Ne'er Do Well Read online

  “The Mother Superior turned to Sister Helena.

  “‘Have you any objection?’

  “‘None at all, ma mère.’

  “The Mother Superior returned to me.

  “‘Can you take them here, Superintendent?’

  “‘At once, if you please.’

  “It was done in a minute, of course: but I did hate doing it so to Sister Helena. We very often obtain them by means of a trick. But I couldn’t treat her like that. I had to ask straight out.

  “When it was over–

  “‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

  “‘Anything else, Superintendent?’

  “‘No, madam.’

  “‘Very well. You may leave us, Sister Helena.’

  “I opened the door, and the Sister bowed and withdrew.

  “As I closed it behind her –

  “‘I understand, Superintendent, that you have been told the name which Sister Helena used to bear.’

  “‘I have, madam. That was something which it was right I should know.’

  “‘It must not be divulged in Court.’

  “‘It will not be divulged, madam.’

  “‘Is that your doing?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘What about photographs?’

  “‘I’ve done my utmost, madam. I hope that none will be taken. I daren’t put it higher than that.’

  “‘Very well. Is there anything else?’

  “‘By your leave, madam, I should like to see the night-sister of Number Three.’

  “‘Why do you wish to see her?’

  “‘Because she was on duty all night in the room which is next to the room in which Lord St Amant died.’

  “‘Four sisters share the duty in this particular case. Of course they do other work: but six hours on end in that room is long enough. One comes on at eight in the morning, another at two: another at eight in the evening and another again at two.’

  “‘I should like to see the two who are on duty at night.’

  “‘Very well. The first of the two shall be here at three o’clock.’

  “‘If you please, madam.’”

  Falcon looked from Mansel to me. Then –

  “I don’t have to tell you,” he said, “that I should much have preferred to see them alone. The atmosphere created by the Mother Superior’s presence is as forbidding as it is invulnerable. Still, my relations with her had so much improved that it would have been sheer folly to raise such a delicate point.”

  “I agree,” said Mansel. “You’d’ve lost more ground than you’d made. But it is most unfortunate. I don’t suggest that the questions you ask in her presence are ever answered with lies: but the fear of incurring her displeasure by something they say is bound, I think, to command every answer you get.”

  “As you will see,” said Falcon.

  “I drove back to the station then, saw the Chief Constable and dictated a report to the Yard. In this I said that, if nothing broke down here, I proposed to return on Saturday, make a report in person and then go to Curfew Place. Rogers, of course, will remain at Ne’er-do-well. I plan to be back on Tuesday or Wednesday evening. May I come here, Mrs Chandos?”

  “Your room will be waiting,” said Jenny.

  “You’re sure that you’ve no other guests that–”

  “We haven’t, indeed. We live very quietly now.”

  “You’re very good to me.”

  “Please don’t say that, Superintendent. We’re only so sorry you have to be out all day.”

  “Mrs Chandos,” said Mansel, “always means what she says. As for your host and myself we count it a very great privilege to be admitted to your counsel.”

  “That’s less than the truth,” said I. “But I know that I speak for us both, when I say that, because you’ve begun, there is no reason at all why you should go on. And we don’t want you to get tired.”

  “Mr Chandos,” said Falcon, “I think I’m right in saying that you never worked alone. If you had, you would know what a blessed relief it is to be able to talk. Rogers is very good; but I cannot talk to him as I can talk to you. Add to that that I look for your reactions to what I say. In a case like this, his would be – I won’t say valueless, because that wouldn’t be fair: but of very much less account. Neither you nor Colonel Mansel could do Rogers’ job. He knows what to look for, and in his particular line he’s a tower of strength. But ordinary, routine work is not going to help us here. In this deep and delicate case, outlook, habits and manners make up the bottle of hay in which the needle called motive is lying concealed.

  “And now let me take up my tale.

  “I lunched with Rogers. Then we went to his room and I heard what he had to say. Only one thing of importance. A car was seen by a cyclist on Monday night. About eleven o’clock. A handsome, pale-grey saloon. It was berthed just off the road, and its lights were out. Rogers was shown the place. It took him seven minutes to walk from there to the Home. Monday, of course – not Tuesday. But, as I have pointed out, if the crime was done by a stranger, a reconnaissance had to be made. The gardeners were not very helpful. In view of my talk with the Mother Superior, I told him to try them again. Oh, by the way, no marks at all on the wall. But this is very easy to scale.

  “Then I went back to the station and read and signed my report. Whilst I was there, a note from the Yard came in. Sir William was doing the analysis – at least, it was in his hands. They hoped to have the result by Friday midday. St Amant’s prints on everything but the spoon. Somebody else’s prints on the spoon and the glass. A hundred to one they’re those of Sister Helena.

  “Then I drove back to the Home.

  “The first of the special night-nurses for Number Three is called Sister Josephine. She has a very sweet face, but it’s easy enough to see why she took the veil. She did it to obtain sanctuary. Very earnest, very shy, and next to no brain. Utterly and completely helpless, and only too thankful not to have to think for herself.

  “The Mother Superior introduced us and the poor girl looked ready to sink into the ground. I endeavoured to reassure her as best I could.

  “‘When I first came here, Sister Josephine, I felt very strange and I don’t mind confessing to you that I wished that somebody else had been sent in my stead. But everyone here has been so kind and understanding that I don’t feel a stranger now. For all that, I’ve still got a lot to learn, and the only way I can learn it is by asking questions. So now I’m going to ask some of you.

  “‘I think you’re helping to nurse a patient in Number Three.’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Does that patient require much attention?’

  “‘Not very much.’

  “‘But you stay in the room?’

  “‘Oh, yes.’

  “‘Do you draw the curtains at night?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Where do you sit in the room?’

  “‘In a corner close to the bed.’

  “‘Close to the window, too?’

  “‘Yes, but the curtains are drawn.’

  “‘But you move about, Sister Josephine?’

  “‘Oh, yes. But I’m sitting down for most of the time.’

  “‘Do you ever look out on the terrace?’

  “‘I do sometimes while it’s light. But at night the curtains are drawn.’

  “‘Now please look back for a moment to Tuesday night. Between half past ten and two… Can you remember hearing any sound which was unusual – a sound, for instance, which you had not heard the night before?’

  “‘Oh, no, indeed.’

  “‘Quite sure, Sister Josephine?’

  “‘Yes, I’m quite sure.’

  “‘It’s very important – this. You see, I’m almost sure that a sound was made or that a light was shown on the terrace during that night.’

  “The girl shook her head.

  “‘Does that mean you can’t help me?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “There was
a little silence.

  “In the ordinary way I should have left it there. But I wasn’t satisfied. Her last two answers seemed strange. The first two were so emphatic: but not the third. And I thought she protested too much that the curtains were drawn. Again, sweet face or no, she would not meet my eyes. If only the Mother Superior hadn’t been there… Her presence embarrassed me, and I knew I was not at my best. Question and answer had been an exercise – the very thing I always seek to avoid.

  “‘Listen to me, Sister Josephine. In this very serious case, I must have everyone’s help. Time and again in my life, I have discovered something of which I should have been told. And when I say to the person who should have told me, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’ they say, ‘Because you never asked me.’ That answer always upsets me, for it means they’ve been strict with me. Of course, I should have asked them – the fault was mine: but we’re all human, you know; and, though I do my best, I make a lot of mistakes. But if people help me, I don’t make quite so many. So please don’t be strict with me, and don’t withhold the answer to a question I’ve failed to ask.’

  “She looked up there for a moment. Then she looked down and away.

  “‘You were on duty for six hours?’

  “‘Yes. From eight till two.’

  “‘Were you visited during that time?’

  “‘Yes, by the House Surgeon.’

  “‘How many times did he come?’

  “‘Twice.’

  “‘When did he come for the second time?’

  “‘At about a quarter to ten.’

  “‘Were you visited by anyone else?’

  “‘Yes. By Sister Helena.’

  “‘How many times by Sister Helena?’

  “‘Three times, I think.’

  “‘Tell me about them, please.’

  “‘The first was when she first came on, soon after eight. Then when I rang for her about a quarter to nine. And then she looked in, as usual, I think about ten o’clock.’

  “‘Did anyone else come in?’

  “‘Sister Therèse relieved me.’

  “‘Of course. But nobody else?’

  “‘Oh, no.’

  “‘Sister Helena looked in, as usual, about ten o’clock?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘She looks in from the terrace?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Does she part the curtains and just put in her head?’

  “‘If I’m not at the window, she does.’

  “‘But you don’t look out at night.’

  “‘No, but I hear her coming; and if I’m not with my patient, I always get up.’

  “‘And go to the window?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘To be ready to greet her?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘You hear her coming?’

  “‘Yes. Or I see the light of her torch.’

  “‘Shining beneath the curtains?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Does she make much noise?’

  “‘Oh, no, she’s very quiet.’

  “‘Still, you can hear her coming?’

  “‘Usually, yes.’

  “‘And she always parts the curtains and sometimes puts in her head?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Do you hear her go back?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Did you hear her come and go back on Tuesday night?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘That was about ten o’clock?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘And you didn’t hear her again?’

  “‘No.’

  “‘Or see her light?’

  “‘No.’

  “‘She might have gone by, you know, without looking in.’

  “‘I don’t think she did.’

  “‘And you saw or heard no one else?’

  “Sister Josephine shook her head.

  “‘All right. Thank you.’

  “As the Mother Superior dismissed her –

  “‘Tell Sister Therèse to come in.’

  “Sister Therèse was quiet, but self-possessed. A grave, wise face. I liked her at once. I asked her much the same questions, and she gave me intelligent replies. I pressed her hard upon what she had seen and heard between two and four. She had seen Sister Helena first at a quarter past two. That was because she had rung. She had needed assistance upon a routine job. They had been, say, ten minutes together. Sister Helena had come and gone by the door. She had seen her again about three. On that occasion Sister Helena had parted the curtains and just looked into the room. She had looked up and nodded, and Sister Helena had gone. And that was all. No other movement or light – so far as she heard or saw.

  “It was she Sister Helena called, when she found St Amant dead. She bore out in every particular what Sister Helena had said.

  “‘You had to leave your patient?’

  “‘Yes. But I had injected morphia only ten minutes before.’

  “‘So he would require no attention for a quarter of an hour?’

  “‘It was very unlikely that he would. And this was an emergency.’

  “‘Exactly. Well, thank you very much.’

  “As the door closed behind her –

  “‘A different type,’ said the Mother Superior.

  “‘Very,’ said I.

  “‘You have the impression that Sister Josephine could have said more than she did.’

  “‘To be honest, I have.’

  “‘I have that impression, too. We may be wrong, Superintendent, for Sister Josephine is a very saintly girl. Her devotion to duty is fanatic. But she dare not think for herself. She seeks divine guidance upon the most everyday things. Such guidance is not vouchsafed. So she has to fall back on the brain which she is afraid to use. Sometimes, as you may believe, with unhappy results. But, if you would like me to, I will have a talk with her.’

  “‘Madam’, I said, ‘I should be grateful indeed.’

  “‘Very well. Is there anything else you want?’

  “‘I have no doubt that visitors are allowed. I should like to know what visits were recently paid to Numbers One to Six.’

  “‘Pray see the porteress. She keeps the register.’

  “‘I am greatly obliged, madam.’

  “With that, I took my leave.

  “I confess I felt greatly relieved. If Dracona, as Dallas calls her, meant to co-operate, my chances of getting somewhere were considerably increased. And it looked as if she did. ‘We may be wrong, Superintendent.’ Well, those were friendly words. And then she had offered to tackle the girl, herself. In such a case, she could learn more in five minutes than I could learn in five hours.”

  “I give you best, Falcon,” said Mansel. “To reduce such a fortress as that was a triumph, indeed.”

  Falcon regarded Jenny.

  “Colonel Mansel, himself, would have done it in half the time.”

  “I believe he would,” said Jenny. “But then he’s exceptional.”

  “Now, now,” said Mansel, laughing.

  “As a matter of fact,” said I, “they’re both of them right. I’ve seen you charm hostility into goodwill.” I looked at Falcon. “It’s like a conjuring trick. I’ve seen it many a time, but I never know how it’s done. And now go on, Superintendent.”

  “Well, before I did anything else, I visited Dallas again. That Sister Josephine had, in fact, heard or seen something, I now had no doubt. I believed she had heard a footfall. Now Dallas had seen his flash at a quarter to two. I was sure he’d been waked by the footfall which Sister Josephine heard.

  “When I put my head into his room –

  “‘Now isn’t that nice?’ said Dallas, and offered me cigarettes.

  “I lighted one and sat down.

  “‘How’s your knee going on?’

  “‘The pain is less, Superintendent. You’ve done me good.’

  “‘I should like to think that, Mr Dallas.’

  “‘You have i
ndeed. Before you came, my plight obsessed my mind: but now my mind is otherwise occupied. Believe me, I’m with you in spirit in all you do. But you didn’t come in to learn that.’

  “‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘The time when you saw that flash – are you sure it was a quarter to two?’

  “‘Of that, I’m quite sure.’

  “‘I don’t think a flash would have waked you.’

  “‘Oh, no. It was something else. Almost certainly a sound. As I said, perhaps a footfall.’

  “‘Sister Helena always comes round at about three o’clock.’

  “‘I didn’t know that.’

  “‘She does. And she uses the terrace.’

  “‘She’s never waked me yet. But then she moves very quietly. Besides, I saw my flash at a quarter to two.’

  “‘When you saw it, did you think it was her?’

  “‘I can’t tell you what I thought. I was half asleep. But I know that I saw a flash and I know that I saw that flash at a quarter to two.’

  “‘How long had you been asleep?’

  “‘Getting on for three hours. I usually get to sleep about eleven o’clock.’

  “‘What about St Amant? Did he say when he went to sleep?’

  “Dallas considered.

  “‘I don’t think he did. We did compare notes, of course. But I don’t think he told me that. But he went to sleep later than I did, for when I turned out my light, I think his was always on.’

  “‘How could you tell?’

  “‘I could see the faint glow on the terrace. Placed as I am, I can’t see the section of terrace in front of this room: but I can see the section of terrace belonging to his.’

  “‘I understand. The glow must be very faint.’

  “‘It is – or was very faint. And yet, when my light was out, quite easy to see. And one notices things, you know, lying here like this.’

  “‘That’s natural enough. Did you wake this morning at four?’

  “‘I did.’

  “‘As usual.’

  “‘As usual. For some extraordinary reason, the pain reports for duty at four o’clock. St Amant was just the same. But I told you that.’

  “‘Did he keep his tablets till then?’

  “‘I remember his saying he did. He didn’t like taking drugs and neither do I. Men don’t, you know, Superintendent. I’ll lay you don’t take aspirin once a year.’

  “‘I don’t think I do.’

  “‘Well, there you are. The woman’s outlook is different. Drugs, admittedly mild, are her staple food. And now it’s coming back. I remember his saying, ‘I don’t like taking a drug to send me to sleep. If you start that sort of thing, you may have to go on.’ And I agreed with him. No doubt that was why his light was on so late. He wouldn’t take his tablets to send him to sleep. He kept them till four o’clock, to flatten the pain.’