have been on duty here for the past hour so that I could waylay you as soon as you came in. You called me a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord and I am sure that my poor legs are at His disposal at all times, but it seems they are now at the disposal of Sister St. Elmo; not that I complain, of course. My obedience is required of me and if I am asked to use up my strength in doing unreasonable things, there is nothing for it but to realise that in heaven all will be rewarded. But we must not lose time. Sister is in her office, so if you would please to come this way . . .”

  Sister St. Elmo was seated behind her desk. In the easy chair was a formally dressed man who might have been (and was) the managing director of a prosperous business house. He rose, and the prioress performed the introductions and sent Sister Marcellus to bring in another chair.

  “Mr. Cartwright has come along with a strange and perturbing story,” said Sister St. Elmo. “At the end of last term he wrote to ask us to keep his two little daughters for a matter of a fortnight or so while his young son was getting over an infectious illness.”

  “The worst of youngsters in the Easter term is the way they catch things,” said Cartwright, smiling. “Half the boys at his prep school went down with measles, so they sent John home; but he collected the virus just the same. As the two girls hadn’t had it, we thought it better they should stay away until the house was clear of infection.”

  “Ah, thank you, Sister,” said the prioress, as Sister Marcellus, with a martyred air, came in with a small fireside-type chair of which Cartwright relieved her. “Close the door behind you, would you? And make sure we are not disturbed, please. Now, Mr. Cartwright, perhaps you will tell Dame Beatrice your story.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The Cartwright Contribution

  “Such brats—oh, dear me, such brats! I sadly want a reform in the construction of children. Nature’s only idea seems to make them machines for the production of incessant noise.”

  Wilkie Collins

  “We had no cause to feel perturbed in any way,” said the father, “until Cecilia and Angela heard about Miss Lipscombe’s death. Perhaps we ought to have tried to keep it from them, but they have always had access to books and newspapers and, in any case, if they had heard the news in no other way, they would certainly have heard the rumours which I’ve no doubt are flying round the school.”

  “Well, of course, we had the police in, as you know,” said Sister St. Elmo. “Sister Hilary was much against their questioning the children, but Inspector Cramond was insistent and she felt she could not gainsay him, as the pond where Miss Lipscombe was found is in the school grounds, though out-of-bounds to the girls unless a member of staff is with them.”

  “Oh, I realise that Sister Hilary had no option,” said Cartwright. “It’s an offence to obstruct the police in the execution of their duty. The point is that my daughter Cecilia, the eleven-year-old, came home from school in a state of excitement that day. She told us that the police had been to the school, but the inspector does not appear to have told the girls that a body had been found drowned in the pond; he merely questioned them about the pond itself. Of course nobody confessed to having been anywhere near it and I daresay that was the truth. Later, Cecilia seems to have learned of Miss Lipscombe’s death and for the past few days she has appeared to be worried and preoccupied and has had frightening dreams, it seems.

  “In the end I asked what was troubling her. I thought she might be in hot water at school and did not want her mother and me to know about it. This, however, would have surprised me, as our children have always been open and straightforward with us. Her mother was hurt as well as surprised, but I said that we ought not to try to force confidences.”

  “How old are your daughters?” asked Dame Beatrice. “Eleven and . . .?”

  “Eleven and nine. They have been brought up in the Catholic Faith, from the beginning. My wife comes of Catholic stock. I myself am a convert. Sometimes I think Catholic children are both older and younger than their actual age. From the age of seven, for instance, they go to Confession, which, to my mind, is a pretty mature kind of behaviour to expect from them. On the other hand, I think we tend to place far too much stress on the innocence of childhood. I don’t see children as pure and happy little creatures. I think the majority of them are rather murky little devils who are also capable of feeling far greater unhappiness than most adults. We have learned, over the years, to cope with our personal demons and to grow a skin thick enough to allow us to get through life without actual, or at any rate obvious, disaster.”

  “So what brought matters to a head?”

  “It appears that, after Confession yesterday, Cecilia asked Father MacNicol—he is our parish priest as well as father-confessor to the convent—whether she might speak to him privately.”

  “Something which could not be said in the Confessional?”

  “Yes. She knew that the priest could take no action over something he had heard at Confession and she badly wanted him to take action. He took her along to the presbytery, phoned my wife to let her know where the child was, listened to her story, and sent her home with instructions to tell us all about it.”

  “Which she did?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. She would not disobey Father MacNicol. I don’t think I would, either.”

  “And now you have come to tell this story to Sister St. Elmo.”

  “And I particularly want you to hear it, Dame Beatrice,” said the prioress. “I am not a psychologist . . .”

  “No?” said Dame Beatrice, giving an eldritch cackle which slightly startled her hearers. “As our American friends would say, I’m not sure I go along with that. But I interrupted you.”

  “I was going to remark that you are likely to be a better judge than I am concerning the truth of the child’s story.”

  “She isn’t lying,” said the father quickly.

  “No, no, of course not. I am not for a moment suggesting such a thing. But young children are easily frightened, especially after dark. Also they have vivid and sometimes treacherous imaginations. Then, again, the child was in a strange house . . .” said Sister St. Elmo.

  “And, from what she told us, she and her sister had listened to som
e sort of hobgoblin stuff from another child. I know all that, but I don’t think that her story was based on imagination. I think she did see something that night and I think an investigation should be made. I hope Dame Beatrice will agree with me.”

  “Perhaps when I have heard the story . . .”

  “Quite. Now, as I said just now, I can well imagine that Cecilia was in an unsettled frame of mind because of the bogeyman story she had heard earlier in the week about a green-faced man who peered in at windows. The consequence was that, knowing both children to be nervous, Sister very kindly moved them to an upstairs room.”

  “I was persuaded largely by Sister Marcellus and Miss Lipscombe to do so,” said the prioress. “I doubt whether I should have thought of it by myself, particularly as it had been suggested to me previously and I had rejected the idea.”

  “Why?” Dame Beatrice enquired. “Why did you reject it?”

  “Chiefly for domestic reasons, such as the airing of mattresses, which would have needed to be carried downstairs and then upstairs again. I considered that this would make unnecessary work for Quince and Sister Marcellus.”

  “Oh, yes, I see.”

  “I also thought that, in a strange and very large house, the children would prefer to share a room rather than be separated at night.”

  “Most reasonable and kind. By the way, did Sister Marcellus and Miss Lipscombe combine forces, so to speak, to try to persuade you to put the children on the first floor instead of on the ground floor?”

  “Oh, no. Their arguments in favour of my doing so were different. Sister Marcellus thought that the children were frightened—quite rightly, as it turned out—on the ground floor. Miss Lipscombe decided they were a menace to her peace and quiet, though she claimed they might not be safe in a ground floor room whose window was kept open at the top and where the bars to that window were removable. It was an air raid exit during the war, you see, when we had school boarders living here, and we let it remain as an emergency exit in case of fire.”