Читать книгу Murder in the Mill-Race - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 18

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“Wicked, my dear? Of course she’s wicked,” replied Miss Emmeline Braithwaite.

Anne Ferens was returning a call—the country still practised formal manners, she found—and she was sitting in the white-panelled drawing-room of Miss Braithwaite’s house. China tea again, good smoky Lap San Suchong, but the cups were Royal Worcester this time, and savoury sandwiches replaced thin bread and butter.

“Do help yourself. I always eat a good tea,” said Emmeline Braithwaite. She was seventy-ish, Anne guessed, very robust, very weather-beaten, brindled hair and an equine profile, but she had a delightful voice and said exactly what she meant.

“We’re all wicked in some ways,” went on old Emmeline. “I’ve been a mass of iniquity in my time, but that woman combines all the worst sorts of wickedness. I’d disregard her cant and humbug, but I can’t stomach the way she hypnotises those wretched infants. Like a stoat and a rabbit. Most unpleasant. Of course they kicked me out of the Committee. Very polite and all that, but a quite definite kick. I had a magnificent row with Etheldreda Ridding over it. Her name really is Etheldreda, by the way. We both said the most unpardonable things to each other, strictly in camera.”

“Why did they kick you out of the Committee?” asked Anne.

“Because I told the truth, and it’s an embarrassing habit. I said—and I maintain it—that some women get a kink as they age. Sister Monica’s kink is domination. She’s got to dominate something, so it’s the wretched orphans and those Borstal-faced maids. I think she was a competent, rather possessive creature originally. Very clever. Make no mistake about that. She’s had undisputed authority in her small realm for donkey’s years, and she’s become almost a megalomaniac. It’s so long since anybody has criticised her effectively, or interfered with her in any way that she feels she’s above criticism. And that’s a very dangerous state of mind for a woman who is in control of young things.”

“It’s an extraordinary situation,” said Anne. “You feel she’s dangerous and a bit mad. I’m sure she is. John Sanderson feels the same—”

“Oh, John Sanderson—he knows all about it. He’s a very nice fellow,” said Emmeline. “I’ve always liked him. He had the courage to say what he thought at the time, and nearly got sacked for his pains.”

“But what happened?” asked Anne. “He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t like to ask.”

“It was a wretched story,” said Emmeline. “One of those miserable little maids at Gramarye drowned herself in the mill-race. It was all very distressing. The girl—her name was Nancy—was a very naughty girl. She’d been put on probation for stealing and she had a bad home. She was sent here because Sister Monica is said to be so good at dealing with difficult girls. She couldn’t deal with Nancy, and the girl got into trouble in the usual way. She wouldn’t tell who it was got her in the family way and so far as I could make out Sister Monica gave her a hell of a time—prayings and fastings and locking her in her room of nights. The result was that the girl broke out of her room and drowned herself. It was John Sanderson who found her body.”

Anne gave an exclamation. “Oh dear—how dreadful. So that was why he didn’t like seeing me brooding on that little bridge over the mill-race.”

“He certainly wouldn’t have liked it,” said Emmeline brusquely. “Finding that girl’s body gave him a shock. He’d been overseeing some work at Gramarye, and he knew that Nancy had been locked in her room. He stated that in his evidence at the inquest and was reproved by the coroner. The upshot was that Sister Monica confided to several people that she couldn’t believe that it was he who had seduced the girl. That is her method. She suggests slanders by denying them. It’s a subtle method.”

“But don’t the village people realise what she’s like?” asked Anne. “There are some very shrewd, sensible people in the village. Mrs. Yeo, for instance.”

“Yes, Mrs. Yeo. She’s Post Mistress. Without going into details, I don’t think it would be worth Mrs. Yeo’s while to make trouble for Sister Monica. You see, the woman has wormed her way into everybody’s confidence. She has always been willing to help with nursing the sick. Sometimes the district nurse is away for hours, out at midwifery cases on the moor, and Sister Monica volunteers to help with the aged, dying or the chronics. It’s marvellous how people chat to a sympathetic listener after a laying-out or a crisis in sickness. I’m not being macabre. I’m simply telling you how it happened. It’s been a slow and insidious process. She got herself trusted, she learned everybody’s secrets, and her own character had become steadily more dominating. The plain fact is that everybody’s afraid of her. Etheldreda’s afraid of her. Butter and cream, perhaps. But I’m being waspish. Have some more tea.”

Anne began to laugh. “Apart from being frightful, it’s so utterly preposterous,” she said.

“Utterly,” agreed Emmeline Braithwaite. “I wish I could explain to you how overjoyed I was when you and your husband came here to live. Two vigorous, intelligent, normal young people, absolutely fresh and untouched by all the ins and outs of this queer village. I love the place. I’ve spent my life here. Too many of us have done the same. The vicar’s been here for twenty-five years, Dr. Brown for over thirty years: the village people never change. You and your husband and John Sanderson are the only people from the outside world who have come here for about a quarter of a century.”

“About Dr. Brown,” said Anne suddenly. “I know he’s old now, but he was a good doctor once, wasn’t he? Why didn’t he see what Sister Monica was growing like?”

Emmeline Braithwaite did not reply for a moment or two. Then she said: “Did you know that his wife went out of her mind, poor soul. She had to be taken to a mental home.”

Anne stared back at the older woman’s face: it was a square, weather-beaten honest face, and an intelligent one, too.

“But what’s that got to do with Sister Monica?”

Miss Braithwaite sighed. “I think he got to rely on her. He said she was a tower of strength, and I think it was true that Sister could manage the poor demented creature better than anybody else before she was put in a home. I was terribly sorry for Dr. Brown. I wanted to say to him ‘Don’t rely on Sister too much. I don’t really believe she’s trustworthy.’ But how could I? Anyway, after his wife’s death, the doctor said he couldn’t be grateful enough to Sister, and since then, of course, he’s always upheld her through thick and thin. For instance, when she was turned sixty, one or two people suggested she should retire—I was one of them. Brown wouldn’t hear of it. When there was something approaching a scandal in the village over charitable collections which were never audited, Brown steered a way through the suspicions which gathered round Sister Monica—she has always organised all the collections. When Brown gave up his practice, he retained his work at Gramarye. There it is. It’s better you should know, because if you’re going to try conclusions with Sister—and I believe you are—you’d better realise how tough a proposition you’re up against.”

“It certainly is tough,” said Anne slowly. “I’m a doctor’s wife, you see.”

“Yes. Freemasonry is nothing compared to the determination with which doctor upholds doctor. Don’t wreck your married life over Sister Monica.”

“No. I shan’t do that, but I shall watch out.”

“Do, my dear. And one last word. You may be interested to know that if you walk up through the park with John Sanderson and ask him into your own house when your husband is out, Sister Monica is quite sure there’s nothing wrong in that.”

“Well, I’m damned!” said Anne.