The Religious Body Read Free Page B

two policemen were standing in the light, and beyond the grille was shadow, so they could see little of the face except that it was there—watching them. The scrutiny ended with a buzzer sounding loudly—and the lock on the glass door fell open.
    Sloan pushed the doors and walked forward into the hall.
    The face behind the grille retreated a fraction into the dark background and he saw it no better.
    Sloan cleared his throat. “I am Detective-Inspector Sloan from Berebury C.I.D.”
    â€œYes?” The voice was uninviting.
    â€œI understand that one of the nuns—”
    â€œSister Anne.”
    Behind his right ear he heard Crosby struggling to strangle a snort at birth.
    â€œSister Anne,” continued Sloan hastily, “I am told has had … has unfortunately met with an …”
    â€œShe’s dead,” said the face.
    â€œJust so,” said Sloan, who was finding it downright disconcerting talking to someone he could not see.
    â€œShe’s in the cellar,” volunteered the speaker.
    â€œThat’s what I had heard.”
    The voice attached to the face was Irish and that was about all Sloan could tell.
    â€œI think you had better see the Mother Superior,” she said.
    â€œSo do I,” said Sloan.
    There was a faint click and a shutter came down over the grille. The two policemen waited.
    There were two doors leading out of the hall but both were locked. Crosby turned his attention to the lock on the glass doors.
    â€œElectricity, sir. That’s how it works.”
    â€œI didn’t suppose it was magic,” said Sloan irritably. “Did you?”
    This wasn’t the sort of delay he liked when there was a body about. Superintendent Leeyes wasn’t going to like it either. He would be sitting in his office, waiting—and wondering why he hadn’t heard from them already.
    They went on waiting. The hall was quite silent. There were two chairs there and, on one wall, a little plaster Madonna with a red lamp burning before it. Nothing else. Crosby finished his prowling and came back to stand restively beside Sloan.
    â€œAt this rate, sir, it doesn’t look as if they’re going to let the dog get a look at the rabbit at all.…”
    There was the mildest of deprecating coughs behind his right ear and Crosby spun round. Somewhere, somehow, a door must have opened and two nuns come through it, but neither policeman had heard it happen.
    â€œForgive us, gentlemen, if we startled you …”
    Sloan had an impression of immense authority—something rare in a woman—and the calm that went with it. She was standing quite still, dignity incarnate, her hands folded loosely together in front of her black habit, her expression perfectly composed.
    â€œNot at all,” he said, discomfited.
    â€œI am the Mother Superior.…”
    â€œHow do you do …” The conventional police “madam” hung unspoken, inappropriate, in the air. Sloan’s own mother was a vigorous woman in her early seventies. He struggled to use the word and failed.
    â€œâ€¦ Marm,” he finished, inspired.
    â€œAnd this is Sister Mary St. Lucy.”
    That was easier. He could call the whole world “Sister.”
    â€œSister Lucy is our Bursar and Procuratrix …”
    Sloan saw Crosby’s startled glance and shot him a look calculated to wither him into silence.
    The Mother Superior glanced briefly round the hall. “I am sorry that Sister Porteress kept you waiting here. She should have shown you to the Parlor.” She smiled faintly. “She interprets her watchdog duties very seriously. Besides which …” again the faint smile “… she has a rooted objection to policemen.”
    It was Sloan’s experience that a lot of people had, but that they didn’t usually say so straight out.
    â€œNot shared, I hope, marm, by all your Sisters.…”
    â€œI couldn’t tell