St. Peter's Finger (Mrs. Bradley) Page 23
“By the way, how did you manage to get on to the roof?”
“Oh, the man in the end house had a ladder already up. He was doing some painting of the guttering. It was just light enough for me to carry, so, as soon as it was dark, I dragged it along and got up it. But I hadn’t got to the guest-house after all, but only to the second of the private houses. Oh, dear! I have got bruises!”
“But, look here,” said Mrs. Bradley, speaking sternly, “there’s more in this than you’ve told me. Let’s go over it again.”
“No, please, I’d rather not. I shall only get into trouble as it is! I’ve told you all I can. I can’t get other people into a mess.”
“Do you mean Nancy Ryan?”
“Well, not only Nancy.”
“Mary,” said Mrs. Bradley, “don’t be silly. What did you do on Friday between a quarter past three and bed-time?”
“I felt ill, and went up to bed.”
“You were not in bed when Cynthia Parks went to look.”
“I expect I was being sick again just then.”
“Did you go into preparation on Friday evening?”
“No. I went back to bed. I was sick twice in the night, you know.”
“Why?”
“Well—”
“Why?”
“I ate soap.”
“We’re coming to it at last,” said Mrs. Bradley. “All right, Mary. Don’t begin to cry. You thought you were poisoned, didn’t you? And now, what made you think that?”
“Ulrica gave me some sweets.”
“Ulrica? Where did she get them?”
“She said that Mother Saint Gregory had given them to her. They were a kind of dark, awful yellow—very sinister. They tasted perfectly horrid, and I was nervous—because of Ursula, you know.”
“Have you any of them left?”
“Yes, one.”
“Good girl. Where is it?”
“In my needlework bag. It’s collected up in Mother Saint Cyprian’s cupboard. I’ll get it for you next needlework lesson if you want it.”
“How many did you eat?”
“Well, I ate three. I thought at first that the taste was simply peculiar, and that I might like it better if I persevered.”
“Had Ulrica given you any directions about eating the sweets, I wonder?”
“Yes. She said not to guzzle them all at once. I thought she was just being nasty. I know I’m greedy. I always confess to the sin of greed, but I don’t seem to get any better. I’m always hungry, that’s all. I don’t really mean to be greedy.”
“Neither does a cormorant,” said Mrs. Bradley, laughing. “Well, what happened next?”
“Well, my inside went funny,” said Mary, delicately, “so I told the girls I was sick, which doesn’t sound quite so awful. And then I suddenly thought—”
“What?”
“How easy it would be for Ulrica if I was out of the way. There’d be nobody then to go to New York and get grandfather’s money instead of her having it all.”
“So you suspect that your cousin tried to murder you?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly suspect it, but it all seemed rather queer, so I thought the best thing I could do was to make myself sick with the soap and get rid of the poison, if any.”
“Very sensible and commendable,” said Mrs. Bradley, nodding. Mary looked very uncomfortable. “I don’t want to get Ulrica into trouble,” she said.
“You won’t,” Mrs. Bradley promised her. “I will be the soul of discretion. I think we shall find that the sweets were merely brimstone and treacle tablets. Mother Saint Gregory provided them, you say?”
She was more immediately concerned with clothing than with sweets, and, upon leaving Mary, went to find Sister Genevieve. The lay-sister matron brought out the garments which had been found in the bathroom and brought the tape-measure which Mrs. Bradley also demanded. The clothes were as Mother Jude had described—torn and damaged. The rather long grey drill-tunic was black with soot from the roof. All the garments were marked with the owner’s name-tab, U. DOYLE, sewn on with tiny stitches.
CHAPTER 20
GEORGE
“What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder…”
WALT WHITMAN: Stray Thoughts.
George came back at half-past ten with the car, and Mrs. Bradley was notified of his arrival whilst she was still examining the clothing. George had brought a note from Ferdinand. Mrs. Bradley, standing at the door of the guest-house in the thin spring sunshine, read it, then read it again.
“Arrived safely in Wandles. Celestine all ready to receive us. Ulrica asks whether there is any objection to her going to New York to visit her grandfather, since she has been taken away from school. Says she thinks her relatives would give permission, if you think she would be safe. Let me know what you feel.”
“So you arrived safely, George?” said Mrs. Bradley, looking at him with grandmotherly affection.
“Yes, madam.”
It sounded noncommittal, and Mrs. Bradley was intrigued. She pressed the point.
“Quite safely, and in good time?”
“We were delayed a half-hour or so, madam, on account of the young lady’s injury.”
“Good heavens, George! My son has not mentioned her injury. What was its nature and location?”
“I am at a loss how to answer you, madam.”
“Very well. Tell the whole tale. Come inside. There’s nobody here. We can talk in guilty secrecy.”
She led the way into the dining-room where the cloth was spread but the table not set, and motioned him into a chair. George waited until she was seated, and then, with his peaked cap held between his knees, and his feet set as though they were clamped in iron boots to the floor, he began his tale.
“We had proceeded through the village of Blacklock Tor and were about twenty-three miles upon our way when the young lady said she felt faint and would like some water. There being no water apparent, except what was in the radiator, madam, I drove on a couple of miles to the nearest village. There, while Sir Ferdinand ministered to the young lady, I purchased a packet of cigarettes for myself and a couple of cigars to give to Henri, me owing him these on account of a small wager which I had had with him some time previous, and conversed with the woman behind the counter. It was she who had supplied the young lady with a glass of water, and she mentioned to me that she thought the young lady had a sweet face, but looked exceedingly poorly. I concurred in this expression of opinion—”
“You don’t really think the girl has a sweet face, George?”
“I had taken very little account of the young lady up to then, madam, for the reason of her being a passenger and hardly my business, but since you ask me, I thought she looked somewhat ethereal.”
“Do you mean it, George?”
“Well, madam, I thought I did, but since you question the term, perhaps I don’t.”
“Now, be independent, George, and out with it like a man. What made you use the word ethereal?”
“She seemed to me not of this world, madam. She reminds me of what I used to think nuns were like before we knew those here.”
“You don’t call the nuns here ethereal?”
“They seem to me too practical, madam, to be warrantably called ethereal.”
“Wasn’t the girl practical, then?”
“I don’t know how to answer, madam, for here’s what happened. After we got on our way again, Sir Ferdinand, I fancy, had fallen into a doze, and all of a sudden the left side back window cracked as though someone had struck it smartly with a halfpenny, and at the same minute I heard the young lady cry out. I stopped the car at once, got down, and opened the door. She was whimpering and holding her arm—her left arm, madam—and was moaning out.
“‘They’ve got me! Oh! They’ve got me!’
“Sir Ferdinand had awakened, and was staring at her and saying:
“‘Pull yourself together, my dear child! Whatever is the matter!’
“We staunched the blood—a rather nasty cut, madam, that had slashed the sleeve of her coat and dress, and penetrated fairly deeply into the upper arm, about three inches, I should judge, above the elbow—and I drove on pretty fast to find a doctor. He dressed the arm—he thought she had cut it on broken glass from a car-smash, I believe, and none of us, not the young lady, either, said anything different to him.”
“She did it herself, I presume?”
“Very hysterical subject, I should fancy, madam. Rather like some of Herr Hekel’s young ladies, I imagine. Full of imagination, and out for sympathy and notice.”
“And you still looked upon her as ethereal?”
“With all the colour gone from her face, madam, and her eyes all dark underneath, and a general limpness of demeanour consequent upon loss of blood, I must persist, madam, in the description. She wanted to tell us some long rigmarole about having seen a man on the running board of the car. Sir Ferdinand, who has not exactly taken a fancy to the young lady, madam, told her, somewhat abruptly, that this was nonsense, and she made matters not exactly better by referring him to the fact that he had been asleep at the time.
“‘Yes, but I wasn’t,’ I said. She told me I couldn’t see behind me. I didn’t argue, madam, but I know no man was there.”
“But did you find the weapon that she used?”
“It was difficult without searching the young lady, madam. Sir Ferdinand remonstrated with her a bit, and told her she must calm down, and then Celestine gave her some milk when we got her home—she wouldn’t have anything to eat, so Celestine told me later—and put her to bed. Then Sir Ferdinand had his dinner, and I sat down to supper with Henri and Celestine.”
“I half-expected that my son would come back in the car.”
“He thought he had better be there to keep an eye on the young lady, madam, I fancy. He specifically referred to her as the apple of your eye, and said he must watch his step, as you would expect an account of his stewardship.”
“Quite right. I shall. Go and send off a wire, George, to tell my son that Miss Doyle can go to New York as soon as she likes, and that the next boat sails on Wednesday.”
“Very good, madam.” He hesitated. “I was to be sure and ask after the other young lady, madam, so the young lady we took with us got me to promise.”
“She’s lucky to be alive, from what I can make out. She fell off a roof before you left.”
“We heard nothing of it, madam.”
“No. By the way, I suppose Miss Doyle said nothing about returning here when you found she had been cut on the arm, George?”
“She mentioned it frequently, madam, but Sir Ferdinand said he had his orders, and would proceed, as planned, to Wandles.”
“Interesting. You knew she wanted to say good-bye to her cousin, and couldn’t find her, did you?”
“I was not so informed, madam, no.”
“Curious, George.”
“She’s a curious kind of young lady, if you ask me, madam.”
“Yes, fanatical, very. I don’t somehow think she will make a very good nun. She’d make a fine missionary, though. She’s quite unscrupulous.”
“Is it the young lady’s intention to take the veil, madam?”
“It is her ambition, I understand. You go to Blacklock Tor, George, with the car, and get them to book me a room. I shall want it to-morrow night for certain, and very likely for to-night. So book it for to-night, in any case, and call for me at half-past nine or so. I feel I ought to go to church this evening, as it’s Sunday, and I’m not sure at what time to go.”
“Very good, madam.”
“Don’t forget the telegram. If you can’t send it from Blacklock Tor—and ten to one you can’t—telephone it from Kelsorrow.”
“Yes, madam, very good. If I may venture to make a suggestion, you’ll keep an eye skinned for trouble, madam, with Mrs. Maslin still about the place?”
“I’ll bear the warning in mind, George, thank you kindly.”
He saluted, climbed into the car, and drove away. Mrs. Bradley went back to the infirmary, this time to visit Sister Bridget. After that, she thought, it would be a good time to interview the inhabitants of the two private houses. The clue she had been waiting for—that she had known must manifest itself sooner or later—was now in her possession. There was little else to wait for.
She walked quietly up the Orphanage staircase and entered Sister Bridget’s darkened room. She smiled at the nun on duty, and then bent over the patient. Sister Bridget’s chief need was for rest and quiet. She lay like a corpse in the silent, darkened room, and either a nun or a lay-sister remained with her all the time. Their devoted nursing amazed Mrs. Bradley, used, as she was, to the selflessness of nurses.
She went down the stairs and out to the orchard where the trees were showing buds and the pear and the plum were nearly out. Nobody was about. She walked briskly to the gate and past the front of the guest-house.
The first man, in his shirt-sleeves, a hammer in his right hand, was not helpful and sounded surly. Yes, he had heard about the death of the little girl, and had complained to the police about the damage done by the hooligans who had demonstrated against the convent. Beyond that he knew nothing, cared less, and would not answer any questions.
“It ain’t my business,” he said, “and what ain’t my business, I keep out of.”
Outfaced by this admirable sentiment, Mrs. Bradley took her leave. She had learned from Sister Genevieve, the boarders’ matron, a good soul not at all averse to gossip so long as it was not malicious, that the man had lost his wife and was very unhappy. He shut himself off from everybody, except when he went on wild jaunts (Sister Genevieve’s words) to London, returning in a couple of days or a couple of months, just as the fancy took him. He was a superstitious man, and had told the builder next door to be sure to let the convent have the guest-house (three houses, actually) cheap.
The builder was a different kind of man from his neighbour. He and his wife invited Mrs. Bradley in, and were anxious and willing to discuss the roof-climbing feat of Mary Maslin. He described the episode fully. It appeared to have caused him some amusement. He was vague, however, about the date on which he had seen the other girl on the roof. Mrs. Bradley attempted to get a description of the girl whom old Sister Catherine had referred to, but this, she found, was impossible. The man appeared to have very little visual memory, and, in any case, the girl had been dressed like all the girls. There was nothing distinctive about her. She was a biggish sort of girl, he would say. Mrs. Bradley then asked him what time of day it was when he saw the first girl. He thought it was early afternoon. It was quite light, he remembered, yet he did not think it was in the morning, although it might have been. He remembered thinking it was a funny kind of convent to allow such goings-on, and suggested that if one of the children broke her neck the coroner’s next set of remarks might be a little sharper.
“Did you go to the inquest, then?” asked Mrs. Bradley. Well, yes, he had; living in the neighbourhood, and so forth, he and his wife had been interested, especially as they had seen the girl on the roof.
Oh, he had thought of the child he had seen on the roof that afternoon, then?
Yes, it had crossed his mind.
Had he mentioned having seen the child?
Not until he mentioned it to the other kid who had tumbled off the roof into his front garden, and lucky for her he’d dug down a couple of spits that afternoon!
Did not he think it important?
He did not know whether it was important or not, but it wasn’t on his roof she was climbing, and he wasn’t going to get himself mixed up in anything if he knew it. Everybody knew that the girl had climbed somehow into that bathroom, didn’t they? And if the nuns were not capable of looking after thei
r pupils and seeing that they didn’t turn on gas taps, and drown themselves in the bath, that was their look out, not his. No, he wasn’t a Catholic. Had no time for religion. Frills, he called it; just frills—and got you nowhere. Cissy, he called it. No, it had been no trouble to answer the questions. He had liked the child he had rescued; nice little kid. No nonsense about her, either. Might have been bellowing her head off after a tumble like that, and must have been hurt, but if so, had not shown it. Wouldn’t mind one of his own like her. No girls. A couple of boys; apprenticed, both of them. Not that there was anything doing anywhere, was there, nowadays? That’s what they always said. Things were bad. Trade was bad. Nobody wanted skilled labour. All the professions were full. He believed neither in Fascism nor Communism. Thought they came to the same thing exactly in the end. Took away your liberty, and what did they give you in exchange? Look at Germany and—No, been no trouble. Yes, there would be some good weather now, he thought. Yes, that was the ladder. He kept it in the front garden. Wasn’t afraid of being burgled. Nothing worth nabbing in their house. Yes, quite a light ladder, considering its length. He’d got plenty more round the back. Discount allowed to the trade, like in everything else.
Mrs. Bradley perceived that there was nothing more to be gained from the friendly man. George came at half-past nine, according to orders, and drove her to Blacklock Tor.
“Did you telephone, George?” she enquired.
“Yes, madam. Pardon me, madam, but don’t you think it rather a risky proceeding to let Miss Doyle go to New York?”
“I do not anticipate that Miss Doyle will murder her grandfather, George.”
“Very good, madam. May I enquire how the injured party is getting on now, madam?”
“Her head is quite hard, George. I don’t know whether mine would have been as hard.”
“So it was directed at you, madam?”
“It seems likely. Nobody would set out to murder poor Sister Bridget.”
“That’s if we’re on the right tack, madam.”
“Proceed, George. Are you sure you know the right tack?”