The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Anthony stared at the jagged piece of paper thoughtfully. Written on it was what was obviously the end of five lines.

  are of:

  nie,

  teu [or was that ieu?]

  nes,

  ain.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Atkinson, peering at the scrap in Anthony’s hand.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Anthony thoughtfully. He took out his handkerchief and, laying the paper on the linen, looked round for something to protect it.

  A few cookery books were on a shelf near the range. Standing up, he put the handkerchief between the pages of The Bakewell Book of Practical Household Management and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  Sergeant Atkinson shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t think you should do that, sir. Remove evidence from the scene of the crime, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Anthony, patting his pocket. ‘This is going straight to the Assistant Commissioner.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Sir Douglas Lynton watched with keen interest as Anthony took his handkerchief from between the pages of The Bakewell Book of Practical Household Management and unfolded it on his desk.

  His face fell as he saw the small scrap of paper. ‘Is that it, Dr Brooke?’ He prodded the handkerchief with distaste. ‘It’s very stained.’

  ‘That’s blood, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Anthony quietly.

  Tara gave a little cry. She and Sir Charles had stayed at Scotland Yard, waiting for Anthony to return from Paddington. Although it was only quarter to nine in the evening, she was desperately weary after the events of the afternoon. The sight of Bertha Maybrick coming at her with a knife and Father Quinet falling to the ground was one she would take a long time to forget. Yes, she was tired, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to rest until Anthony returned.

  She’d hoped he’d return with answers. Ideally Bertha would have been arrested and even now be telling them what they so desperately wanted to know. Where was Milly? What was the plan? How could it be stopped? And now there was nothing. Nothing but another murder and this bloodstained scrap of paper.

  Anthony turned to her and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘We know who we’re looking for. Harper’s a hunted man and I’m certain this paper can tell us something.’

  ‘I admire your optimism, Brooke,’ said Charles Talbot dryly. He adjusted the desk lamp so the light fell squarely on the paper. ‘“Are of”?’ he said, reading the first line. ‘Well, it’s in English, at any rate. The rest looks French.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘It’s not much, Brooke, you have to admit.’

  It was the sense of unfairness that made Tara sit up. After what Anthony had done, it seemed wrong that all his efforts should have been for nothing and doubly unfair that Sir Douglas Lynton and Charles Talbot should dismiss the piece of paper as worthless.

  Leaning forward, she glared at the scrap. She felt a mulish determination to make it mean something. ‘It has to be important. When Harper saw it he stopped arguing and …’ She broke off with a shudder.

  ‘I know,’ said Anthony softly. ‘That’s what she said to him. I know.’

  ‘The question is, what did she know?’ asked Sir Charles practically. ‘Are you sure she didn’t give any hint?’

  ‘Did she know about the Jowett murders, for instance?’ asked Sir Douglas.

  Anthony nodded. ‘Yes, she did.’ Sir Douglas looked up alertly. ‘She accused him of murdering the Jowetts. I couldn’t hear what he said, but he certainly didn’t deny it.’

  Talbot cocked an eyebrow at Anthony. ‘D’you think that’s it? That she had proof Harper murdered the Jowetts?’

  Anthony shook his head impatiently. ‘I’m sure there’s more to it. Harper asked, “What do you know?” and she replied with a tirade against Annie.’

  ‘Annie Colbeck, I presume,’ murmured Talbot.

  ‘That’s right. She was horribly jealous of her. She threatened to show the police the letter, or whatever it was, which would incriminate both him and Annie.’

  ‘It’s the Jowett murders,’ said Sir Douglas confidently. ‘I’m blest if I know why it’s written in French, but that’s my opinion. She’d got hold of some written proof of their complicity.’

  Talbot looked at Anthony once more. ‘Well, Brooke? Is that it?’

  Tara stared at the paper. The second word leapt out at her: nie. ‘It’s nothing to do with the Jowetts,’ she broke in. She was absolutely certain. ‘Anthony, remember how this started. Annie Colbeck and Joshua Harper were plotting to kidnap Milly.’

  Sir Douglas sighed disbelievingly but both Tara and Anthony ignored him.

  ‘It has to be Milly they’re after,’ Anthony agreed. ‘There can’t be two children in the occupied territories looked after by a Sister Marie-Eugénie.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Tara triumphantly. She tapped her finger on the desk next to the scrap of paper. ‘Nie! That’s what the second word is. It has to be Eugénie.’ She glanced at her husband and saw his faint smile. ‘You thought so too, didn’t you?’

  ‘It occurred to me,’ agreed Anthony. ‘Of course it did, Tara, but how on earth can we prove it?’

  ‘We can’t,’ she said simply. ‘Not unless the police catch Harper, but we can guess. Eugénie,’ she repeated fretfully and then, her finger beside the torn scrap, read the first words. ‘“Are of …”’

  She shook herself in irritation. ‘It doesn’t make sense. “Are of”, with a colon, something, something, Sister Marie-Eugénie.’

  Maybe it was because she was so tired, but the words seem to blaze in her mind. Are of. Are of … She gave a little gasp. It all made sense! ‘Anthony! It’s not are of. It’s care of!’

  Anthony looked up sharply. ‘Tara! You’re a genius! Care of. Of course. And look! There’s a colon after the of.’

  Charles Talbot cleared his throat. ‘Can you tell me why you’re so excited about the punctuation?’

  ‘Because a colon comes before a list. Tara, you’re wonderful!’

  Again, understanding seemed to blaze. ‘The list,’ said Tara, wriggling with excitement, ‘it’s an address! It has to be an address.’

  ‘Has to be?’ queried Sir Douglas doubtfully.

  ‘Of course it’s an address. Don’t you see?’ She fought to put her thoughts in order. ‘The sentence probably said something along the lines of, “The child is in the care of” and then it gives Sister Whatsit’s name and where to find her.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Tara,’ said Anthony enthusiastically. ‘Talbot? Do you agree?’

  Talbot cupped his chin in his hand. ‘I think it’s a reasonable supposition,’ he said eventually. ‘We know Harper and Annie Colbeck’s scheme involves Sister Marie-Eugénie. It’s very reasonable indeed they’d have a note of her name and address.’

  ‘That’s why the rest of the missing words are French,’ said Tara. ‘It’s a French address, of course.’

  Sir Douglas frowned at the paper. ‘I’ll grant you it’s French, Mrs Brooke. I’ll agree, too, that it might be part of an address, but what good is it? If it is an address, we need rather more of it.’

  Charles Talbot lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. ‘Let me get this straight. Harper and Colbeck plotted to kidnap a child, a plot that involves murder. Now, according to Mrs Brooke, Bertha Maybrick obtained written proof of the plot.’

  ‘She’d have copied it out,’ said Tara.

  Anthony tapped the scrap of paper. ‘She obviously treated it with care. She didn’t have it in her handbag, or I’d have seen it when I searched her bag in Grace Russell’s flat. She kept it at home.’

  Sir Charles nodded once more. ‘Agreed. The sight of that letter drove Harper to murder. He couldn’t allow Bertha Maybrick to live in possession of that knowledge.’

  He blew out a long mouthful of smoke. ‘If we can work out the rest of this address, then we can find both Sister Marie-Eugénie and Milly and get to the bottom of this damned plot.’

  Sir Douglas looked sce
ptical. ‘That’s a dickens of a lot of assumptions you’re making, Talbot.’

  Sir Charles shrugged. ‘It’s as Mrs Brooke said. All we can do is guess.’ He pulled the scrap of paper towards him. ‘We’ve got the first and second words, I believe. Care of and Sister Marie-Eugénie. How about the third? Teu or ieu. It must be the name of a place or town.’

  Douglas Lynton puffed his cheeks out in dismissal. ‘We’ve fallen at the first fence. How many towns and villages in France are there that end in teu or ieu? Such as …’

  He stopped as his knowledge of French place names came to an abrupt halt. ‘Dash it, I don’t know, but there must be dozens of places. Hundreds, even, if you include all the villages and hamlets. It doesn’t even have to be in France! It could easily be in Belgium or anywhere else they speak French. The job’s impossible.’

  ‘Not in the occupied territories,’ said Anthony. ‘We know it’s in the occupied territories. This is so important, surely it’s worth setting a few clerks to work with a decent atlas.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a place name,’ said Tara quietly.

  The three men looked at her quizzically.

  ‘I’m Irish and Catholic,’ she said. ‘I know about nuns. The name comes first and then the order they’re in, such as the Little Sisters of the Poor or the Sisters of Notre Dame.’

  ‘So what we’re looking for,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘is an order of nuns that ends in teu or ieu.’ He looked at Sir Douglas with a smile. ‘I don’t suppose Scotland Yard has a list of orders of nuns?’

  Sir Douglas shook his head. ‘No, we don’t. I can’t ever recall needing such a thing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t look to Scotland Yard to track down nuns,’ said Talbot with a grin. ‘After all, the good and holy nuns, as we used to refer to them in Ireland, are not the first group you’d look to for members of the criminal classes. No,’ he added reflectively, ‘I think you’re right, Mrs Brooke.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s just coming up to nine o’clock. Let’s pay a visit to Westminster Cathedral.’

  Douglas Lynton stayed at Scotland Yard, hoping for news of Harper, leaving Talbot and Anthony to take Tara home – she was desperately tired – and go onto the cathedral. Sir Douglas didn’t, Anthony could tell, believe their search would uncover anything useful.

  Like most Londoners, Anthony had never been inside Westminster Cathedral. As a matter of fact, he thought, he couldn’t remember even seeing the building. That was odd.

  The oddity was explained as the cab left the bustle of Victoria Street and plunged into a maze of small streets and huddled houses to emerge a minute or so later, in front of a shallow flight of steps leading up to the arched doorway of a building that could only be described as huge. The cathedral might be huge, but it was completely hidden amongst the surrounding buildings.

  Dismissing the taxi, they entered by the side door. Inside, the cathedral seemed, if anything, bigger. The interior, of undecorated brick and grey slabs, illuminated by small pools of candlelight, seemed to stretch into the far distance. Anthony changed his mental description from huge to vast.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Anthony saw there were people in the church, kneeling or sitting in silent prayer.

  ‘We need a priest,’ muttered Sir Charles. He brightened as he saw an elderly, aesthetic looking man in a dark suit with a clerical collar, book in hand, kneeling in a pew. He approached and stood politely by as the priest finished his prayers.

  ‘Can we have a word, Father?’ asked Sir Charles quietly. ‘I need some assistance with an enquiry. I’m working with Scotland Yard.’

  The priest’s eyebrows shot up in alarm at the mention of Scotland Yard. ‘We’re bound by the secrecy of the confessional, you understand. If it’s a criminal matter—’ he began.

  ‘We need to find a nun,’ chipped in Anthony. ‘It’s urgent.’

  The priest gazed at them, obviously wondering if he was dealing with the merely eccentric or outright lunatics. ‘Scotland Yard is after a nun?’

  Sir Charles smiled reassuringly. ‘We’re not accusing a nun of anything criminal, you understand, but she has some information that could be vital to Scotland Yard.’

  The elderly priest eyed them cautiously, then stood up. ‘You’d better come through to the house.’

  The priest whose name, he told them, was Barrett, led them through a narrow doorway into a covered walk which joined the cathedral to the archbishop’s house.

  He opened a door and, going into the room, lit the gas. As the light flared, Anthony could see it was part office, part sitting room, with well-worn leather chairs and the familiar odour of pipe smoke.

  ‘Now then,’ said Father Barrett, ushering them in. ‘What on earth is this all about?’

  They started to explain. Anthony said nothing about Milly. It was far easier, as Sir Charles had said, to represent their quest purely as a desire for information appertaining to a murder enquiry. That made sense as the scrap of paper had been found in the dead woman’s hand.

  Father Barrett listened intently. When he heard that Bertha Maybrick was the woman who had knifed Father Quinet, he sat up alertly. ‘I saw the assault reported in the stop press of the newspaper. To attack a priest on the steps of his own church is truly shocking. It’s as bad as any story of the outrages in Belgium. And this woman, this Bertha Maybrick, has been murdered, you say?’

  ‘By the leader of her gang,’ said Anthony.

  ‘A gang?’ exclaimed Father Barrett in horror. He stared at them. ‘You’ll excuse me, gentlemen, but I fail to see how this Sister Marie-Eugénie or, indeed, any nun, will be of use in tracking down a gang of murderous criminals.’

  Put like that, it did seem unlikely. ‘I employed Bertha Maybrick,’ said Anthony, editing the facts smoothly. ‘That’s how I know about Sister Marie-Eugénie.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I cannot comprehend what connection Sister Marie-Eugénie can possibly have with this matter.’ He ran his hand round his chin. ‘Naturally I want to do everything in my power to assist Scotland Yard, but, on the other hand, I am loath to subject any lady, and especially a nun, to police questioning. In fact, I fear I must, with the greatest regret, decline to assist you.’

  His thin face set in a worried frown. Anthony sighed inwardly. He felt he knew Father Barrett’s type: principled, cranky, devoid of imagination and completely obstinate once his mind had been made up. The trouble was that even if they told him the whole truth he would never believe it. So …

  ‘I’d be obliged if you would keep this to yourself, Father,’ said Anthony, lowering his voice conspiratorially, ‘as we don’t want to cause alarm, but what we’re really worried about is that this gang are maniacs – rabidly anti-religious French maniacs – who have a passionate hatred of the clergy. Roman Catholic clergy.’ It was easier, he thought, to believe in a group of foreign rather than British lunatics. ‘We have reason to believe Sister Marie-Eugénie could be their next victim.’

  ‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed the priest. ‘That seems utterly incredible.’

  It was, of course, but they didn’t correct his view.

  ‘So if we could trouble you for a list of orders of nuns?’ prompted Sir Charles gently. ‘Sister Marie-Eugénie could be in grave danger.’

  ‘Eh? What?’ He wavered. ‘In the circumstances, I suppose it would be permissible. French maniacs, you say? Incredible.’

  Still muttering, he got up and walked to the bookcase and, after some deliberation, pulled down a directory. ‘This will only list the religious orders, you understand,’ he said. ‘Records of individual nuns will be held by their mother house.’

  ‘This will do fine,’ said Sir Charles, taking the book. ‘It is a complete list, isn’t it, Father?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Sir Charles took the heavy book and laid it open so the gaslight shone on it. Anthony groaned inwardly as he saw the closely printed pages. He doggedly started to run his finger down the list of names.

&nb
sp; ‘Which order are you looking for?’ asked Father Barrett.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Anthony. With a glance at Sir Charles, he took the copied list of partial words from his pocket and laid it on the desk. ‘We know this refers to Sister Marie-Eugénie,’ he explained, pointing to the nie, ‘but the other words, which we’re assuming to be her address, are a puzzle. As I explained earlier, all we do know is that Sister Marie-Eugénie’s order ends in the teu or ieu.’

  ‘Ieu,’ repeated Father Barrett, pulled, despite himself, into the search. ‘The first French word that occurs to me which ends in ieu is Dieu.’

  ‘God!’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Father Barrett.

  Anthony sighed. ‘There must be dozens of orders called the something or other of God.’

  Father Barrett shook his head. ‘No. Funnily enough, there aren’t. Indeed, I can’t think of any at all.’

  ‘We need to find God,’ said Anthony, bending over the list.

  ‘So do we all,’ said Father Barrett, with an unexpected flash of humour.

  Anthony grinned and returned to the list. It seemed endless but, just as Father Barrett had said, there seemed to be no orders ending in the word Dieu.

  ‘You’re quite right, Father,’ he said. ‘These orders have names like the Sisters of Mount Carmel or the Society of the Divine Saviour.’

  ‘The Carmelites and Salvatorians,’ muttered Sir Charles, much to Father Barrett’s surprise. Then both he and Anthony saw the name at the same time.

  ‘Sæurs de la Miséricorde Bénie de Dieu,’ exclaimed Sir Charles.

  ‘Sisters of the Blessed Mercy of God,’ translated Anthony slowly. ‘Tara was right. The ieu is an order of nuns. Are there any other orders that end in Dieu, Talbot?’

  They quickly ran through the rest of the directory. To Anthony’s surprise but gratification, the Sisters of the Blessed Mercy of God were the sole order whose name ended in Dieu.

  ‘Where’s the Mother House?’ asked Father Barrett.

  ‘It’s in St Maur,’ said Anthony. ‘It was established in 1803 by Eugénie Varennes,’ he said, reading the entry, ‘for the care and education of orphans. Orphans,’ he repeated, looking at Sir Charles. ‘That fits.’