St. Peter's Finger

chapter 5

orphans

“Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment

House and home thy friends provide;

All without thy care or payment;

All thy wants are well supplied.”

isaac watts: A Cradle Hymn.

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By daylight the convent looked different—bigger, but not so grim; shut away from intruders, but not so starkly withdrawn. The car drew up at the guest-house entrance at just after half-past three, and Mrs. Bradley was admitted by a very neatly-dressed girl in cap and apron.

The room into which she was shown was simply furnished, but the chairs were comfortable, there were daffodils in glass vases on the table and on the bookcase, and the floor was carpeted. An open grate at one end of the room, and a portable gas-fire, attached to a snake-like flex, at the side of it, gave promise of comfort in cold weather. A picture of Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins, not all of whom were depicted, hung on the wall above the mantelpiece. The room had gas lighting, and there were candles on a side table.

“If you please, madam, I am to ask you to do exactly as you like. Reverend Mother Superior sends her compliments by Mother Saint Jude, and Mother Saint Francis is in school at the moment, but can be fetched if you would like to talk to her,” said the girl, coming back and curtsying.

“And who are you, child?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.

“If you please, madam, I am Annie, the eldest orphan.”

“And do you know, Annie, why I’m here?”

“Oh, yes, madam. Bessie and me have both been told, because we’re to wait on you specially.” She smiled, and added, “And, madam, we are so glad, because you’re really somebody from outside.”

“Outside?”

“Yes, madam. Not a priest, or a relation of one of the private school children, or anybody connected.”

“I see. Well, Annie, the first person I ought to talk to is you yourself.”

“Oh, madam!” She twisted her apron between her fingers, noticed quickly what she was doing, and smoothed it out again.

“Yes. Sit down and let’s begin. Did you know the little girl who died?”

“No, madam, not to say know her. I believe I had seen her about, but we have very little to do with the private school children, even the boarders, and only meet them adventitious. ”

“I see. Who cleaned that particular bathroom, Annie?”

“Me and Kitty, and other times me and Maggie, or, it might be, Kitty and Bessie. It all depends.”

“Which days?”

“Why, every day, madam. Every morning at half-past ten.”

“Did you notice a smell of gas in the bathroom last Monday?”

This question, put to test Annie’s degree of suggestibility, evoked no reply for a minute. Then the girl answered,

“It would be easy enough, madam, now I think it over, to say that I did smell gas, but, honestly, madam, I didn’t, and Mother Saint Ambrose can’t shake me on that, for I know well enough that I didn’t, and Mother Saint Ambrose wouldn’t want me to lie. I reckon all that anybody smelt was the creosote.”

“Did Mother Saint Ambrose say that she knew there would be an inquest?”

“Not to me, madam. She wouldn’t be likely to say such a thing to me.”

“How long have you lived here, Annie?”

“Since I was nine and a half. Father was killed on the line—he was a platelayer, he was—and mother went on the drink and took up with a horse-racing man.”

“Do you like the convent life, Annie?”

“Oh, madam, yes, I do. But I can’t stay on after May unless I become a lay-sister, but Mother Saint Jude and Mother Saint Ambrose don’t seem to see me like that.”

“What will it be? What will you do, I mean?”

“Domestic service, madam. But I’m so afraid I’ll feel odd. It won’t be like the convent, and I don’t know what mistresses are like. I shouldn’t care to be awkward ard do the wrong things. Then—gentlemen. We have so few gentlemen to wait on, and most of those are priests who come here because they’ve been ill.”

“I expect you’ve been very well trained. There is nothing to dread. People have need of good servants. I’m sure you’ll like it very much if you get a good place.”

“But I don’t expect to like it, madam—not as I’ve liked it here.”

“So you do like it? I’ve often wondered what the feeling was. Is anybody unhappy here, do you think?”

“You mean that poor little girl, madam? I couldn’t tell you. Us orphans aren’t, except Bessie. I couldn’t answer for her. My belief she’d be a misfit anywhere. But we all dread leaving, except Bessie, and now there’s been this dreadful upset, and all this questioning, and nobody knowing anything, it’s worse.”

“Are you girls trained for anything besides domestic service? Are there other prospects?”

“We can learn the typewriter and the shorthand, madam, if we wish. The clever ones do. But I want to be a real cook, madam. Still, I do dread to think about leaving here, especially now. Because what could have made her do such a dreadful thing? Not anything here, I do know. It must have been something outside, and that’s what frightens me so.”

“But, Annie, there’s nothing to dread. Your mistress, I’m sure, will take to you because you have pleasant manners and you know your work and like it. You are sensible and good, I am sure. How many young men have you met?”

“Oh, madam, that’s the part that worries me most. I’m sure they’ll think I’m odd, and I dread their ways.” Her young, clear eyes sought comfort. Mrs. Bradley’s brilliant gaze met hers, and both of them smiled.

“You mustn’t dread them, Annie. That will never do. Don’t you meet the butcher and the baker?”

“Nobody but the milkman, madam, and he’s been changed since Mother Saint Ambrose found out he gave Maggie some cream with a rose stuck through a bit of string round the carton.”

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.

“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?”

“She was in the kitchen, if that’s where you mean.”

“Supervising the baking?”

“How do you know?”

“Routine.”

“She was telling off young Maggie.”

“An unusual occurrence?”

“Eh?”

“Did she often tell Maggie off?”

“Every day. So did Mother Saint Ambrose. Young Maggie don’t half muck about. Wish I had half her sauce.”

“But she stopped as soon as you burst in.”

“I never busted in. Trust me! You won’t go busting in, neither, time you’ve been here for a bit. Busting’s a thing of the past.”

“How long have you been here, Bessie?”

“Best part of a year, since I left the Industrial School.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“Me mother was. That’s why Father Thomas bunged me in here when she died. I don’t care. They’ll have to let me go when I’m eighteen, else I can have the law on them.”

“Did you see them carry the little girl out of the bathroom to the bedroom?”

Bessie’s sullen face softened.

“Ah, poor little nipper,” she said. “Tell you what I reckon, but for God’s sake don’t go passing it on. I reckon the coroner was right, and she did go and do herself in, that’s what I reckon. Always scared she was, I used to notice. I had the job of laying the tables, see, for the paying kids’ lunch. Only a few are boarders, but plenty stops to lunch. And I used to see her, and my heart didn’t half used to bleed. Some horrible things can happen in these here convents, take my word for it.”

“Has anything happened to you?”

“Oh, I can take care of myself. I’m tough, I am. ’Tisn’t everyone that’s been sent incorrigible to an Industrial School for two years. You wait till I get out of here, and then you watch my smoke!”

Sorrowfully Mrs. Bradley agreed to do this.

“What happened after the child had been carried into the bedroom?” she enquired.

“I don’t know. Mother Saint Ambrose put her head out and told me to go on downstairs, and she went down to the telephone.”

“Did you go downstairs when you were told?”

“Course I went. What you think?”

“I think you did go. Where was Annie then?”

“She let the water out of the bath and cleaned up the bathroom, and shut the window up what Miss Bonnet had opened.”

“How do you know what she did if you were downstairs?”

“I heard the water running out, then there wasn’t nothing except the water running, then I heard the bang of Annie shutting the window. Here’s Mother Saint Ambrose. Better look out what you’re saying. She don’t stand for much, I can tell you.”

“Bessie,” said Mrs. Bradley, stretching out a thin yellow claw and yanking Bessie with unceremonious adroitness into the bathroom and gently closing the door, “do you dislike Miss Bonnet?”

“I got no use for any of her sort. More like a policewoman, she is, and not of the best of them.”

“You do dislike her, then?”

“I never said so.”

“You’re intelligent, though,” said Mrs. Bradley. “You tumbled to the point about the window. Miss Bonnet didn’t open it, Bessie, did she?”

“I thought as how she did. No, that’s right! Annie said she did. I never see her.”

“What class were you in at school—before you were sent to the Industrial School, I mean?”

“Class Two.”

“Not the top class, was it?”

“Next to the top.”

“Queer. I should say you had brains.”

“Nothink to do with brains. If you’re lousy they doesn’t put you up to the top class, see?”

“And were you lousy?”

“Yes, I was. Think they can get me clean, sending me to that old bitch at that bloody clinic!”

“But you’re clean here, Bessie, aren’t you?”

“Ain’t no louses, that’s why.”

“Have you ever taken an oath in a court of law?”

“Course I have. Didn’t me step-father do a seven-year stretch?”

“And are you prepared to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about what happened here?”

“About the little nipper?”

“Yes.”

“I dunno.”

“Bessie, did Miss Bonnet shut the window?”

“No, that was Annie, I tell you.”

“Miss Bonnet then, neither shut nor opened the window, as far as you yourself know? Don’t answer for Annie, please.”

“O.K. Suit yourself what she did. Don’t matter to me.”

“I will suit myself. Ask Annie to come in here.”

“I suppose you know you’re keeping Mother Saint Ambrose waiting,” said Bessie, with a last impudent fling as she went outside. Annie came almost immediately.

“Annie, was the bathroom unlocked, then, so that Miss Bonnet could walk in?”

“Why, yes, madam, certainly it was.”

“Was it usual, do you know, for the children to leave the bathroom door unlocked when they had a bath? I know it is sometimes done.”

“I couldn’t say about the boarders, madam. Us orphans never lock the door, but it’s different in the Orphanage from here. It’s all our own place. There’s no strangers.”

“Now, Annie, one more thing. You say that Miss Bonnet asked you to go for help. Why didn’t you do as she told you, instead of shouting for Bessie?”

“Miss Bonnet clutched a-hold on me and said, ‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me, Annie! There will have to be witnesses of this!’ ”

“What did she mean? Do you know?”

“I think she was just took a-back, madam, finding the little girl dead.”

“Did you see the dead girl?”

“Well, yes. She looked kind of peaceful, in a way. But her head was right under the water, and I never see such a lovely colour on anybody.”

“What colour was she, then?”

“Ever so pink. I only ever saw one other dead person, and they was as white as death. That’s what you say, madam, ain’t it?—as white as death.”

“Quite right, Annie. Go on.”

“Yes, well, she wasn’t, see? And her little eyes shut, and her little mouth just a bit open, as though she might be asleep. I don’t think she suffered much, madam, really I don’t. She had gone to join the blessed saints, I’m sure.”

“So you don’t believe in the suicide theory, Annie?”

“What, kill herself? That little dear? Oh, madam, I’m certain she never. It must have been an accident. She could never have looked so peaceful, lying in mortal sin.”

“Perhaps not. Thank you, Annie. And you heard Miss Bonnet close the window?”

“Open the window, madam. She said because of the gas, but I think as how she felt faint. I’m sure I couldn’t smell gas, let Mother Saint Ambrose persuade me how she will, not until I went in to clean up. But they’d all had a fidget with the pilot light, I reckon, before then. I know the doctor did later. And then that stink of creosote off of the fence.”

Mrs. Bradley stepped on to the landing and apologised to the nuns for keeping them waiting.