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  Mrs. Bradley cackled.

  “There you are, you see. He didn’t think Maggie odd. He obviously thought her pretty and attractive.”

  “Yes, madam, so she is. We don’t have the baker and the butcher because we bake all our own bread, and kill our own meat, partly. The rest comes in from Kelsorrow twice a week, and the butcher’s wife brings it by car.”

  “I see. Now, Annie, how much of the day are you girls on duty here in this guest-house?”

  “Every morning from nine-thirty until eleven, madam, and on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons from half-past two until seven.”

  “So some of you were actually on duty over here— or may have been—when that poor child entered the guest-house? You did not see her come?”

  “I wasn’t here myself. It was Bessie and Kitty. But nobody saw her. At least, so everybody says. We always work in pairs, madam, over here, though the pairs aren’t always the same, in case we get too friendly.”

  “I must talk to Bessie and Kitty. Now, please, think carefully, Annie. Did anything out of the ordinary come to your notice that day?”

  “No… Yes, madam. The gardener was putting creosote on the fence, and Miss Bonnet gave up her holiday from the other school she attends to stay here and give the younger orphans some netball.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all, but, of course, she wanted a bath, like she always does after games when she’s took part herself and got hot, and that was how we found out about the poor little girl.”

  “Did the orphans get dirty and hot?”

  “Oh, yes, but there wasn’t no baths for them then. They had theirs just before bedtime. They all had a wash, though, before they went back into school.”

  “I see. At what time did Miss Bonnet take this bath?”

  “Well, actually, of course, she didn’t, madam, though the time was about half-past three, because of getting her lunch down. It was all the same bathroom you see, so she never had a bath after all, it turned her up so, finding the poor little girl.”

  “Very awkward and not very pleasant. Did Miss Bonnet select the bathroom she was to use, or did somebody else arrange that she happened to try the one where the child lay dead?”

  “She said, ‘Ah, this’ll do, Annie,’ and walked herself in. She wasn’t used to waiting to be asked. She’s Physical Training, you see.”

  “And did she—how did she react to what she saw?”

  “I don’t hardly remember, madam. I think she just went white and stuck her head out and shouted, ‘Annie, fetch somebody, quick!’ So I hollered to Bessie to fetch Mother Saint Ambrose quick, because I could see that something must have upset Miss Bonnet proper, and she came out quick and shut the door.”

  “And Mother Saint Ambrose came?”

  “Yes, ever so quick. Bessie went for her, and I reckon Bessie was frightened at me yelling out like I did.”

  “Was Mother Saint Ambrose frightened?”

  “You can’t tell that with the religious. She acted quiet and gave orders to fetch Mother Saint Jude, and they was the two that carried the little girl out, Miss Bonnet going as well to do the first aid.”

  “Where did they take the little girl?”

  “To one of the bedrooms which didn’t happen to be occupied. The little girl’s auntie had had it, but said the springs of the bed was not too good. Miss Bonnet tried everything she knew, and Mother Saint Ambrose telephoned for the doctor, but nothing was any use.”

  “I had better see Mother Saint Ambrose and Mother Saint Jude. Where are they to be found?”

  “I’ll go and find them, madam. Would you want them both at once?”

  Mrs. Bradley said that she would, and while the girl was gone she examined the dining-room closely. A silver vase, without flowers, attracted her attention, and so did two metal ash-trays, obviously and beautifully made by hand. She was still admiring these when Annie re-entered the room.

  “If you please, madam, Reverend Mother Superior sends her compliments by Mother Mary-Joseph, and if you can spare the time, she would be very glad to meet you. That is, unless you are employed, in your opinion, more usefully.”

  Mrs. Bradley put down the ash-tray and went with Annie to the door.

  “By the way, Annie,” she said, “you said that you showed Miss Bonnet to the bathroom. But you also said that you weren’t on duty that day.”

  “Yes, madam, that’s right. I was over at the Orphanage, and got sent over with Miss Bonnet.”

  They left the guest-house by its entrance, went round to the gatehouse, were admitted by a smiling lay-sister portress, passed an asphalt netball court set among grass, and then went through a wicket-gate into an orchard. The orchard was bounded on its north side by another low hedge, similar in every way to the first in which the wicket-gate had been set. Both hedges were carefully kept, and were composed of box shrubs set close together. But this time there was no wicket, and they turned sharp left through a gloomy arch of green, a tunnel in the higher and thicker hedge which separated the nuns’ garden from the orchard. A path through the herb garden and beside a rock garden brought them to a brick-roofed passage several yards in length, and this opened on to the cloister. At the far end of the passage was a flight of steps which reached a round-headed door-way infinitely ecclesiastical. At the base of the steps stood a young nun. She inclined her head to dismiss Annie, who curtsied and retired, and then held out her hand to Mrs. Bradley.

  “I am Sister Mary-Joseph. Reverend Mother Superior is glad you have come,” she said. Mrs. Bradley followed her up the outside staircase, walked past her, by invitation, when they came to the round-headed door-way, found the door ajar, and went in. The nun followed, and closed the door very quietly.

  “I have prayed,” said the Mother Superior gently. “This is the answer to my prayers.”

  Mrs. Bradley, unaccustomed to such a theory as applied to herself, bowed and grinned. The Mother Superior, a tall old lady with a voice as thin and sweet as the notes of a spinet, came towards her. “I am glad to see you,” she said, a statement which Mrs. Bradiey could more easily credit.

  “I am glad to have come,” she said.

  “It is good of you to give up your time. You must tell us how much to pay.”

  “I am here on holiday. I shall be pleased to do anything I can.”

  “It is good of you. Our income is small. God will bless you.‘’ She accepted Mrs. Bradley’s unpaid services with gentle matter-of-factness, and both of them sat down. ”The others will tell you the details. We have been very unhappy.”

  “I know the story in outline. Will you tell me why you want to have it investigated?”

  “Tell me, first, the story as you know it.”

  “My son met Father Thomas. Since then I have talked to Annie and to Miss Bonnet.”

  “That is a good child, that Miss Bonnet. She is not a Catholic, but she has a good heart. She comes here for half her usual fee, and stays often to help our poor orphans—that for nothing. There are so many good people… We are thankful. But this death… Tell me what you have heard. ”

  Mrs. Bradley told her of the conversation with Ferdinand, who had recounted Father Thomas’ version of the story, and described her own investigations, including the questions she had put to Annie. As she talked, she studied the austere room and its occupant, and the young nun in the door-way. In contrast with the comfort of the guest-house, the Superior’s lodging was noticeably, uncompromisingly bare. Except for the two chairs there was no furniture except a writing-table, a praying-desk and a religious picture. Through an opening in the wall was a smaller room containing, as far as Mrs. Bradley could determine, nothing except a mattress on the floor, a washing-stand and a crucifix. There might have been other furnishings, but from where she sat she could not see them.

  In the room in which she was, the walls were patched with damp, and the one window was medieval in scope and placing, little more than an embrasured slit high up in the bare brick wall.

&
nbsp; “And you want to know why we wish to have that story investigated?” the Mother Superior said, with a courteous use of Mrs. Bradley’s own expression which its originator was quick to appreciate. “I will explain.” She remained for a moment as though she were thinking, and then said, “We know our children. This one, little Ursula Doyle, came to us when she was six. We have had her for seven years. She would not, under any circumstances, have taken her own life. It is unthinkable. So grave a sin—”

  “I understand that she was in trouble at school.”

  “Yes, I know. It was suggested by the coroner that that was a reason… It is impossible.”

  “Children exaggerate the importance of these things, do they not? A reason which might appear inadequate, or even ridiculous, to a grown-up person—?”

  “No amount of exaggeration would account for such a terrible reaction. The child’s death was an accident. It must have been. You will find out… You will help us?”

  “I will find out what I can, but I am not a Catholic. Scientific truth concerns me—nothing else—and you will understand that I shall remain entirely unbiased.”

  “Love concerns you,” said the Mother Superior, with a gentle smile. “We give you a free hand. Go and talk to the others, those who teach in our school. They are among the children—they knew the child, poor mite!—very much better than I did.” She broke off, her frail voice leaving no echo in the room. Then she added, as Mrs. Bradley rose, “God has laid on us a burden, and I, my dear friend, thankfully transfer it to you. I will pray for your good success.” She patted Mrs. Bradley’s shoulder, and signed to the motionless young nun to go with her back to the cloister.

  “I take it,” said Mrs. Bradley, as they walked through the nuns’ garden towards the guest-house, “that I shall not be allowed to interview any of the Community alone? If, for instance, I were to begin to question you about the death of the child, you would refuse to answer except in the presence of another of the nuns?”

  Mother Mary-Joseph smiled. She could not, Mrs, Bradley decided, be more than twenty-five years old.

  “We are always permitted to talk to visitors,” she said.

  “Which day did the child die?”

  “Last Monday, just a week ago to-day.”

  “When was the inquest?”

  “On Tuesday.”

  “Were any relatives present?”

  “An aunt from Wimbledon. Her husband is the nearest living relative except for the grandfather in New York and the cousins, a girl of fifteen, and another of thirteen, who are at school here.”

  “Were you acquainted with Ursula Doyle?”

  “Yes. I teach English to her form.”

  “What kind of girl was she?”

  “She was very quiet and docile. Her nature was gentle, and, I would have said, good.”

  “Have you altered that opinion, then?”

  “It cannot be good to contravene the will of God,” the young nun answered sadly.

  “I am here to try to establish that the child did not take her own life. I am interested to know that you at least concede the possibility of suicide. Were you present at the inquest?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “Which nuns were present?‘ ’

  “Sister Saint Ambrose, Sister Saint Jude, Sister Saint Francis and Reverend Mother Superior.”

  “Anyone else from the convent?”

  “No one. That is, Miss Bonnet was there to witness to the finding of the—of the child.”

  “Nobody else? None of the lay-sisters?”

  “Nobody else, so far as I know.”

  “How do you come to know what happened?”

  “Sister Saint Francis, with the permission of Reverend Mother Superior, told us, before morning school on the day of the inquest, what had happened. Later we were told of the verdict given by the coroner.”

  “Do all the nuns teach?”

  “Yes, except for Reverend Mother Superior. Sister Saint Francis is the headmistress, and so does not do as much teaching as the rest, but she is always in school. Sister Saint Ambrose, who is matron of the Orphanage, and Sister Saint Jude, who is kitchener and hospitaller, do no teaching, ordinarily, in the private school.”

  “And I suppose I am keeping you from your teaching now?”

  “I have set the top form an essay. They will not be idle.”

  By this time they had reached the convent gatehouse. Here Annie was waiting to conduct Mrs. Bradley again to the guest-house parlour.

  “Good-bye, then, Mother Mary-Joseph,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Thank you for answering my questions.” The young nun bowed and smiled. Mrs. Bradley passed through the gate, but paused beside the lay-sister who came out and pushed it open.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am lay-sister Magdalene.”

  “And do you always keep this gate shut?”

  “Shut, yes, but not locked until sunset. But I come down now and open it for everybody who goes through, because we think she must have come through this way to get into the guest-house bathroom.”

  “Are you the only person who keeps this gate?”

  “Why, yes.” She seemed not in the least puzzled by this persistent questioning, but still smiled as she closed the convent gates behind Mrs. Bradley and Annie.

  “Now, Annie,” said Mrs. Bradley, when they were again in the parlour, “I want you to show me the bathroom in which the child was found.”

  The guest-house was nothing more than three detached houses, built originally for private purchase, but now made into one by means of covered ways which joined them together. Next to them were two more houses, and these were still occupied by private families unconnected with the convent. Annie led the way across the hall, up some stairs to a landing, and then pointed.

  “That’s the one, madam. That’s the bathroom where she was found.”

  “Are you afraid to go in?”

  “No, madam, not in the least.”

  “What did you do whilst Bessie had gone running along for Mother Saint Ambrose and Mother Saint Jude?”

  “I stayed where I was with Miss Bonnet.”

  “Where was that? Will you stand in the same place again?”

  Annie walked a couple of paces forward.

  “It would have been here, madam.”

  “Now tell me where I should stand, supposing I had been Miss Bonnet.”

  “Forward of me, madam, not quite so near the door. She went bursting in, do you see, and came bursting out again.”

  “What, once again, did she say?”

  “She began with an oath, madam. Do you order me to repeat it?”

  “Just as you like.”

  “She said, ‘Good God! Annie, run and get someone! I’m not going to touch her! I can’t!’ ”

  “Now, look here, Annie, I want you to think very carefully for a minute. I have in my notes”—she turned back the pages—“that when Miss Bonnet came out of the bathroom she did not scream out; she merely said, ‘Annie, fetch somebody quick.’ Which were her actual words? Those, or the words you told me just now?”

  Annie looked distressed.

  “I didn’t think you’d want me to swear,” she said.

  “Very well, Annie. Then Miss Bonnet really said, ‘My God! Go and get Mother Saint Ambrose!’ ”

  “No, madam. ‘Good God! Annie, run and get someone. I’m not going to touch her! I can’t!’ That’s what she said, and I shouted to Bessie, and Bessie must have run fast.”

  “Then Mother Saint Ambrose arrived. Now what did she say?”

  “She sent Bessie off for Mother Saint Jude, and told me to get some towels from the airing cupboard, although as a matter of fact there was one in the bathroom already, and I suppose she beckoned Miss Bonnet in to help her, because Miss Bonnet said, ‘I can’t! I can’t!’ Very upset she seemed.”

  “Now then,” said Mrs. Bradley briskly, “I want to see Bessie. Please go and fetch her, and bring her up here to this landing.”

  “Very
good, madam.”

  She went, and as soon as she was gone, Mrs. Bradley stepped inside the bathroom, and closed the door. The little room was as bare and clean as a cell. It was tiled to a height of four feet, and above the tiling the walls were covered with washable distemper. There was a window which opened casement fashion, and beneath it was a wash-bowl. Under the bowl was a cork-topped bathroom stool, and beside the bowl, over the outlet end of the bath, was the gas water-heater. This Mrs. Bradley examined minutely. She lit it, let water run, turned it off again, examined the gas-pipes, and noticed nothing amiss except that the room had no ventilator. The geyser, however, had a correctly-fitted flue.

  She heard footsteps outside and went on to the landing again. A short, dark, sullen-looking girl was standing a yard behind Annie. Mrs. Bradley sent Annie away for Mother Ambrose and Mother Jude and then turned on the second eldest orphan, summed her up, and spoke sharply:

  “Now, then, Bessie,” she said. “The truth, and quickly.”

  “Don’t know nothing, and don’t want to,” said Bessie with discouraging abruptness.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Bradley. “No use to ask you, then, whether the bathroom window was open or shut.”

  “I don’t know. I heard Annie yelling, and I run.”

  “Annie, I suppose, is a very excitable girl.”

  “Nothing don’t excite her. That’s why I run.”

  “Did you hear quite clearly what she said?”

  “No, but we always runs for Mother Saint Ambrose when anything over either house goes wrong.”

  “I see. So you took it for granted that you were to fetch Mother Saint Ambrose. Where, by the way, did you find her?”

  “Same place as usual.”

  “And she came immediately?”

  Bessie, slightly nonplussed by this calm acceptance of her uncouth behaviour, replied, still doggedly sulky but with a greater degree of animation than, so far, she had displayed:

  “Most immediate she come, and when she gets there she sends me darting off for Mother Saint Jude.”

  “And was Mother Saint Jude also in the same place as usual?”