Convent on Styx (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Why not? People who make such nuisances of themselves certainly ought to be prosecuted. Suppose she had written anonymous filth to some of the schoolgirls? What then?”

  “That was what we feared, of course, but it is a dreadful thing to punish people who cannot help what they do. All we intended was to warn her and to hope that she would take the hint and stop writing the letters.”

  “If she could not help what she was doing, a hint of that kind would hardly be effective, would it?”

  “I suppose not, but what has happened is worse, much worse, than the letters.”

  “You think so? Chacun à son goût. You regard her death as suicide, then?”

  “What else can it be?”

  “Well, if one or more of the letters hit one or more of the recipients hard enough, it could just as easily be murder,” said Dame Beatrice, advancing this argument on the strength of her conversation with Mrs. Polkinghorne.

  “Well,” said Sister St. Elmo, after some troubled thought, “I’m not sure—yes, I am sure. I would be relieved, in a way, if it did turn out to be murder. At least our consciences would be able to tell us that we did not drive the poor creature to her death.”

  “Yes, I can understand that.” As she said this, there came a tap on the door. The prioress rang the little handbell which was on her desk and a nun entered.

  “School is dismissed, Sister,” she said, “and Sister Hilary asked me to tell you that she will come over as soon as the police inspector has gone. She thinks it will only be a matter of minutes.”

  “Thank you, Sister. Dame Beatrice, this is Sister Mary Wolstan, the convent bursar and school secretary.”

  “Well,” said Dame Beatrice, “before Sister Mary Hilary gets here and we become involved with the drowning fatality and what the police have to say about it, I wonder whether I might have a kind of timetable to show how an average day here would run?”

  “I had thought of that as soon as Sister Mary Hilary told me you were coming,” said Sister Wolstan, looking at the prioress and receiving an encouraging nod. “We have our meals in the refectory. Yours will be served in the parlour, but if, at any time, you wish to be apart from Mrs. Polkinghorne, I will ask Sister Marcellus to serve you in your own room. We breakfast a good deal earlier than you will want to do, so here is the list I have made out. I have added the times when the Community will be in chapel.”

  “Where, of course, we shall be most pleased to have you join us, should you feel so inclined,” said the prioress, “but, naturally, this is Liberty Hall where our guests are concerned.”

  “I see that you no longer use the old names for the Canonical Hours,” Dame Beatrice remarked, as she glanced at the piece of paper which Sister Mary Wolstan handed over.

  “More’s the pity,” said the die-hard conservative, “but everything changes nowadays.”

  “A rose by any other name,” said Dame Beatrice, “will smell as sweet, I trust.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Secular Arm

  “But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible.”

  Jane Austen

  “Well!” said Sister Hilary, arriving a little later. “It is good of you to come. I hope you are not dreadfully tired after your journey, because the police inspector would like a word with you. I thought it best to leave him in my study over at school. Could I take you to him, do you think?”

  “The cleaners will want to be busy over there,” said the prioress. “Why not bring him to my office? I’ve finished there for today.”

  Sister Marcellus was summoned to fetch the inspector and departed grumbling, as usual, and returned with a lantern-jawed, grizzled man in plain clothes, who carried a briefcase in one hand and a bowler hat in the other. He gave the impression less of a police officer than of an undertaker in a respectable but provincial line of business. Introductions were provided and then, led by Sister Marcellus, he and Dame Beatrice went along the cloister to the office, where Marcellus reluctantly left them in order to attend to her usual duties.

  Dame Beatrice took a chair and the inspector, whose name was Cramond, seated himself behind the desk.

  “Well, ma’am,” he said, “you didn’t expect to run into this sort of business when you left your home this morning.”

  “No, indeed, Inspector.”

  “Just a private visit, would it be?”

  “Not quite. The nuns and others have been receiving some rather disagreeable letters, I understand—anonymous, of course—and as my secretary used to know the headmistress, Sister Mary Hilary, when they were in college together, the nuns asked me to come along.”

  “To find out who writes them, I suppose. We know you by reputation, of course, ma’am. You were coming as a psychiatrist, I take it, and not, so to say, as a criminologist.”

  “The nuns had a pretty fair idea that they knew the identity of the letter-writer and wanted their suspicions confirmed, so that they could confront the person concerned and indicate to him or her that it would be unwise to continue with the petty persecution.”

  “And I don’t think they were far wrong in their assumptions, ma’am. Just as a bit of routine, while I was over at the school and everybody was out of the way, I got my chaps to drag that big pond. I had no notion of what they might find, beyond old tin cans and suchlike, but what they dragged out was one of those big, heavy Bibles where people used to write all the family births, marriages, and deaths. It had a big brass clasp, so the water hadn’t done it as much damage as you might think, and it was possible to make out that it had belonged to the Lipscombe family. What’s more, a lot of the pages weren’t only wet; they had been defaced by having bits here and there carefully cut out of them. So what do you make of that, ma’am?”

  “Well, not positive proof, but a very strong assumption, Inspector . . . that she did write the letters, so her death could have been suicide—or murder. Whereabouts in the pond did your men find the volume?”

  “Near enough the middle, ma’am, in about four feet of water.”

  “Could she have thrown it as far as that?”

  “No, ma’am. My guess is that she waded in, got rid of it, and then got near enough to the bank before she changed her mind and decided to end it all, or else, of course, she met somebody younger and stronger than herself at the edge of the pond, got him or her to chuck the big book into the middle . . .”

  “And then, all unsuspecting, was set upon? Is that a possibility, do you think?”

  “It’s a possibility, ma’am, and one that can’t be ruled out, although, at the moment, suicide seems just as likely. Old ladies who’ve been respectable and poor all their lives don’t like the idea of being mixed up with the police. When, as I understand, the convent mentioned something of the sort, she may have panicked. What I think makes suicide a better bet than murder is the Bible. Nobody but herself would want to get rid of the evidence that she’d cut rude and unkind words out of it, would they?”

  “Oh, I agree with you that Miss Lipscombe wanted the evidence suppressed, but also I’m sure she got somebody stronger than herself to throw the Bible into the middle of the pond. Whether that was done on the day of her death or previous to it, of course we cannot, at this stage, be sure.”

  “You have a point there, ma’am. It could have been done earlier and need have nothing to do with her death at all, but only with those anonymous letters.”

  “Have you seen any of the letters?”

  “Only those sent to the nuns. The lady teachers had one or two, but they chucked them away. I don’t blame them for that.”

  “But the nuns did not throw theirs away?”

  “No, ma’am. They all showed theirs to the prioress and she, sensible body, kept ’em. Says she felt sure she’d have to bring us in if what she calls ‘this persecution’ continued, and so she stuck to the evidence—most of it, anyway. Says she did advise the headmistress to chuck away the early ones,
but when letters came for the other nuns she kept them and I’ve seen the lot.”

  “There will be an inquest on the body, of course.”

  “Have to be, ma’am, but the medical evidence seems clear. She was drowned. No other injuries. I expect a verdict of suicide while balance of mind was upset. Stands to reason an anonymous letter writer must be three parts mental—or so the coroner’s jury will argue.”

  “Yes, but usually it is a victim of the letters, not the perpetrator, who finds refuge in suicide.”

  “Fair enough, ma’am, but she may have decided to end everything when she knew she’d been rumbled,” said the inspector, repeating a previous observation.

  “She had not actually been accused, though, had she?”

  “Seems they thought they’d said enough to warn her off, ma’am.”

  “But she doesn’t seem to have taken the warning. If she had, there would have been no need for Sister Mary Hilary to contact me.”

  “That Bible interests me, ma’am. Could be that somebody knew she’d been cutting out rude words from it and told her off. If so, that could have tipped the scale. These old ladies that write poison-pen stuff are such a peculiar mixture. They indulge themselves writing spiteful letters calling people names you wouldn’t think they knew; yet on the surface they’re the most proper and puritanical old birds alive, and can’t bear being made to realise what wicked old parties they really are. The priest may have had a word with her, you know.”

  “I have been told that she herself said she had received two anonymous letters. These people usually write at least one to themselves, just to allay suspicion, and if she was the author she would certainly have let it be thought that she was one of the victims, wouldn’t she? And, if you are right, she’d have told the priest about it.”

  “On the other hand, isn’t it possible,” said the inspector doubtfully, “that she may have been a genuine victim? May have received a nasty letter and didn’t like to show it to anybody, but just did herself in because she couldn’t face up to the truth or libel it contained.”

  “It is possible, certainly.”

  “Oh, well, there’s nothing more I can do here, ma’am, but there is one little matter which ought to be cleared up in connection with the letters. Seems there was a lot of feeling about an accident to a child that was knocked down by a car driven by one of the nuns. Couldn’t have any bearing on Miss Lipscombe’s death, of course, as she wasn’t in any way involved, but as there’s an idea here that the parents, or somebody else in the village, may have sent the first anonymous letters, I’ll have to see into it. Mustn’t leave stones unturned.”

  Before the inspector could say more, there was a tap at the door and Sister Marcellus came in. Although she was armed with an excuse, the interruption was made, Dame Beatrice guessed, purely for reasons of curiosity.

  “Sister would like to know when you would like your supper, Dame Beatrice.”

  “At any time that is convenient to her, thank you, Sister,” Dame Beatrice replied. “Perhaps you would be good enough to conduct me to her. The inspector is just leaving, I believe.”

  The inspector accompanied both ladies to the parlour where, in a few moments, Sister St. Elmo joined them. The inspector, thanking the prioress for her help, was escorted to the front door by Marcellus.

  When he had gone, Dame Beatrice said, “We were talking about the letters. I suppose Miss Lipscombe received one?”

  “Two, or so she said; and so did Mrs. Polkinghorne.”

  “Did they show them to you?”

  “Not to read. The only ones I have read are those sent to the Community.”

  “I wonder whether I might see the letters?”

  “The inspector has impounded all those I was able to show him. He thought the coroner might want to see them. Unfortunately we had only those we ourselves received. The secular members of the school staff, as I expect you know, seem to have destroyed their letters. I believe they were far worse than any that were sent here to us, so I suppose they did not care to show them.”

  Before the prioress could say more, Sister Hilary joined them. Dame Beatrice turned to her and asked, in uncompromising, point-blank fashion,

  “You have never suspected any member of your staff, I suppose, of perpetrating the letters?”

  Sister Mary Hilary looked surprised; then she laughed. “Perhaps you would like to meet my staff tomorrow,” she said, “and see what you make of them.”

  Breakfast on the following morning was served to Dame Beatrice and Mrs. Polkinghorne in the convent parlour at half-past eight. At just after nine, when all the nuns were in school except the three who always remained in the house (unless two of them were otherwise engaged—Sister Marcellus to go shopping and the prioress on official visits connected either with the Order itself or with work in the parish), Dame Beatrice went outside for a breath of air and to examine the pond in which Miss Lipscombe had been found drowned.

  Her car was drawn up where George had left it, at a short distance from the front door. The bonnet was open and bending over it were her chauffeur and a middle-aged, tallish man in overalls. She went up to them.

  “Anything wrong with the engine, George?” she asked. The men straightened up. George, who was wearing his peaked cap, saluted; his companion touched his brow.

  “Not a thing, madam,” George replied. “My friend Mr. Quince was interested to have a look at her, that’s all.”

  “So this is Mr. Quince,” said Dame Beatrice, “who is so kindly giving you hospitality.”

  “Glad of the chance, ma’am,” said Tom. “I hear you’ve come to help us out in our little bit of trouble.”

  “Well, I shall be staying here until after the inquest. I understand from the prioress that you will be present at it.”

  “That’s right, ma’am. I was first on the scene, so I’ll be wanted.”

  “What were the circumstances?”

  “Well, long before somebody broke into the school and made a proper mess chucking stuff out of drawers and cupboards and that, I had orders to lock the gates of an evening and open up again each morning, which I always done. Me being the caretaker, my cottage is in the grounds, so to open up I has to pass the lower pond on my way across to here. Well, that partic’lar day it was a bit misty, that being the way of it these early autumn mornings; but it wasn’t so misty as what I says to myself as I come up by the pond, ‘Hullo, ’ullo, ’ullo,’ I says to myself, ‘so what have we here?’ I says.

  “So I goes over to take a dekko, and, of course, it were her, old Pussy in person, a-laying there with her feet on the bank and the rest of her, including her head, in the water. Of course, I ketches hold of her legs and pulls her out, but, naturally, she was a goner. I works on her, but I seen from the start as I was wasting my time, so I leaves her be and chases back to the school and goes in, seeing I got a key, being caretaker, and I calls up the doctor and the police on Sister Wolstan’s phone, and then I goes over to the convent. But I can’t see the prioress for a bit, on account it was only just after seven and Mass was still on, it being one of Father MacNicol’s days for the convent chapel.”

  “I see. I wonder, Mr. Quince, if you would postpone your inspection of the car long enough to escort me to the pond and show me where you found the body?”

  The pond, which was about midway between the second of the ponds and the lower boundary fence of the school grounds, was a sad-looking stretch of water, larger than Dame Beatrice had anticipated. She did not need Tom Quince to point out where the body had been dragged ashore, for the spot was muddy and much trampled.

  She studied it for a few moments, then said, “Did you know that something else was dragged from the pond?”

  “Something else, ma’am?”

  “A Bible.”

  “Not a great whacking big thing all black leather covers and brass clasps?”

  “So you do know?”

  “Not as it was dragged from the pond I never.”

  “Then what
do you know about it?”

  “Last time I see it was when I run into Mr. Chassett carrying it. ‘What you got there, sir?’ I says. ‘The law and the prophets?’ Well, he looks a bit soft-like and he says, ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘one of the old ladies over to the convent asks me to get rid of it for her. Seems it’s on her conscience to keep an Authorised Version instead of Douai. Her old grandpa or some such left it to her,’ he says, ‘and she hadn’t liked to chuck it away, but Father MacNicol think it best,’ he says, ‘and being as she’s tied up at the convent, she’s asked me to do sommat about it.’ So I suppose he chucked it in the pond as being the easiest way to get rid of it. Not as I believe that yarn about Father MacNicol, him being far too sensible a man to have said what she told Mr. Chassett, and a Bible’s a Bible in any language, I s’pose.”

  “Interesting,” said Dame Beatrice. She stood for another few moments, then thanked him and made her way over to the school. The sound of singing which met her ears as she approached the front door indicated that Assembly was still in progress, so she entered the vestibule with the intention of waiting there until Sister Hilary should be at liberty.

  She was not left alone. As the front door swung to behind her, Sister Wolstan emerged from the secretary’s office and greeted her.

  “Sister won’t be long,” she said. “I have a basket chair in my cubby-hole. Do come in and sit down while you’re waiting.”

  “I’ve just been looking at the pond,” said Dame Beatrice, accepting the invitation and seating herself.

  “Oh, yes? Sister intends to have it filled in as soon as we are clear of this distressing business. She has been in communication with Reverend Mother, our Superior, and it is all arranged. We are expecting her at any time now. Naturally she wishes to inform herself of what has happened and this cannot be done satisfactorily by letters or over the telephone.”

  “Ah, yes, letters,” said Dame Beatrice. “Letters, I understand, may be at the bottom of this business. What was their general purport? Were they merely scurrilous and abusive, or did they contain definite accusations or threats?”