“We settled in a little house near this aunt — Madame Verne, was the name — who had a Shatter, one of those big places, near Antibes. The Shatter Verne it was. We were there for eight years. Then Miss Cara went to a convent school, a Papist place. Madame Verne wished it and so did the other guardian, a gentleman who since died. I moved to the Shatter, and Miss Cara came home for the holidays.”
“That went on for how long?”
“Till she was seventeen. Then Madame died. The Shatter was sold.”
“There was always- There was no difficulty about ways and means?”
“Miss Cara was an heiress, sir. The Colonel, Mr. Quayne; and then Madame; they all left something considerable. We were very comfortable as far as that went.”
“You stayed on in France?”
“In Paris. Miss Cara liked it. She had formed friendships there.”
“Was M. de Ravigne one of these friends?”
“He was,” said Miss Hebborn shortly.
“Did you not think this a suitable friendship?”
“I did. Until recently.”
“Why did you change your opinion?”
“At first I had no fault to find with Mr. Ravigne. He was an old friend of Madame’s and often stayed at the Shatter. He seemed a very pleasant gentleman, steady, quiet in his ways, not a lot of high-falutin’ nonsense like so many of that nation. A foreigner, of course, but at times you would scarcely have noticed it.”
“Miss Wade’s very words,” murmured Alleyn.
“Her!” said Miss Hebborn. “H’m! Well, sir, it was after we came to London that Mr. Ravigne changed. For the worse. He called soon after we were settled in and said London appealed to his — some expression—”
“His temperament?”
“Yes, sir. Of course it was Miss Cara that did the appealing. He was always very devoted, but she never fancied him. Never. Then he commenced to talk a lot of stuff and nonsense about this new-fangled religion he’s got hold of. A lot of wicked clap-trap.”
The pale face flushed angrily. She made a curious gesture with her roughened hand, passing it across her mouth and nose as if to wipe away a cobweb.
“You mean the House of the Sacred Flame and its services?”
“Sacred Flame indeed! Bad, wicked, heathen humbug. And that Mr. Garnette with his smooth ways and silly dangerous talk. I’ve never forgiven Mr. Ravigne and he knows it. It changed Miss Cara. Changed her whole nature. She was always one of the high-strung, nervous sort. Over-excitable as a child and over-excitable as a woman. I recollect the time we went through when she was fourteen. Wanted to turn Papist. I showed her the rights of that. I’d always brought her up strict Anglican. I’m Chapel myself. Primitive Methodist. But it was the parent’s wish and I saw it was carried out.”
“That was very honourable of you, Nannie. I’m sorry, the ‘Nannie’ slipped out.”
“You’re very welcome, sir. I’ve always been Nannie, ever since — she could talk.”
She bit her lip and then went on:
“From the time she went into that wicked place everything went badly. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I couldn’t do anything. I had to stand by and watch my — my — Miss Cara turn her back on the Lord and go down the way of damnation. She took me with her once,” added Nannie, ambiguously. “The sight of the place, full of naked heathen idols and all the baubles of Satan — it was worse than Rome. There! And when I found out she was going to be the leader in that lewd mockery of her own Church I wished she had died when she was an innocent baby. I wished—”
She broke off abruptly. She was shaking from head to foot. The whole of her last speech had been reeled off in a high key as though she was giving an oration. Nigel was reminded of a woman he had heard preaching at the Marble Arch. Here was a real revivalist fervour, pig-headed, stupid, arrogant. After last night it seemed blessedly straightforward and clean.
“Steady, Nannie,” said Alleyn.
“Yes, sir. Thank you. But I don’t feel steady when I think of my poor lamb cut off in the midst of her silly wickedness, like as not with heathenish words on her lips. As the Lord’s my judge, sir, I’d have rather she’d gone over to Rome that time when she was still an innocent baby, that I would.”
“Was it entirely through M. de Ravigne that she became interested in this Church?”
“He started it. He took her off there one evening. Said he thought it would ‘amuse’ her. Amuse! Not much amusement in any respectable sense of the word. And that Mr. Garnette — Reverend I will not call him — he made what was bad enough, goodness knows, ten thousand times worse. If it had been Satan himself speaking straight out of hell, he couldn’t have spoke wickeder. And the goings on! She thought I didn’t know. I knew.”
“How did you know?”
Nannie looked slightly taken aback at this question.
“I heard remarks passed when that lot came here to see her. That Mrs. Candour. You could tell at a glance. Not a nice woman, and not a lady either. And Miss Wade, who ought to know better at her age, always talking, talking, talking about ‘Dear Father Garnette.’ Father! Father of lies! And I had to stand aside and watch my baby drawing nearer and nearer to hell fire—”
She broke off again. Her lips trembled. She passed her hand over them and fell silent.
“What were Miss Quayne’s movements yesterday?” asked Alleyn.
She had spent the morning in her room, it appeared, engaged in meditation. She had not lunched. At about two o’clock she had sent for her car and the chauffeur had told Nannie that he had driven her to the church. He remembered glancing at his watch a second or two before she came out. It was then ten to three. He had said to the other servants that Miss Quayne seemed very upset when she came out. He drove her straight home.
“One more question,” said Alleyn. “Where were you last night when we tried to get you on the telephone?”
“I was out for a walk.”
“Out for a walk! In that weather?”
“Yes, sir. She’d told me that it was her first evening as Chosen whatever-it-was, and I was that upset and wretched! I tried to talk her out of it but she hardly listened. She just went away as if she didn’t hear me. When the door shut and I was left by myself I couldn’t endure it. I’d meant to go to chapel but I couldn’t. I put on my hat and jacket and I followed her.”
“To the hall?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Cara had taken the car, of course, so I knew I wouldn’t catch her up, but somehow I felt I’d walk. I was desperate, sir.”
“I think I understand. What did you mean to do when you got there?”
“I hardly know. I think I’d have gone in and — and stood up for the Lord in the midst of His enemies. I think I meant to do that, but when I got there the doors were shut and a young pimply-faced fellow said I couldn’t get in. He said he’d been had once already that evening. I don’t know what he meant. So I went away and as I went I heard them caterwauling inside, and it drove me nearly demented. I walked in the rain a long way and it was late when I got in. The others were back and in bed. I waited for her. I was still waiting when the police rang up. Morning it was then.”
“Oh, yes. By the way, when did you write to Mr. Garnette to warn him off Miss Cara?”
It would be difficult to say which looked the more astounded at this, Nigel or Nannie. Nannie stared into the mirror over Alleyn’s head for some seconds, and then said with a snap:
“Friday night.”
“He got it on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“And you went to the hall to see if he had taken heed?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Thank you, Nannie.”
The old woman hesitated and when she spoke again it was more haltingly.