“I suppose the money was the motive, madam?”
“It often is, George, unfortunately.”
“There’s such things as guilty secrets, and people getting to know them.”
“Perfectly true. So what?”
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“So what, George. Neolithic American query capable of being couched in bellicose, disgusted, or pseudo-pathetic style. The last was what I intended.”
“Thank you, madam. It occurred to me that the young lady might have been in possession of somebody’s guilty secret, and have been croaked for knowing it, madam.”
“Whose guilty secret, George? Your perspicacity stuns me—and that is not meant sarcastically.”
“One of the nuns. It stands to reason, madam, that a bevy of ladies of this type must house a considerable number of secrets, one way and another.”
“Not necessarily guilty, though, George, do you think?”
“No, madam.”
But he seemed to have something on his mind. She waited, but he said no more. He stared out over the moors—they had not yet left the vicinity of the convent—and towards the lights of the village.
“You know, George,” said Mrs. Bradley, “the most mysterious thing about the whole business is that the dead child went into the bathroom at all. If I hadn’t been entirely mystified by that, I would have turned Ursula Doyle’s form inside out, schoolgirl code or not, and have found out what she was supposed to be up to that afternoon, for she certainly did not go into afternoon school. But from the beginning I was always brought up short by the problem of what on earth—or who!—persuaded a child who never broke school rules, and was sweet, gentle, and timid, to do a thing which is immediately visited with expulsion.”
“It certainly is a problem, madam.”
“Think it over, George. She wasn’t forced to go there. There were no marks of violence on the body, and, what is more, she didn’t care whether she was seen to go or not. And she wasn’t the girl on the roof. So much is clear from the description given by the builder, although he’s not got a very reliable memory, and by old lay-sister Catherine. But what do you make of it all?”
“Sounds as if she was taken in there unconscious, madam. Had you considered that possibility at all?”
Mrs. Bradley looked at him with a mixture of admiration and affection. George modestly scratched his head.
“The cigar or coconut, George,” said his employer, “is yours. You have only to choose. Let us get along to the inn. Is there a room for me, I wonder?”
“They were quite delighted, madam, at the idea of seeing you again.”
“Drive on, then. I wonder whether it’s the room I had last time? The window wouldn’t open, I remember, and I had to leave the door ajar all night.”
(2)
The same little chambermaid and same room, Mrs. Bradley found, were to serve her. She had supper—cold beef and pickles, slices of the last of the hostess’s Christmas puddings fried up in the pan (slightly salt), cheese, biscuits, and beer. George supped with her, and the two of them sat matily in the parlour behind red curtains, and with a baize-covered parrot between them on the table, when the meal was over, George smoking, and Mrs. Bradley knitting a shapeless garment slowly and very badly. Their conversation was about Charles Dickens, upon whom they held strong and diametrically opposite opinions, George maintaining his worth as a writer, Mrs. Bradley willing to concede him a sociological significance and proclaiming him to be a humanitarian of advanced views, great public spirit, and considerable courage, but consigning him, as a writer, to a peculiar limbo of her own where existed also Mrs. Felicia Hemans, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Dean Farrer, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and other eminent Victorians not mentionable because not yet removed from our midst.
At half-past ten George had some more beer and Mrs. Bradley went to bed. At eleven o’clock the landlord locked the side door, and at half-past eleven George carried a small hard flock mattress, blankets, and pillows stealthily on to the landing, and laid the lot down outside his employer’s bedroom.
At half-past twelve the stairs creaked, and George sat up. Nothing else happened, and so he lay down again. At twenty minutes to one he sat up again. A beam of light was coming up the stairs, a round spotlight, the gleam of an electric torch. The hair on George’s neck began to prick a bit. He remembered Sister Bridget and the hammer. He got up quietly and stepped in his stockinged feet to the opposite side of the passage. The light played on the walls and on the banisters. Then it lighted on the mattress and the pillows. It was switched off. There was darkness and silence. George waited where he was, knowing nothing better to do. Half an hour went by. There had been no sound, but he felt certain that the unknown prowler must have gone. He waited another ten minutes, then, feeling cold, went over to his bed again and crawled beneath the blankets.
He was wide awake, and realised that he was still straining his ears for sounds. Suddenly a horrid idea came into his head. It was possible that the intruder had found a way to climb up to the bedroom window. The next moment he reassured himself, for the window, he remembered, would not open. Anybody entering that way would have to break the glass and make a noise. Then he remembered how easy a thing it was to cut glass and make a way in. Training and common sense wrestled in George, but not for more than a moment. The door was half open. He stepped across his mattress and walked into Mrs. Bradley’s room.
“Stand still!” she said, but not loudly.
“It’s only me, madam. The night has had its suspicious element, madam, and I wondered whether you were safe.”
“Yes, thank you, George. Did somebody come upstairs?”
“You couldn’t have heard them, madam.”
“Second sight, then, George. I certainly thought I did.”
“Well, I saw the beam of their torch, but I certainly didn’t hear anything, and I’m not hard of hearing.”
“It must have been instinct, then. What happened, and how did you know?”
“I happened to be about, madam.”
“Sleeping outside my door? I call that very touching and noble, George!”
George, in the darkness, grinned.
“I didn’t like the things that have happened with hammers, madam.”
“No, George, neither did I. But I slept very peacefully, knowing that you were on guard, for I heard you come. Were you trained as a Scout in your youth?”
“I was a Scout, and then a Rover until I joined the army, madam, yes.”
“Well, you’d better go back to bed. You must be tired. I shan’t bother to sleep any more, so have no fears. Do you know, by the way, that there’s a gas fire in this room?”
“Nothing doing, madam, I shouldn’t think. The young lady wouldn’t have been persuaded to come out here. Besides, the gas! The room ’ud be full of it, without a window open. The murderer would never have got out conscious, and the body was found at the convent, don’t forget.”
“No, I’m not forgetting,” said Mrs. Bradley.
George retired, but no farther than his pallet on the landing. The rest of the hours of darkness passed without incident, and as soon as he heard the servants’ alarum clock ring, he took up his bed and belongings and went back to the room assigned to him.
At breakfast, which he had in the kitchen along with the maids and the barman, one of the girls observed:
“Can’t think how Miss Ada can come to leave the pantry window unfastened nohow. Seems to me that was shut all day long yesterday, on account of the wind being that way.”
“Was the pantry door locked?” asked George.
“Lor’, no. Why should it be?”
“I wondered. People sometimes lock the downstair rooms at night, just in case.”
“In case of burglars, do you mean?”
George agreed that he did, but added carelessly: “Nothing to burgle here particular, I take it.”
“Nothing to signify. All the big takings goes to the bank each day. Of course, there’s
the evening custom, but master sleeps on it all, as everyone round about know.”
George went along after breakfast to have a look at the window. There was nothing to show it had been forced, and yet to suppose that the murderer—he assumed that the unknown prowler had been after Mrs. Bradley—had had the luck to find a downstair window open on the only night that it was necessary to get into the inn, seemed far too great a coincidence to be likely. He went outside and carefully examined the ground, but it was crazy paving, and told him nothing. It had retained no marks, and there was no scrape of shoes on stonework, wood, or paint round the window or in the pantry.
He went to the landlord.
“Have any unusual customers yesterday, barring us?”
The landlord thought for a minute, then shook his head.
“Not as I recollect. Why, what’s the trouble?”
“The pantry window was left open.”
“That? Oh, that’s my darter, I reckon. Does her Keep Fit in there each night, her do, and deep breathing opposite the window. Told her once to shut it after her and mind we didn’t get cats, I’ve told her a dozen times.”
“Does her exercises in the pantry, does she?”
“Ah, her do, on account of the window opening on to the garden. Mother won’t have her gallivanting overhead, on account of the plaster from the ceilings; there isn’t no room in the kitchen, and the other rooms downstairs is all public rooms, do you see.”
George said that he did see, and went to Mrs. Bradley with the news.
“So it isn’t a mystery, madam, and may have been the ordinary sort of burglar.”
“Most likely,” Mrs. Bradley agreed.
“Odd, though, madam, to pick the very night. And, after all, a good many people at the convent knew you were staying here, didn’t they?”
“Quite true, George; so they did.”
“Do you suppose it might be useful to prosecute an enquiry at the convent, madam?”
“No, George, I don’t think so. The children don’t seem to give one another away, and I can’t believe, somehow, that the nuns have designs upon my life.”
“Religion goes very odd at times, madam.”
“Don’t I know it, George! By the way, I had an interesting thought last night. There’s one nun that I don’t know at all. I’ve seen her but never spoken to her—the history teacher, Mother Lazarus.”
“Would that be the lady like a wax candle, madam?”
“An apt description. How do you know her, George?”
“Well, madam, it was taking a good bit of liberty on my part, and I meant to let you know, but it slipped my mind.”
“George, this is most intriguing! Don’t tell me you’ve been taking the nuns for joy-rides in my car!”
“Well, it almost amounted to that, madam, really, I must confess. They wanted to catch up an expedition to a castle, madam, several miles away, and a museum. This Mother Saint Lazarus was supposed to be in charge of the party—a historical outing, madam, for some of the children—and one of the young ladies was always sick when she travelled by train. Well, it seems she’s the star history pupil, and had to see this castle and museum if it killed her. So they wondered if they could hire a car off the landlord. Well, he couldn’t oblige, his two being in commission moving young pigs, so, before I thought, I had offered, and off we went.”
“So Mother Lazarus came here! And who was the child?”
“Well, madam, as it happens, it was the very same young lady I drove to Wandles with Sir Ferdinand.”
“Ulrica Doyle? That’s interesting. And which day, George, was this?”
“It would have been last Thursday morning, madam.”
“But the fourth form don’t have history on a Thursday.”
“I couldn’t speak as to that, madam, but Thursday is the cheap day’s outing from the halt here.”
“Oh, that explains it, then. Naturally they would want to do the outing at the cheapest possible rate. What was Mother Lazarus going to do if she could not hire a car?”
“I could not say, I’m sure, madam. She seemed greatly relieved at my offer, and said that the rest of the party had gone on with Mother Saint Gregory and Mother Saint Francis, madam.”
“Oh, Mother Saint Francis was there! That explains, then, why Mother Saint Lazarus could leave her major charge to accompany a solitary girl. I suppose there was another nun with her?”
“Yes; an elderly lady by the name of Mother Saint Bartholomew, whom I recollect having seen in Restoration Comedy, madam, before she took the veil.”
“Good heavens, George! I shouldn’t have thought you were old enough to have been taking an interest in Restoration Comedy when Mother Bartholomew was still on the stage. At any rate, thank you very much for your information. Again you have assisted materially in the enquiry.”
“May I be privileged to know in what way, madam?”
“I expected another attempt on my life on Thursday, George, that’s all. By driving those three, the two nuns and the girl, to their castle and museum, you’ve probably—I should say certainly—saved me from attack. Somebody saw the car go out, I expect, and probably thought I was in it.”
CHAPTER 21
GIRLS
“What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant’s mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim
The glory of the Seraphim?”
JOHN WILSON: To a Sleeping Child.
“But the last thing we want,” said Mother Saint Francis, “is a lot of gossip going on among the girls.”
Mrs. Bradley agreed, but added that she supposed there was bound to be a certain amount of gossip, and that she thought her plan would lead to less of it, possibly, than might more secret measures. So the school, first thing on Monday morning, was surprised to have a little old woman with snapping black eyes and a terrifying, beautiful voice, step on to the platform beside Mother Francis, immediately prayers were over, and demand the writer of anonymous letters.
“Come here to me at once,” she said. There was a movement of the ranks, and out stepped Nancy Ryan.
“Come along,” said Mrs. Bradley, motioning her on to the platform. The child was so terrified that she added: “You have nobody but me to account to for your actions. I am Mother Saint Francis’s delegate.”
This did little to reassure Nancy, who stood, white-faced, and saw her surroundings through a mist, whilst her heart thumped horribly and she felt sure that if she were asked to say a single word she would be sick.
“How many letters did you write?” enquired Mrs. Bradley. There was no reply whilst Nancy struggled for control of her lips, which were dry with fright.
“One,” she replied at last.
“To whom did you send it?”
“To Mary Maslin. If you please, it was only in fun.”
“I believe that,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But it might have led to serious trouble, you know. As it is, it has been of considerable assistance to me, and so this is the last you will hear of it. Go away, child, and don’t write any more of the nasty, silly things. Get along with you.”
Nancy retired, and Mrs. Bradley addressed the assembled school.
“I want next all the girls who knew that Ursula Doyle was not in class on that Monday afternoon.”
There was barely a second’s hesitation; then the whole of the third form, seventeen of them, came forward, single file, and made a straight line in front of the platform. Most of them looked scared and guilty, as though they felt they were going to be blamed for what had happened.
“Where was she, then?” Mrs. Bradley enquired, whilst the school stood silent but excited. A girl wearing a badge stepped out of the line and said:
“We didn’t notice until we were ready for our lesson, and then we didn’t say anything, as her cousin wasn’t there either, and we thought they had both had special permission to be absent.”
“Ulrica Doyle, do you mean, was not in class either?”
“
Yes. The two forms, ours and the fourth form, had music together that afternoon, and we thought—and we thought—”
“I see. Very well, girls, thank you. Now, the fourth form—where was Ulrica Doyle that afternoon?”
Thereupon ensued one of those dramatic interruptions which schoolgirls dream about, and of which schoolgirl literature is full. Ulrica Doyle herself, who had been driven to Mrs. Bradley’s home at Wandles Parva, came forward from the back of the hall, and looking even more pallid (from her self-inflicted injury, Mrs. Bradley supposed) than usual, said very calmly and distinctly:
“I spent that Monday afternoon in church.”
“In church?” Mrs. Bradley betrayed no surprise at her sudden appearance. It was almost as though she had expected it. Ulrica came up to the platform. Still very pale, she was, as usual, entirely self-possessed.
“Did anybody else know this?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.
“No,” the girl replied, and a faint smile, such, Mrs. Bradley thought, in a moment of irritation, as martyrs probably wore, appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, wait, though. One of the guest-house people came in. She saw me, I believe, and may remember.”
“But what made you go into church?” Mrs. Bradley demanded, recollecting Mrs. Trust’s evidence.
“Saint Jeanne d’Arc,” the girl calmly replied.
“Voices?” said Mrs. Bradley sceptically, and with a considerable amount of distaste.
“You must believe what you choose,” said Ulrica, quietly and firmly, her pale face lifted and her nostrils quivering slightly. “I was under compulsion to spend the time in church, and school rules no longer had meaning. I shall explain this to Mother Saint Francis as soon as the Voices give me leave.”
“Odd,” said Mrs. Bradley; but she was not referring to the girl’s last sentence, a fact which was patent to Ulrica but lost to the rest of her hearers, including Mother Francis. The nun, having promised to maintain a policy of rigid non-interference, was keeping silence, but her expression, to those who knew her—and even to Mrs. Bradley, who did not—boded no good to Ulrica, the embryo saint and martyr. Mother Francis was, in fact, as the girls remarked later on, positively seething with fury. At a nod from Mrs. Bradley she dismissed the school to their classrooms, but herself remained in the hall.
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