The Religious Body

by Catherine Aird

  “And so on through the night?”

  “Yes, Inspector, unless anything untoward happens. Sister Cellarer has sent a supply of hot coffee and sandwiches to the Parlor for those not actually watching.”

  “Any difficulties?”

  “None. All three gentlemen were quite agreeable to my suggestions.”

  “Let’s hope they’ve swallowed everything. And the rest of the Community?”

  “Gone to bed, Inspector, as usual.”

  “Good. And the arrangements for changing over the watch so to speak?”

  “The retiring Sisters will knock on their successors’ doors ten minutes before the hour.”

  “Excellent. Is Sister Lucy in bed?”

  “Sister Lucy has perforce been in bed for some time now, Inspector.”

  He gave her a quick smile. “We’re nearly there, marm.”

  “Pray God that you are,” she said soberly.

  Sloan made himself as comfortable as he could in the flower room and settled down to wait. And to wonder.

  If he opened the door the minutest fraction he could see the hall and its sentinel. First it was Father MacAuley who paced up and down the hall and then did a methodical round of doors and windows. Sloan had to retreat behind a curtain for that. And then Harold Cartwright, noisier than the priest, conscientiously poking about along the corridor and talking quietly up the stairs to Sister Damien and Sister Perpetua.

  He heard them at about quarter past twelve and again at a quarter to one.

  “Everything all right up there with you?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Cartwright. It’s all quiet, thank God.” Sister Damien’s thin whisper came floating down the stairs in reply. “We’re just going along to wake the others. We’ll see you at two o’clock again.”

  “Right you are.”

  Sloan heard him do one last quick round and then nip back towards the Parlor. Then the Parlor door opened and Ranby came out. He came straight to the garden room, and Sloan was hard put to it to get behind his curtain in time. Ranby pulled back the bolts and left the door slightly ajar and then went back to the hall.

  Sloan came out from behind his curtain and held the door open. Ranby was standing at the foot of the stairs, calling softly upwards.

  “Are you there, Sister Lucy?”

  Sister Gertrude came to the balustrade and leaned over. “We’re both here, Mr. Ranby. Is there something wrong?”

  “No. I just wanted a word with Sister Lucy about Tewn. It’s something she said earlier this morning. It’s just occurred to me it might be important.”

  Sister Gertrude withdrew and Sister Lucy appeared in her stead on the landing and began walking slowly down the polished treads, her head bent well down, her massive bunch of keys swinging from her girdle.

  Ranby retreated a little as she descended, backing away from the small well of light in the hall, away from the gaze of Sister Gertrude. He came, as Sloan thought he would, towards the dark corridor where Sister Anne had died, the corridor where Sloan stood waiting and watching.

  “Felicity,” Ranby whispered urgently to her, “come this way. I must talk to you.”

  The nun turned obediently in his direction and walked exactly where he said.

  “This way,” he urged. “So that the others don’t hear us.”

  She was almost level with him now, his eyes watching her every movement, not seeing at all the dim shadowy figure that was following her down the stairs, pressed against the furthest wall.

  As she drew abreast of him he put up an arm as if to embrace her. It quickly changed to a savage grasp, his other hand coming up in front of her neck searching for soft, vulnerable cartilage and vital windpipe.

  The eager questing fingers were destined to be disappointed in their prey.

  The nun did a quick shrug and twist and Ranby let out a yelp of pain. The arm fell back, but he came in with the other. That did him no good at all. The nun caught it and flung herself forward against it. Ranby fell heavily, her weight on top of him.

  And then Sloan was there and the dark shadow on the wall was translated into Detective-Constable Crosby with handcuffs at the ready. Along the corridor the Parlor door opened and Father MacAuley and Harold Cartwright came hurrying out.

  The nun clambered off Ranby, hitching up her habit in an un-nunlike way. “These blasted skirts,” she said, “certainly hamper a girl.” She struggled out of the headdress and shook her hair loose. “But this is worse. Fancy having to live in one of these.”

  “That’s not Sister Lucy,” gasped Ranby.

  “No,” agreed Sloan. “That’s Police-Sergeant Perkins in Sister Lucy’s habit.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I didn’t think it would come off a second time,” said Sloan modestly.

  The superintendent grunted. He didn’t usually reckon to come in to the station on a Sunday morning, but then his Criminal Investigation Department didn’t arrest a double murderer every day of the week. Sloan, Perkins, Gelden and Crosby were all present—and looking regrettably pleased with themselves.

  “No snags at all?” asked Leeyes.

  “Worked like a charm,” said Sloan cheerfully. “He was quite taken in by Sergeant Perkins. So was I, sir. Anyone would have been.”

  “Would they indeed?” said Leeyes. “Sergeant Perkins makes a good nun, does she?”

  Sergeant Perkins flushed. “That headdress thing …”

  “Coif,” supplied Sloan, now the expert.

  “Coif is about the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn.”

  “You didn’t wear her hair shirt then,” said Leeyes acidly.

  “No, sir. On the other hand, sir, you can’t blame Ranby for making a mistake that first time. You can’t see a nun’s face unless you get a straightforward front view, you know, and I don’t suppose he wanted to do that anyway.”

  “Don’t forget either, sir,” put in Sloan, “that nuns don’t age as quickly as we do. I don’t know why. But Sister Anne looked the sort of age he expected Sister Lucy to look by now.”

  “And,” went on Sergeant Perkins, “it’s about the darkest corridor I’ve ever been in.”

  “That’s their subconscious harking back to candle-power,” said Sloan sotto voce.

  Leeyes ignored this. “So Ranby killed Sister Anne on Wednesday in error?”

  “Pure and simple case of mistaken identity, sir. It all fits. He was out to kill Sister Lucy, the Bursar and Procuratrix, who always wears that great big heavy bunch of keys hanging from her girdle. Always.”

  “Except on Wednesday evenings?”

  “No, just this one Wednesday so that Sister Anne could look out some gifts to send to the Missions in time for Christmas. I gather in the ordinary way she would have come with her, but she was busy on Wednesday evening.”

  “What’s she got to be busy about?”

  Sloan didn’t know. He didn’t think he would ever know what made them busy in a Convent. “Anyway, sir, she handed over her badge of office—a very conspicuous one—to Sister Anne, and so Ranby thinks it’s her. He picks up the orb on the newel post …”

  “He knew all about that, did he?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, from Celia Faine. He hits Sister Anne very hard indeed on the back of the head and puts it back. Not even bothering to wipe it very clean. If it’s found it’s a pointer to an inside job, isn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t found,” pointed out the superintendent unkindly. “Not until someone laid it out on a plate for you.”

  “No, sir,” said Sloan. “On the other hand it didn’t mislead us about its being an inside job either, did it? And then, sir,” he went on hurriedly, not liking the superintendent’s expression, “he bundles the body into the broom cupboard and takes the glasses off. It’s quite dark in there too and so he still doesn’t know he’s nobbled the wrong horse.”

  “And then what?”

  “He goes back to the Institute for supper.”

  “He does what?”

  “Goes back
to the Institute for supper.”

  “Who threw her down the stairs then?”

  “He did.”

  “When?”

  “After supper.”

  “Why?”

  “Delay her being found, upset the timing, make us think she’d fallen—that sort of thing. Implicating Tewn, too, if necessary. It wouldn’t have been any bother to drag her along the corridor and shove her down the steps as he was there anyway.”

  “How do you mean he was there anyway?”

  “He came back after his own supper at the Institute,” said Sloan, “to attend Vespers. He didn’t want her found before the boys got to the Convent. He hadn’t an alibi for a quarter to seven or thereabouts when he killed her, but if she was thought to be alive at nine when they went off to bed it would throw a spanner in the calculations.”

  “Are you trying to tell me, Sloan—not very clearly if I may say so—that Ranby came twice to the Convent on Wednesday night?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. He came to the service that they have just before their supper as an ordinary worshipper—Benediction I think it’s called—and probably waited behind afterwards. The nuns all go into the refectory at a quarter past six for their supper and he goes along the corridor, opens the cellar door, nips down for the habit, puts it on and comes back up into that corridor. Then comes the tricky bit. He has to wait for Sister Lucy to come along. He takes the orb down.”

  “Didn’t anyone notice it had gone?”

  “I doubt if they’d have missed anything, not even the kitchen stove, until the time came to use it. No, I think he just stood inside the broom cupboard until he saw her come along.”

  “She’d have to be alone,” objected Leeyes doubtfully.

  “Yes, she would, but don’t forget that after supper they have their recreation. They’re allowed to potter about a little at will. It was the only chance he took really—her not happening to come his way. But if she didn’t he could always go looking for her.”

  “In the Convent?”

  “It’s not difficult to pass as a nun if you’re in the habit. He’s fair-skinned anyway, they can’t see his hair, he’s got his own black shoes and socks on, trousers wouldn’t show and believe you me, sir, nuns are the least observant crowd of witnesses it has been my unfortunate lot to encounter. They seem to think it’s a sin to notice anything. And the light’s so bad you never get a really clear view of anything after daylight. Ranby never saw Sister Anne’s face sufficiently well at any time to know it wasn’t Sister Lucy. There’s no light to speak of in the corridor itself, and he wouldn’t dare shine a torch. That would be asking for trouble.”

  “So he kills Sister Anne, goes back to the Institute for supper …”

  “That’s right, sir. They would notice if he weren’t there anyway, but particularly at the Institute supper.”

  “Why?”

  “There are fourteen resident staff all told, including Ranby, so if one is missing there are—”

  “I can do simple arithmetic, Sloan.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sloan coughed. “As soon as the supper at the Institute was finished I reckon he came back, put on the habit and Sister Anne’s glasses. He only had to be last in to the Chapel to know which was her stall.” He took a breath. “And he was—Sister Damien said so. Then he waits until the nuns have gone to bed, drags the body to the top of the cellar steps, throws it down, leaves the habit ready for Tewn, puts the glasses in his pocket, and goes back to his quarters in the Institute. I expect he rang for the maid to take away his coffee cup or sent for one of the staff or students—something like that to imply that he’d been there all the time. Nobody’s likely to ask him any questions though, because he thought there was nothing to connect him with the Convent at all.”

  “But there was?”

  “There must have been something or he wouldn’t have had to kill Tewn.”

  “Ah, Tewn. I was forgetting Tewn.” The superintendent never forgot anything.

  “I think Tewn had to die because he saw something which connected Ranby with the Convent.”

  “What?”

  Sloan tapped his notebook. “I’m not absolutely certain but I think I can guess.”

  “Well?”

  “Ranby stepped out of that habit somewhere around nine-fifteen or nine-twenty after being inside it for nearly an hour. Tewn picked it up at nine-thirty.”

  “Well?”

  “It would still be warm, sir. I think Tewn noticed.”

  “That crack about warm milk,” burst out Crosby involuntarily.

  Sloan nodded. “Ranby must have had good reason for thinking Tewn knew or guessed something. It would be easy enough for him to catch Tewn in between the study periods yesterday morning and tell him they were walking over to the Convent without the others.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll never know what it was Tewn knew. Unless Ranby tells us. Mind you, sir, I don’t think he will. The only thing he’s said so far is ‘Get me my solicitor.’”

  “Much good that’ll do him,” said the superintendent. “You’ve got him cold, I hope.”

  “I hope so,” echoed Sloan piously, “but it’s a long story.”

  The superintendent sighed audibly. “Suppose you go back to the beginning …”

  “There are really two beginnings, sir.”

  “One will do very nicely, Sloan. Let’s have the earliest first.”

  “That was twelve years ago, sir, in West Laming. Where Sergeant Gelden went last night.”

  Sergeant Gelden nodded corroboratively.

  “It concerns two people,” said Sloan, “Mr. Marwin Ranby, then Deputy Headmaster of West Laming School, and a Miss Felicity Ferling, niece of Miss Dora Ferling of West Laming House. It was their both having come from West Laming that put me on to Ranby. This pair became very friendly indeed—Miss Ferling was a very charming, good-looking girl, greatly loved by her aunt who had brought her up. She became engaged to be married to this promising young schoolmaster and everything was arranged for the wedding. Two weeks before it Miss Dora Ferling had a visitor—Mr. Ranby’s wife. He was already married. The wedding was abandoned, and Miss Felicity Ferling broken-hearted.”

  “So she took her broken heart to the Convent?”

  “Not at first. They don’t like women there for that reason, but apparently she’d always been very devout and interested in the life.”

  “He seems to like ’em that way,” observed the superintendent. “Some men do. And the second beginning?”

  “Ten days ago. At a public enquiry into the planning application to develop the land in between the Convent property and the Institute. Both sent representatives to it. The Institute sent Mr. Ranby and someone from the County Education Department. The Convent sent the Mother Superior and—”

  “Don’t tell me,” said the superintendent. “I can guess.”

  “Sister Lucy—their Bursar. Just the worst possible time for her to turn up from Ranby’s point of view. He’s engaged again—this time to Miss Celia Faine, who stands a good chance of being wealthy if this development is allowed.”

  “Nasty shock for him—seeing his old flame sitting there.”

  “Very. And in nun’s veiling too. Pretty impregnable places, convents.”

  “Ahah, I see where you’re getting, Sloan.”

  “Exactly, sir. Ranby goes home to brood on ways and means.”

  “And his own students provide the answer?”

  “That’s right, sir. Plot Night in more ways than one. I think we shall find that Ranby either overheard or got to hear of the arrangement with Hobbett and seized his chance that night. The only other thing he needed to know was how to identify Sister Lucy without looking each nun in the face. A little judicious pumping of Hobbett would give him the answer to that, too—she always wore a great big bunch of keys. You’ll have spotted the other misleading fact yourself, I’m sure, sir.”

  Leeyes growled noncommittally.

  “Hobbett,” went on Sloan, “doesn’t know Sister Lucy do
esn’t wear glasses all the time. Any more than Ranby does. She would have been wearing them at the enquiry and when she paid Hobbett.”

  “You make it sound very simple,” complained the superintendent.

  “It was, sir. Motive, means and opportunity, the lot. He can’t risk failure of a second attempt to marry a well-to-do unprotected girl—so there’s the motive. The means are at hand—even down to the weapon—and his own students presented him with opportunity.”

  “Are you trying to tell me, Sloan, that Ranby can have gone to that Chapel with his future intended and those nuns not have known him from Adam?”

  “Yes, sir. The Sisters sit in front of a grille, and the congregation would only ever see their backs. And,” he added under his breath, “they none of them know Adam.”

  “What’s that, Sloan?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “I don’t want any of your case based on false premise.”

  “No, sir.” That was the course on Logic rearing its head again.

  Leeyes turned to Crosby. “None of this ‘when did you stop beating your wife’ stuff, eh, constable?”

  Crosby looked pained. “I’m not married, sir.”

  Harold Cartwright was still at The Bull.

  “Fine woman, the Mother Superior. Makes me realize some of my ideas were a bit Maria Monk—you know, the Awful Disclosures thereof.”

  Sloan did not know, and said instead, “Any news of your father, sir?”

  Cartwright shot him a sharp glance, “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s much the same, Inspector, thank you. I’m going back home today but I’m coming back.… Inspector Sloan?”

  “Sir?”

  “It was Ranby who sent for the police on Bonfire Night, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. I think he wanted us to see the habit and glasses just in case he had to pin something on someone else. After all, it wasn’t very likely one nun would kill another really.”

  “And safer than throwing the glasses away.”

  “He was a bit too anxious to implicate the students. He suggested they might have got out of the Biology Laboratory window long before he was supposed to know what time they had gone to the Convent.”