The Religious Body (21 page)

“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 doesn'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.”

Cartwright gave his quick smile. “That job's still open for you, Inspector.”

“No, thank you, sir, but there is one—what you might call—lost soul in need of one rather badly. A defector from St. Anselm's. I doubt if she's really employable myself.”

“I could see,” offered Cartwright.

“The name is Lome, Miss Eileen Lome. I'll give you her address.”

“And I'll give you my London one.”

Sloan coughed. “I have it, sir, thank you.”

Cartwright nodded gravely. “I was forgetting. But I'll be coming back to The Bull. Funny thing you know, The Bull doesn't mean the animal at all.”

“No, sir?”

“No. It means the Papal Bull. Isn't that odd? The Mother Superior told me.”

Sloan went back to the car and tapped Crosby on the shoulder. “Get thee to a nunnery.”

Sister Gertrude set off in the direction of the Parlor. There must be visitors there again. Usually Sister Lucy was sent for, but today Sister Lucy was being kept very busy by the Mother Superior on the question of the cost of a cloister. And this time they knew where the money was coming from. Mr. Harold Cartwright. Usually, when the Convent of St. Anselm spent some money they had no idea from whence the wherewithal would appear. It always came, of course, but that was not easy to explain to a builder.

She hurried down the great staircase and wondered how long it would be before she could look at the newel post without a shudder. There was a portrait at the bottom of the stairs, framed and glass-covered. If you stood in a certain way you could catch sight of your own reflection. Sister Gertrude paused, squinted up at herself and pulled her coif quite straight. Very wrong of her, of course. She would try not to do it again. But it was a temptation.

She joined the Mother Superior and went into the Parlor.

“So it was Mr. Ranby all the time,” said the Mother Superior directly.

“Yes, marm,” said Sloan. “He swallowed the bait—Sergeant Perkins—hook, line and sinker. If I may say so, Father MacAuley has a real talent for dissembling. Ranby never guessed the idea of the night watch was all a put-up job.”

“Inspector, there is no doubt is there?”

“No, marm, we've found out other things too. He shaved twice that day and so on.”

“Poor soul,” she said compassionately, “to be so concerned with the passing things of this world.”