The Religious Body iscm-1

by Catherine Aird

  Sloan was back in the Parlour with Crosby in attendance facing the Reverend Mother with Sister Lucy at her side. Sister St. Bernard was standing between them. There would come a time when he would want to see a nun on her own but that time was not yet. Sister Lucy looked anxious and strained, but the Reverend Mother sat calm and dignified, an air of timelessness about her.

  Sloan was being the perfect policeman talking to the nervous witness. There was no doubt that Sister St. Bernard was nervous. Her damp palms trembled slightly until she hit on the idea of clasping them together in front of her, but she could not keep a faint quaver out of her voice so easily.

  “We were asked to help look for Sister Anne about an hour after Mass this morning in case she had been taken ill anywhere. Sister Lucy and the others were going through the upstairs rooms and Sister Perpetua and I were doing the downstairs ones…”

  Sloan was prepared to bet that Sister Perpetua was as young as Sister St. Bernard and that no one had expected either of them to find the missing Sister.

  “I don’t know what made me open the cellar door… I had been in all the rooms along that corridor and—”

  “Was it closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Properly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it locked?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Oh, yes. It was because it was usually locked that I put the light on when I opened it. Otherwise I don’t think I would have seen Sister Anne.”

  “The door is normally kept locked, Inspector,” explained the Reverend Mother in a very dry voice, “on account of the danger of falling down the steep steps in the dark.”

  “I see, marm, thank you. Then what did you do, Sister?”

  She had done very little, decided Sloan, except give the alarm and encourage the destruction of useful clues by opening and shutting the cellar door and fetching people who went up and down the steps.

  And Sister Peter had been scarcely more helpful.

  When she had gone the Reverend Mother beckoned Sister Lucy to her side. “What was that address?”

  “Seventeen Strelitz Square, Mother.”

  The Mother Prioress nodded. “Inspector, that was the address from which Sister Anne came to us.”

  “It’s a very good one,” said Sloan involuntarily.

  “She was a very good nun,” retorted the Reverend Mother dryly. “It was, of course, some time ago that she left home, but in the normal course of events I would telephone there to establish whether or not she still had relatives.”

  Sloan took a quick look at his watch. “Perhaps I’ll telephone myself, marm.”

  Standing in the dark corridor where the nuns kept their instrument he wondered if it wouldn’t have been wiser to go to London. When he was connected to 17 Strelitz Square he was sure.

  “Mrs. Alfred Cartwright’s residence,” said a female voice.

  “May I speak to Mrs. Cartwright, please?”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “The Convent of St. Anselm.” That would do to begin with.

  “I will enquire if madam is at home.”

  There was a pause. Sloan heard footsteps walking away. Parquet flooring. And then they came back.

  “Madam,” said the female voice, “is Not At Home.”

  “It’s about her daughter,” said Sloan easily. “I think if she knew that she—”

  “Madam has no daughter,” said the voice and rang off.

  Sloan went back to the Parlour. Only Crosby was there now.

  “A bell rang, Inspector, and they both went—just like that. I didn’t know if you wanted me to stop them.”

  “You? Stop them?” said Sloan unkindly. “You couldn’t do it. Now, listen…”

  There was a knock on the Parlour door and Father MacAuley came in.

  “Ah, Inspector, found the glasses?”

  “Not yet, sir,” said Sloan shortly. It was bad enough investigating a death in the alien surroundings of a Convent without having a priest pattering along behind him. And MacAuley wasn’t the only one who wanted to know where Sister Anne’s glasses were. Superintendent Leeyes would be on to their absence in a flash, and a fat lot of good it would be explaining to him that he and Crosby had looked everywhere for them.

  “Did you get anything out of Lady Macbeth?” asked the priest.

  “We confirmed all of Sister Peter’s statements,” said Sloan stiffly.

  “She’s walking up and down the corridor muttering ‘What! Will these hands ne’er be clean?’ ” He squinted at Sloan. “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten that little hand.”

  “No, sir? The Mother Prioress tried an old Army remedy.”

  “She did?”

  “Spud bashing.”

  “A fine leader of women, the Mother Prioress.” Father MacAuley grinned suddenly. “I hear that the chap across the way—Ranby at the Agricultural Institute—he’s gated his students for the evening. All to be in their own grounds by four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Can’t say I blame him for that,” said Sloan. “Last year they burnt down the bus shelter and there was hell to pay.”

  “Nearly set the Post Office on fire, too,” contributed Crosby.

  “Polycarp says all buildings burn well, but Government buildings burn better,” said the priest.

  Sloan rose dismissively. “I don’t think Bonfire Night at the Agricultural Institute will concern us, sir.”

  Wherein he was wrong.

  6

  « ^ »

  It was still damp in the grounds, and for that Sloan was grateful. It meant that the footprints Crosby had found not far from the cellar door were perfectly preserved.

  “Two sets, Inspector.” He straightened his back. They were in the shelter of one of the large rhododendron bushes. “One of them stood for a while in the same place. The earth’s quite soft here…” He slipped out a measure. “Men’s…”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It was a man’s shoe, sir…”

  “But was there a man inside it? Don’t forget that this lot wear men’s shoes—every one of them.”

  Crosby measured the depth. “If it was a woman, it was a heavy one.”

  “Get a cast and we’ll know for certain.” He looked round. “It would be a good enough spot to watch the back of the place from.” From where he was standing he could see the kitchen door, the cellar steps, a splendid collection of dustbins and a small glass door which presumably led to the garden room. A broad path led round towards the front entrance of the house, and along this now was walking the Caller, Sister Gertrude.

  “Inspector, Mother says will you come please? She’s had a letter.”

  “It was handed to Sister Polycarp a few minutes ago,” said the Reverend Mother, “by one of the village children from a gentleman who is staying at The Bull. He says in his letter that he proposes to call at the Convent at four-thirty this afternoon in the hopes of being able to see Sister Anne.”

  “Does he?” said Sloan with interest. “Who is he?”

  The Mother Prioress handed over the letter. “It’s signed ‘Harold Cartwright.’ A relation, presumably.”

  “Do you know him? Has he been here before?”

  She shook her head. “No. I do not recollect Sister Anne having any visitors. Do you, Sister?”

  Sister Lucy looked up. “Never, Mother.”

  “Would she have seen this man in the ordinary way?”

  “Not if she did not wish it, Inspector. Nor if I did not wish it. Sometimes visitors are no great help— especially to young postulants and novices, and are therefore not allowed.”

  “He says here he hopes no objection will be raised to his visit, which is of considerable importance,” said Sloan, quoting the letter.

  “To him,” said the Reverend Mother. “Visitors are rarely important to us. Nevertheless, I think in this instance that we had better ask Sister Polycarp to show him to the Parlour when he comes.
”

  He arrived promptly at four-thirty, a man aged about fifty-five in a dark grey suit. He was heavily built and going grey. He wasted no time in getting to the point.

  “I am Harold Cartwright, the cousin of Sister Anne, and I would very much like to see her for a few moments…”

  “I am afraid,” said the Reverend Mother, “that that will not be possible…”

  “I know,” said the man quickly, “that she probably does not wish to see me or any of her family, but it is on a matter of some importance. That is why I have travelled down here in person rather than written to her…”

  “When did you travel down here?” asked Sloan.

  Cartwright turned. “Last night. I stayed at The Bull.”

  “What time did you arrive?”

  “Is that any concern of—”

  “I am a police officer investigating a sudden death.”

  “I see.” Again the man wasted no time in coming to the point. “I got to The Bull about seven-thirty, had a meal and a drink in the bar and went to bed.”

  “Straight to bed?”

  “No. If you’re interested I went for a quick walk round the village to get a breath of air before going to my room.”

  “I see, sir, thank you.”

  “Mr. Cartwright,” the Mother Prioress inclined her coif slightly, “how long is it since you last saw Sister Anne?”

  “Almost twenty years. I went to another Convent to see her. Hersely, it was.”

  “That would be so. We have a House there.”

  “I went to ask if there was anything she wanted, anything we could do for her.” His mouth twisted. “She said she had everything and I came away again.”

  “Mr. Cartwright, you must be prepared for a shock.”

  He laughed shortly. “I know she’ll be a changed woman. No one’s the same after twenty years. I’m not the same man myself if it comes to that.”

  The Mother Prioress lowered her head. “I have no doubt that great changes have been wrought by the passage of time in you both but that is not the point. I am sorry to have to tell you that the sudden death into which Inspector Sloan is enquiring is that of your cousin, Sister Anne.”

  Harold Cartwright sat very still. “You mean Josephine’s dead?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cartwright.”

  “When?”

  “She died last night.”

  “Why the police?”

  “She was found dead at the foot of a flight of steps.”

  “An accident, surely?”

  “We hope so.”

  “It couldn’t be anything else here. I mean, not in a Convent.”

  “I would like to think not,” agreed the Mother Prioress, “but that matter is not yet resolved.”

  Cartwright turned to Sloan again. “Why might it not be an accident? Would anyone want to harm my cousin?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I was hoping that you might be able to tell us.”

  “Me? I haven’t had sight nor sound of her for twenty years.”

  “You’re not her only relation?”

  “No. Her father—my uncle—died years ago, but her mother’s still alive…”

  “Mrs. Alfred Cartwright, 17 Strelitz Square?”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “The Convent records,” said Sloan briefly.

  “They didn’t get on.”

  “I inferred that.”

  “My aunt is a very strong-minded woman. She greatly resented my cousin taking her vows. I don’t think she has ever forgiven her.”

  “I am sure she has been forgiven,” interposed the Reverend Mother.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “By Sister Anne.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, of course.” It didn’t seem as if Harold Cartwright had thought of this at all. He waved a hand vaguely. “Before she died, you mean…”

  “Many years ago,” said the Mother Prioress firmly. “It would not be possible to live the life of a true religious and harbour that sort of unforgiveness.”

  “No, no, I can see that.”

  Sloan coughed. “Now, sir, perhaps you’ll tell us what it was that was so important that you had to see her about after all these years.”

  But that was something Harold Cartwright obviously did not want to do. “What? Oh, yes, of course. What I’d come to see her about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s not really relevant now she’s dead. Just a family matter, that’s all. Nothing that would concern anyone now, you understand.” He gave a quick smile. “Death cancels all that sort of thing, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” said the Mother Prioress directly. “Not in my experience.”

  “No? Perhaps not, but it does alter them, and it has altered all I had come to see her about.”

  Sloan let it ride. This was only the beginning. “Will you be leaving Cullingoak tonight?” he asked him.

  “No. Not now—I think I’d better stay on, don’t you?” He frowned. “Though there’s my aunt. Perhaps I ought to go back to tell her…”

  “I’ll do that,” said Sloan suddenly.

  Harold Cartwright said, “Thank you.” He looked back to the Mother Superior and said diffidently. “There’ll be a funeral, I take it—would I be allowed to come to that?”

  She nodded briskly. “Of course, Mr. Cartwright. But first there is, I understand, to be a post-mortem…”

  Cartwright looked quickly at the inspector.

  “To establish the exact cause of death,” said Sloan.

  It was dark when Sloan came out to Cullingoak for the second time that day. There were bonfires and fireworks all about as the police car slipped through the streets of Berebury and out into the open country towards Cullingoak.

  “Get a move on, man,” he muttered irritably, as Crosby slowed down for a crossroads. He sat beside the constable, his shoulders hunched up, hands sunk deep into his pockets, thinking hard.

  As they swept into Cullingoak High Street he heard the clang of a fire engine’s bell. He saw the engine careering along ahead of them, firemen pulling on their boots as they clung to the machine. It did a giant swerve and headed unerringly between the gates of the Agricultural Institute. Crosby followed suit and bumped up the drive after the fire engine.

  The fire was over on their right, away from the Institute’s buildings. It was well alight, with flames leaping high into the air. Standing round it like a votive circle were the students. Their faces stood out in a white ring in the darkness, the dancing flames reflected in them.

  Sloan burst from the car and ran over to the fire brigade.

  “I want that fire out,” he shouted. “Quickly.”

  “Blimey,” said a Leading Fireman. “It’s only a bonfire.”

  “I know it is,” snapped Sloan, “but I want it out before the guy is burnt. This is a police matter, so look sharp. I want that guy in one piece whatever happens.”

  “You’ll be lucky,” said the man over his shoulder, and was gone.

  Round the other side of the fire boys were still feeding the flames, and Sloan shouted at them too.

  The fire brigade were running their hoses towards the fire, lacing them in and out of the spectators. The boys divided their attention between them and the fire. The latter was of magnificent proportions now, the flames licking their way to the figure lashed to the top.

  There was a sigh from the crowd as the first flame lapped round the feet of the guy.

  “Hurry,” urged Sloan.

  He squinted up through the smoke and blackness. Impossible to tell if the material was alight or not. A tongue of flame ran up behind it towards the head. Sloan very nearly plunged into the flames himself to rescue it.

  Suddenly some boys on his left moved quickly to one side and he saw the hose leap into life.

  The noise of the bonfire gave way to the noise of water hissing upon flame, and the delectable smell of bonfire was succeeded by an acrid mixture of smoke and steam. The flames fell back.


  “Don’t hit the guy if you can help it,” said Sloan to the man struggling with the hose.

  “You don’t half want a lot, guv’nor,” retorted the man,, continuing to play the hose where he wished. “If it falls, down in the middle of this you’ve had it. Besides, a drop of water won’t do it no harm, will it? I reckon she was pretty warm where she was.”

  Minutes later the Leading Fireman came up to him with the guy lying in his arms.

  “Daftest rescue job I’ve ever done, but here you are.”

  Sloan found himself nursing the damp, faintly charred effigy of a nun. There was a pair of spectacles tied ridiculously across the mock face.

  A man came up to him. “Inspector? I’m Marwin Ranby, the Principal of the Institute. I’m very sorry about all this. I feel I’m in some way to blame. You see, last year…”

  “I know all about last year,” said Sloan grimly.

  He had just seen a sight which made him feel very uneasy indeed: Harold Cartwright.

  Marwin Ranby led the way into his study. He was hovering round the forty mark, Sloan decided, with a head of fair hair that made him seem younger than he probably was. The study was a pleasant room, with a fire burning at one end, a sofa and chairs round it. At the other end was a desk and bookshelves loaded with heavy agricultural tomes. Over the fireplace hung a Rowland Ward, and in one corner was a tray set with decanter and glasses.

  Ranby waved Sloan to a chair and made for these.

  “What will you have, Inspector? No? You don’t mind if I do, do you?” He groaned. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when Celia hears about this. Or the Mother Superior.”

  Sloan laid his burden down on the sofa as tenderly as if she had been human. It wouldn’t do the chintz much good, but Ranby wasn’t in a position to complain.

  “I blame myself,” went on the Principal. “I gated them, you know, because of last year. I hoped that way we could minimise any damage done. You’d have thought that bus shelter was an Ancient Monument the way the bus company carried on. And look what happens.” He stared at the guy and shuddered. “I’m to be married at the end of the month in the Convent Chapel by special permission of goodness knows who, and they go and burn a nun on Guy Fawkes’ Night. What will Celia—Miss Faine, you know—say? And what will the Mother Prioress think?”