That’s how it must have happened, yet the situation did not seem to Quinn either real or plausible. He could believe Sister Blessing’s part of it, but not Brother Crown’s. Brother Crown had made no secret of his antipathy toward the Sister, he was not dependent on her, like some of the others; he was stubborn and he was self-righteous. Such a man would be unlikely to write a letter confessing a murder, at the request of one woman, on behalf of another. No, Quinn thought, it’s not the situation that’s unreal, it’s the cast of characters. I can see Sister Blessing giving Crown an order, but I can’t see Crown obeying her. In their relationship the balance of power was in his hands, not hers.
Featherstone had returned to his favorite subject: his mother had been duped by a maniac, the man should be arrested, the whole colony taken to a booby hatch, and the buildings burned to the ground.
Quinn finally interrupted him. “I can understand your feelings, Mr. Featherstone, but—”
“You can’t. She wasn’t your mother. You don’t know what it’s like to watch a member of your own family being hypnotized by a madman into leading a life not fit for a dog.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to see your mother before she died. Her life was a lot happier than you seem to realize. If she made sacrifices, she also had compensations. She told me that she had at last found her place in the world and that she would never leave it.”
“That wasn’t her talking, it was him.”
“It was your mother, telling me quite seriously what she really believed.”
“The poor, crazy fool. A fool, that’s what she was.”
“At least she was a fool in her own way.”
“Are you sticking up for him?”
“No, for her, Mr. Featherstone.”
There was a groan on the other end of the line, then a woman’s voice: “I’m sorry, my husband can’t talk about this anymore, he’s too upset. I’ll have to make the arrangements about the—the body. There’ll be an autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“When it’s over, when she can be shipped here for burial, will you let me know?”
“Of course.”
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say right now except—well, please excuse Charlie.”
“Yes. Good-bye, Mrs. Featherstone.”
Quinn replaced the phone. His hands were shaking, and though the room was cold, sweat slithered down behind his ears into his collar. He wiped it off and went out into the corridor.
Lassiter was standing just outside the door, talking to a severe-looking young man in a policeman’s uniform.
He said to Quinn, “O.K. for Charlie?”
“O.K. for Charlie.”
“Thanks. This is Sergeant Castillo. He’s been working on those cartons we found in the storage shed. Tell him, Sergeant.”
Castillo nodded. “Yes, sir. Well, the clothes contained in the first one, labeled Brother Faith of Angels, have not been in there more than a week, perhaps much less.”
“We know that,” Lassiter said impatiently. “They belonged to George Haywood. Go on, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. The contents of the carton labeled Brother Crown of Thorns haven’t been touched for several years. My estimate would be six years, based mainly on the amount of moth damage. Entomology is one of my hobbies. If you’d like me to go into detail about the life cycle of this particular kind of moth and how each generation—”
“That won’t be necessary. We’ll take your word for it. Six years it is.”
“Another interesting point concerns Brother Crown’s name on the carton. I’d say it was pasted on quite recently. When I removed it, there was evidence underneath that another label had been there previously and torn off. Only a trace of it remained.”
“Any letters visible?”
“No.”
“All right. Thanks.” Lassiter waited for the sergeant to get out of earshot. “Six years. What does it prove, Quinn?”
“That the clothes didn’t belong to Brother Crown. He joined the colony only three years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“Karma told me. She’s the young daughter of the cook, Sister Contrition.”
“So we’ve tabbed the wrong man,” Lassiter said harshly. “Not that it makes any difference. No one’s seen hide or hair of any of them. The whole damn caboodle has disappeared, leaving me with a herd of cattle, a flock of sheep, five goats and some chickens. How do you like that?”
Quinn liked it quite well, in a way, though all he said was, “Am I free to go now?”
“Go where?”
“To a restaurant for some dinner and a motel for some sleep.”
“And after that?”
“After that I don’t know. I have to find a job. Maybe I’ll head for L.A.”
“Then again, maybe you won’t,” Lassiter said. “Why not stick around here for a while?”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s a nice little city, San Felice. Mountains, ocean, parks, beaches, harbor.”
“And no jobs.”
“You have to look for them, I’ll admit that. But the place is gradually opening up to a few smokeless industries. Try applying.”
“Is that an order?” Quinn repeated. “I hope not, Sheriff. I can’t stay here. I have to go back to Chicote, for one thing... Has anyone broken the news to George Haywood’s mother?”
“I called the Chief of Police there. He’ll have done it by this time.”
“Somebody had better tell Alberta, too,” Quinn said. “She might have something to tell in return.”
“For example?”
“Why she hired one of the Brothers to kill O’Gorman, and how Haywood found out about it.”
Twenty-One
Alberta Haywood lay staring up through black thoughts at the white ceiling. It was no ordinary ceiling, though. Sometimes it receded until it seemed as far away as the sky, and sometimes it closed in on her, its soft satin whiteness touching her face until she thought she was in a coffin. But even in her coffin she had no more privacy than she had had in prison. People moved around her, poked her in the chest and back, stuck tubes in her nose and needles in her arm, talked. If what they said was interesting, she responded; if not, she pretended to have heard nothing.
Occasionally she asked a question of her own, “Where is George?”
“Now, Miss Haywood, we told you that several days ago.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Your brother George is dead.”
“Really? Well, he’ll have to find his own coffin. There certainly isn’t any room in this one. I’m quite cramped as it is.”
A medley of voices: “She’s still delirious.”... “But the pneumonia’s clearing up, her white count’s practically back to normal.”... “It’s been nearly a week now.”... “Continue the glucose.”... “Wish we could get a decent x-ray.”... “She keeps trying to take the tube out of her nose.”... “Apathy.”... “Hysteria.”... “Delirium.”...
The voices came and went. She took out the tube and it was replaced. She pulled off the blankets and they were put back. She fought and was beaten.
“Miss Haywood, there’s a man here to ask you some questions.”
“Tell him to go away.”