St. Peter’s Finger
Gladys Mitchell
Bradley 09
1938
A 3S digital back-up edition 1.0
click for scan notes and proofing history
Contents
chapter i: cyclist
chapter 2: inmates
chapter 3: relatives
chapter 4: athlete
chapter 5: orphans
chapter 6: nuns
chapter 7: headmistress
chapter 8: retrospect
chapter 9: documents
chapter 10: questions
chapter 11: suspects
chapter 12: guests
chapter 13: picador
chapter 14: hobbies
chapter 15: attack
chapter 16: chessboard
chapter 17: disappearance
chapter 18: search
chapter 19: culprit
chapter 20: george
chapter 21: girls
chapter 22: reconnaissance
chapter 23: preparation
chapter 24: conflagration
chapter 25: conclusion
St. Martin’s Press New York
st. peter’s finger. Copyright © 1938 by Gladys Mitchell. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Mitchell, Gladys, 1901-St. Peter’s finger.
I. Title.
PR6025.I832S7 1987 823'.912 86-24782
isbn 0-312-00192-4
First published in Great Britain by Tom Stacey Reprints Ltd.
First U.S. Edition
10 987654321
to my brother
REGINALD JAMES MITCHELL
in memory of our childhood
“And how beguile you? Death has no repose
Warmer and deeper than that Orient sand
Which hides the beauty and bright faith of those
Who made the Golden Journey to Samarkhand.’
james elroy flecker
“And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?
With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
a bruise or break of exit for his life;
but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?
“Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
Ever a quietus make?”
d. h. lawrence: The Ship of Death.
ST. PETER’S FINGER
chapter i
cyclist
“Then did of th’ elements’ dust Man’s body frame
A perfect microcosm, the same
He quickened with a sparkle of pneumatic flame.”
edward benlowes: Theophila.
^ »
George sat on a bit of board laid across the top of an upturned bucket, and read the Sunday paper. He was in his shirt-sleeves and was without his leggings. A slight breeze rustled the pages of the paper and stirred his hair, for his peaked cap hung on a bush. Two dogs lay near him in the sun; a faint smell of horse-manure mingled (despite their appeal to different senses) with the pleasant sound of a far-off mowing machine; and a lilac tree by the wall was bold with buds. The stable cat was watching birds near by, and the newly washed car stood gleaming at the doors of the garage.
At the end of the lane which connected Mrs. Bradley’s house with the main road through the village, three elm trees were in thick, dark-clustered flower. The elders already had their leaves, and an almond tree at the gate was in bright pink blossom. Emulating it, but not happily, since the colour made her yellow skin look dirty, was Mrs. Bradley in a pink spring suit. Her black eyes were brilliant as she listened, with a faint and sceptical grin, to the half-bullying persuasions of her son.
Ferdinand was earnest, and Mrs. Bradley, apparently contemplating not his face but the yellow-starred jasmine behind his black-clad shoulder, had given him close attention for more than twenty minutes, while they stood together at the gate, for, characteristically, he had given no hint of the object of his visit until he was ready to depart.
“So, you see, mother, it really is exceptionally interesting, and it would be a good thing for the convent if you would go and look into the matter. It may be nothing, but the Superior is a pretty shrewd old lady, and if she smells a rat there must be something that wants nailing to the mast. In any case, you need a rest after that long American tour, and the country is lovely there now.”
“So it is here, dear child.”
“Yes, but you need a change, and the air on the moors is like wine. (Yes, I know, but juries like clichés, so I practise when I get the opportunity.) Now, mother, please, do go. I half-promised Father Thomas that you would. Look here, let me drive you down.”
“I would rather be driven by George. Where is Father Thomas now?”
“He has gone back to Bermondsey. He was living in the convent guest-house to recuperate after a breakdown. That is how he came to know what had happened. I could arrange for you to meet him, but I’m sure I’ve told you everything he said. ”
“I have no doubt of it, child. Well, I will think it all over. Give my love to Juliet, and I hope you get the better of Mrs. O’Dowd.”
“Not a hope, mother. If I do, I’ll pay your consultation fee. It’s quite certain that the convent won’t be able to afford it. The guest-house and the boarding-school keep the orphanage going, and what other income the sisters have is microscopic, I believe, and in any case they’ve a mortgage round their necks like a millstone. Well, good-bye. I’ll come down in Easter week-end and see how you’re getting on. Hilary ends on the thirteenth, so, if you’re still there, I’ll come and compare impressions with you. Good-bye, good-bye.”
Mrs. Bradley watched his car swirl out of sight, and then walked alongside the house, through the kitchen garden, past the rainwater butt, and into the yard. George stamped on his cigarette and rose when he saw his employer.
“What do you know about convents, George?” she asked.
“I had a sister who changed to Catholic, madam. There’s nothing in it, really, I believe. It seems as sensible, in essence, as—pardon me, madam—your religion or mine.”
“Yours being—what, George?”
“In the army I was a Seventh Day Adventist for the reason that they had no Church Parade. Nowadays I should think perhaps you might call me a sympathetic agnostic. Religion has altered, madam, since I was a boy. It’s a far cry, now, from the time when the Creed and the Catechism carried one through. But the Catholics really do appear to have a point of view, madam, and support it very ably in argument.”
“Excellent. Get your things, George, and have the car ready for half-past three. We are going away for a day or two, unless I change my mind by the end of lunch.”
She turned to walk back to the house, but it occurred to her that here was an excellent opportunity of passing on the story as her son had told it her to a reasonably unprejudiced listener, so she went back to the chauffeur and said:
“There was once a child of ten who sneaked into the guest-house of a convent and had a bath. The hot water was supplied by a geyser, which must have given off fumes. The child became unconscious, fell back into the water, was submerged and consequently drowned. I can’t smell the rat, Ceorge. Can you?”