âDetective-Inspector Sloan,â he said, âwould be obliged if Mrs. Cartwright would spare him a moment or two.â
The woman looked them over appraisingly and then invited them in. She would enquire if Mrs. Cartwright was at home.
âFunny way of carrying on,â said Crosby.
âYouâre in Society now, constable, and donât you forget it. Plenty of money here.â Sloan looked quickly round the room into which they had been shown. âPictures, china, furnitureâthe lot.â
Crosby fingered a finely carved chair. âIs this fashion, sir?â
âIt was,â said Sloan, âabout two hundred years ago. Itâs antique, like everything else in the room.â He pointed to a set of Dresden shepherdesses. âTheyâll be worth more than your pension. Donât suppose they picked up that walnut bureau for five bob either or those plates â¦â
âGood morning, Inspector.â An elderly figure appeared in the doorway. âAdmiring my Meissen? Charming, isnât it?â
âGood morning, madam,â said Sloan, not committing himself about the Meissen, whatever that was.
Mrs. Cartwright was old, ramrod-backed and thin. She rested a claw-like hand on the back of the chair just long enough for Sloan to see the battery of rings on it and then she sat down. She was dressedâand dressed very well indeedâin gray with touches of scarlet. Sloan searched her face for a likeness to Sister Anne but found only heavy makeup and the tiny suture marks of an old facelift. Her hair was a deep mahogany color and the total effect quite startling.
âYou have something to say, Inspector.â
âYes, madam.â Sloan jerked his mind back. She must be over eighty, and he thought he had bad news for her. âI understand you had a telephone call yesterday afternoon from the Convent of St. Anselm.â
Not a muscle on her face moved.
âAnd that you refused to take that call.â
âThat is so.â Her voice was harsher than he expected.
âWhy, madam?â
âIs it anything to do with you?â
âIâm afraid it is.â
âReally, Inspector, I can see no reason why â¦â
âYou had a daughter there.â
Mrs. Cartwright rose and walked towards a bell by the fireplace. âI have no daughter.â
âOne moment, madam. You are quite right â¦â
She stopped and looked at him.
âYou have no daughter. But you had one.â
She stood rigidly in front of the fireplace and said again in a well-controlled voice, âI have no daughter.â She put her finger towards the bell.
âMrs. Cartwright!â
âWell?â Her finger was poised.
âYou had a daughter called Josephine Mary.â
A spasm of emotion passed across her face. âInspector, I lost my daughter thirty years ago.â
âLost her?â
âLost her. She left me, she left everything.â Mrs. Cartwright waved a painted fingernail round the room. âAbandoned. Moreover, Inspector, her name has not been mentioned in this house from that day to this. I see no reason to discontinue the habit. Now, if you will either state your business or leave.â
âWhen did you last see her, madam?â
âThe day she left home.â
âThirty years ago?â
âThirty-one. She was eighteen and a half.â
So Sister Anne had been forty-nine. She hadnât looked as old as that.
âAnd you, madam, hadnât seen her yourself since then?â Sloan hoped he was keeping the wonder out of his voice.
âNot once. I told her that she neednât expect me to visit her. And I never did.â
âHadâhave you any other children?â
âShe was the only one, Inspector, and she left me. She was a convert, of course. Nothing would persuade her. Nothing.â The old eyes danced. âShe wanted to eschew the World, the Flesh and the Devil, Inspector, and