The Religious Body iscm-1

by Catherine Aird

  “When exactly did you leave?”

  “I don’t know exactly. About half past four. I wanted to miss the rush-hour traffic.”

  “Can anyone confirm the time you left?”

  “I expect so,” he said impatiently. “My secretary, for one. And my deputy director. I was in conference most of the afternoon and left as soon as I’d cleared up the matters arising from it. Is it important?”

  “And how long did it take you to arrive here?” He grimaced. “Longer than I thought it would. Several hundred other motorists had the same idea about leaving London before the rush hour. I drove into The Bull yard a few minutes before half past seven.”

  “Three hours? That’s a long time.”

  “There was a lot of traffic.”

  “Even so…”

  “And I didn’t know the way.”

  “Ah,” said Sloan smoothly. “There is that. Did you by any chance take a wrong turning?”

  “No,” said Cartwright shortly. “I did not. But I was in no hurry. I had planned to have the evening to myself and most of the following day. I don’t know enough about the routine of convents to know the best time to call on them—but in the event that didn’t matter, did it?”

  “This business that you had come all this way to talk to your cousin about, sir, you wouldn’t care to tell me what it was?”

  “No, Inspector,” he said decisively. “I should not. I cannot conceive of it having any bearing on her death. It was a family affair.”

  “But you’re staying on?”

  “Yes, Inspector, I’m staying on.” He sat quite still, a figure not without dignity even in an hotel bedroom. “The Mother Prioress has given me permission to attend Josephine’s funeral but not—as you might have thought—to pay for it. Apparently a nun’s burial is a very simple affair.”

  Superintendent Leeyes was unsympathetic. “You’ve had over twenty-four hours already, Sloan. The probability that a crime will be solved diminishes in direct proportion to the time that elapses afterwards, not as you might think in an inverse ratio.”

  “No, sir.” Was that from “Mathematics for the Average Adult” or “Logic”?

  “And Dabbe says that she died before seven and these women say they saw her after eight-thirty?”

  “Just one woman says so, sir.”

  “What about the other fifty then?”

  “They’d got their heads down. Sister Anne sat in the back row always and apparently it isn’t done to look up or around. Custody of the eyes, they call it.”

  Leeyes growled. “And this woman that did see her then, what was she doing? Peeping between her fingers?”

  “She could be lying,” said Sloan cautiously. “I’m not sure. She could be crackers if it came to that.”

  “They can’t any of them be completely normal, now can they?” retorted Leeyes robustly. “Asking to be locked up for life like that. It isn’t natural.”

  “No, sir, but if there had been someone—not Sister Anne—at Vespers it would explain the glasses, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s better than ‘Sister Anne Walks Again’ which is what I thought you were going to say.”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Neither do I, Sloan,” snapped Leeyes. “I may be practically senile, too, but I don’t see how it explains the glasses either.”

  “Disguise,” said Sloan. For one wild moment he contemplated asking the superintendent to cover his head with a large handkerchief to see if he would pass for a nun, but then he thought better of it. His pension was more important. “I reckon, sir, that either there wasn’t anyone at all in Sister Anne’s stall at Vespers or else it was someone there in disguise.”

  “Well done,” said Leeyes nastily. “You should come with me on Mondays, Sloan. Learn a bit about Logic. And was it Cousin Harold who was standing there?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “If it was, why the devil didn’t he clear off? We didn’t know he was there. We might never have found out.”

  “Those footprints aren’t his.”

  “You’re not making much headway, Sloan, are you?”

  “Not since I’ve heard from Dr. Dabbe, sir.”

  For the first time he got some sympathy.

  “It’s usually the doctors,” grumbled Superintendent Leeyes. “Try to pin them down on something and they’ll qualify every single clause of every single sentence they utter. Then, when it’s a blasted nuisance they’ll be as dogmatic as… as…” he glared at his desk in his search for a comparative “… as a lady magistrate.”

  Sloan watched the superintendent drive off towards his home and next meal, and went back to his own room. Crosby was there with two large cups of tea and some sandwiches.

  “Well, Crosby, what did you make of Sister Damien’s story?”

  “Someone wanted us to think Sister Anne was still alive at eight-thirty.”

  “Ah, yes, but was it Sister Damien who wanted us to think that? Or was it someone else?”

  Crosby took a sandwich but offered no opinion.

  “And why did they want us to think that?”

  “Alibi?” suggested Crosby.

  “Perhaps. No one missed Sister Anne at Recreation so presumably they can move about then more or less as they like.”

  “More or less, sir,” echoed Crosby darkly.

  Sloan grinned. The man had a sense of humour after all. “Did you give them back their keys?”

  “Yes, sir. I went round all their cupboards with that Sister Lucy and opened them up. Nothing much there —food, stores and what have you. It was a hefty bunch of metal all right. Sister Lucy wears it round her waist all the time. They were certainly glad to have them back again.”

  “What about their local standing?”

  “High, sir. I checked with quite a few people in the village. They like them. They aren’t any trouble. Their credit is good and they pay on the nail for everything. They live carefully, not wasting anything, and they do as much of their shopping as possible in Cullingoak.”

  “That always goes down well.”

  “I got on to Dr. Carret, too. Only on the telephone though. He was out when I went there. He was called to the Convent when Sister Anne was found, realised she hadn’t fallen downstairs in the ordinary way and sent for us.”

  “Very observant of him, that was. Is your standing with the canteen manageress good enough for another couple of cups?”

  Apparently it was, for Crosby brought two refills back within minutes.

  Sloan picked up a pencil. “Now, Crosby, where are we now?”

  “Well, sir, yesterday we had this body that we thought had been murdered. Today we know it has been. Weapon, something hard but blunt, probably touched by Sister Peter early yesterday morning.”

  “And still to be found.”

  “Yes, sir. We know that Sister Anne was also Josephine Mary Cartwright and that her mother said ‘Never darken these doors again’ a long time ago. And that when her mother dies she was due to come into a lot of money.”

  “Only if she outlived her, Crosby. If she died first it reverts to Uncle Joe and his heirs, one of whom is camping at The Bull for some reason not yet revealed tous.”

  “Well, there’s money for someone in it somewhere, sir.”

  “Show me the case where there isn’t, Crosby, and I may not know how to solve it.”

  “Sir, did that thin one, Damien, know that if Sister Anne died before her uncle, the uncle got the lot?”

  Sloan nodded approvingly. “That is something I should dearly like to know myself. You realise we have only got her word for it that Sister Anne—or someone she thought was Sister Anne—was at Vespers at eight-thirty? The other one—Sister Michael—what she said wasn’t evidence. More like hearsay.”

  Crosby stopped, his cup half way to his lips. “You mean Sister Damien might be lying about that?” It was clearly a new idea to him.

  “Don’t look so shocked, Crosby.”

  “I didn’
t think they would lie, sir.”

  “Someone, somewhere,” he said sarcastically, “is being untruthful with us, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, but I didn’t think nuns would lie.”

  “Not quite cricket, Crosby?”

  “Yes, sir—I mean—no, sir.” Until he joined the Police Force, Crosby’s ethics had been of a Sunday School variety—“speak the truth and shame the devil.”

  “If,” went on Sloan, “Damien knew only that the Convent was to come into a lot of money when Sister Anne died—or thought that was so, she could just have thought she was doing the Convent a good turn— and Sister Anne, too if it came to that—by hurrying things along.“ He finished his tea and said profoundly: ”Who can tell what people will do if they are cooped up together like that for year upon year without any sort of outlet? What do you do, Crosby, when you start getting on each other’s nerves? Say a few more prayers?”

  “I saw a film about a prisoner-of-war camp once,” volunteered Crosby helpfully, “where they killed a chap because he sniffed.”

  Three loud knocks on the table at the end of a meal by the Mother Prioress indicated that she wished to speak to the Community. Half a hundred female faces turned attentively towards the Abbatial chair. There were round faces, oval faces, faces of the shape known outside the Convent (but never, never inside) as Madonna-type, fat faces, thin faces.

  There were as many faces looking expectantly at the Reverend Mother as there were types of woman—almost—from the neat face of Sister Ignatius to the cheerful visage of Sister Hilda; from the calm features of Sister Jerome to the composed efficiency of Sister Radigund, the Infirmarium; from the still anxious look of Sister Peter to the intense concentration of Sister Damien.

  “My daughters…” The Mother Prioress surveyed the dim Refectory. It was long since dark outside, and the mock electric candles in their sconces on the wall provided only the minimum of light. “My daughters, through the centuries those of our Order have gone through many trials and tribulations, compared with which our present discomforts are as nothing. What we now endure is unfamiliar and distasteful to us—intrusion and enquiry are an anathema to the religious life—but it is not for us to complain now or at any time of what we suffer.” Her gaze travelled down the ranks of nuns. “When we renounced the world we did not automatically leave doubt and sorrow behind. Nor are we immune from the physical laws of cause and effect. Nor should we wish to be.”

  One of the novices, she who was sitting nearest to the pepper-pot, sneezed suddenly. The Novice-Mistress leaned forward slightly to identify the culprit.

  “Sister Anne,” went on the Mother Prioress unperturbed, “died on Wednesday evening some time after supper, probably in the corridor leading from the Great Hall to the kitchens. Her body was put into the broom cupboard and later thrown down the cellar steps. As you know, she was found there after a search on Thursday morning. It is now Friday evening. I should like you all to go back in your minds to Wednesday evening and consider if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary pattern of religious behaviour.” She did not pause here as she might have done but went straight on to say, “On Thursday evening, Guy Fawkes’ Night, the effigy of a nun was burnt on the bonfire lit by the students of the Agricultural Institute. In the ordinary course of events I should not have troubled the Community with this information, believing that the incident was more in the nature of high spirits than bigotry, but the guy was dressed in the habit that normally hangs behind the door of the garden room.”

  It was evident that this was news to some of the nuns.

  “Moreover, the guy was wearing Sister Anne’s glasses.”

  This was a bombshell. Heads went up. Grave glances were exchanged between the older Sisters. The younger ones looked excited or frightened, according to temperament.

  “You will not, therefore, be surprised to know that the police require to know the exact whereabouts of every Sister from supper-time on Wednesday until they retired to their cells. If you spoke to Sister Anne after supper, or if you have any other information, it should be communicated to me, and only to me. I shall be in the Parlour until Vespers.” She paused. “The police also wish to be told the secular name of every member of the Community, the date of her profession, and the address from which she came to the Convent of St. Anselm.”

  The dining-room at the Agricultural Institute was also known as the Refectory, but there the resemblance ended. It was brightly lit and very noisy indeed. One hundred and fifty healthy young men were just coming to the end of a substantial meal. Fourteen staff were having theirs at the High Table on a dais at one end of the long room. Sundry maids were rattling dirty dishes through a hatch into the kitchen, and making it quite clear that they thought any meal which began at seven-fifteen should end by eight o’clock.

  Marwin Ranby, sitting in the centre of the High Table, let the maids finish before he stood up. Students were easy to come by, maids much more difficult.

  “Gentlemen, in its short life this Institute has acquired a reputation for outrage on the night that commemorates the failure of the Gunpowder Plot…”

  There were several cheers.

  “Usually the damage can be repaired by the use of one simple commodity. Money.” More cheers.

  “And apologies, of course.”

  “Good old Mr. Ranby, sir,” called out a wit. Ranby gave a thin smile. “Well, it isn’t good old anyone this time. Granted, in the ordinary run of events, we might have got by with a handsome apology to the Mother Prioress and an even more handsome contribution to the Convent funds…” Loud groans.

  “This time it’s much more serious…” More groans.

  “Yesterday, as you know full well, was November the Fifth. The evening before that—Wednesday—a nun died in the Convent. The police, who, as you know, performed an excellent rescue job on the guy…”

  Loud laughter, interspersed with more groans. “The police,” said Ranby firmly, “tell me that that habit came from the Convent, probably the same day the nun died. Now, they’re not accusing anyone of being implicated in this death but they do need to know who it was who was in the Convent, how they got in and when. I think you can all understand that,” He looked quickly from face to face. “Now, I’m asking those responsible—however many of you there are with a hand in this—to come to my study at nine o’clock tonight.”

  11

  « ^ »

  Celia Faine was in the Principal’s study with Marwin Ranby when Sloan and Crosby arrived. A maid had just deposited a tray of coffee on the table.

  “Come in, Inspector, come in. How’s the chase going?”

  “Warming up nicely, sir, thank you.”

  Ranby eyed him thoughtfully. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve got good news for you, too. We’ve got the culprits who made the guy.” He turned. “Celia, my dear, will you be hostess while I tell the Inspector about Tewn and the others?”

  Celia Faine smiled and took up the coffee pot. “Don’t be too hard on them, will you? They’re nice lads and I’m sure they meant no harm.”

  Ranby frowned. “No, I don’t think they did, but you can’t be too sure. William Tewn is the chap you’re looking for, Inspector. As far as I can make out, three of them initiated the scheme—a third-year man called Parker, and Tewn and Bullen, who are second year. Parker’s the cleverest of the three—clever enough to organise the expedition without going to any risk himself, I should say. Bullen and Tewn went over the fence into the Convent property on Wednesday night, while Parker kept watch. Bullen went as far as the outside wall, and Tewn went inside the building. He came out with the habit.”

  “One moment, sir. How did you discover this?”

  He gave a wry laugh; “They—er—gave themselves up so to speak, in response to my appeal after supper this evening. I’ve just been speaking to them and they’re waiting in my secretary’s room for you.”

  “Sugar?” Celia Faine handed round the coffee cups expertly. Sloan saw she would be a great a
sset to the rather too-efficient Principal. “Tell me, Inspector, where do you think they kept the guy until Thursday evening?”

  “I know the answer to that one,” said Marwin Ranby rather shortly. “In one of the cowsheds. That’s where they made it up from the straw and the old sack. They had their firewood all ready. I hadn’t raised any objection to a straightforward bonfire, you see…”

  “No one thinks it’s your fault, dear,” she said soothingly.

  “Nevertheless,” went on Ranby, more philosophically, “I suppose I should have thought something like this might happen… all the same, I don’t like it. What I would like, Inspector, are those three men over at the Convent first thing in the morning to apologise in person, to the Mother Prioress and the Community. It’s the very least we can do…”

  “Certainly, sir,” agreed Sloan peaceably. Ranby had good reason for wanting to keep on the right side of the Reverend Mother. “If you want it that way. I don’t see that it can do any harm.”

  But once again he was wrong.

  Messrs. Parker, Bullen and Tewn were not too dismayed to find Sloan and Crosby taking an interest in their escapade.

  “Just our bad luck that we chose a night when one of the nuns goes and gets herself killed,” grumbled Parker. “Otherwise we stood a good chance of getting away with it.”

  “You must admit it was a good joke, Inspector.” Tewn was a fresh-faced boy with curly hair and a few remaining infant freckles. “Especially with old Namby-Pam… with the Principal going to be married at the Convent at the end of the month. Sort of appropriate.”

  It was a long, long time since Sloan’s idea of a good joke had been anything so primitive.

  “And?” he said dispassionately.

  “Well,” said Tewn, “it was a piece of cake, wasn’t it?”

  The other two nodded. Bullen, a slow-speaking, well-built boy, said, “No trouble at all.”

  “Come on then,” snapped Sloan. “How did you go about it? Ring the front door bell and ask for a spare habit?”