‘There’s nothing else about the fire?’
‘Not that I could find. You’d be better off speaking to Bishop Meade. He knows more about it than me.’
Jane didn’t want to press Mrs Parkin. From what she said, it seemed Meade knew a lot more about the fire than he was letting on and was trying to distance himself from it. Jane changed tack.
‘I assume when the convent closed the children were moved to another orphanage.’
‘Yes, but I doubt they would all have gone to the same one.’
‘Would you have a record of their names and where they were sent?’
‘Unfortunately, we don’t. Bishop Meade did ask me to look, but it appears the convent never passed the details on to the archives, which was most remiss of the Mother Superior in charge. Then again, with all the distress and upheaval of the convent closing, she might just have forgotten.’
Jane wasn’t so sure and wondered if the records had been passed on but had then been destroyed by Meade. ‘Do you know who the Mother Superior was?’
‘No, it appears all the nuns’ personal records were destroyed in the fire as well.’
‘Did any priests live at the convent when it was open?’
Parkin frowned. ‘Of course not, that would be most irregular.’
‘Would a local one visit or help teach at the school?’ Jane asked.
‘That wouldn’t be uncommon. St Mary’s is the nearest Catholic church to the old convent. Father Floridia is the current priest. He’s a lovely man — unlike some of the misery guts out there. You know, I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about Father Floridia.’
Jane nodded. ‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him. He introduced me to Bishop Meade. As a matter of interest, would you have a record of the priests who worked at St Mary’s in the fifties and sixties?’
Parkin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Can I ask why you need all this information?’
‘The coroner wants us to explore every possible avenue to try and identify the nun found in the unearthed coffin. He’s a stickler for making sure we do a thorough job.’
Mrs Parkin nodded. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to upset him. Give me a second while I look in the St Mary’s archives.’ She walked down a long row of bookshelves and out of sight.
Jane didn’t hear the door open but jumped when she heard someone behind her cough to get her attention. She turned sharply and saw the young priest.
‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, Detective Tennison,’ he said in a firm voice.
‘May I ask why?’ she said, suspecting the News Shopper article had been brought to his attention.
‘I have just spoken with Bishop Meade. He is most displeased to learn that you neglected to make him aware you are investigating a murder. He feels you have deceived the Church by your actions and will be informing Archbishop Malone. Under the circumstances I think it’s best you leave.’
‘Fair enough. Please tell Bishop Meade my detective chief superintendent will be in touch with him to explain our position,’ she said, surreptitiously folding the copied documents and tucking them in her pocket.
The priest followed her to make sure she left the building.
Mrs Parkin returned to her desk empty-handed and looked around for Jane. ‘Why does everything keep disappearing round here!’ she muttered to herself.
On the drive to Mrs Gorman’s house in West Wickham, Becky asked a lot of questions about the investigation. Boon tried to confine his answers to things she would already have known through her father.
‘Do you reckon someone connected to the Church was involved?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to wait and see what the investigations turn up.’
‘Come on, Simon, we both know it’s got to be someone who lived or worked at the convent,’ she insisted.
‘You could be right, but then again you could be wrong. A good investigator considers all possibilities, not just the one that best fits their assumptions.’
‘Very astute, officer. I shall remember that — but I’ll bet you I’m right.’
‘What’s the bet?’
‘You wine and dine me at a posh restaurant uptown, then take me dancing at the Empire nightclub in Leicester Square. If I’m wrong, it’s my treat.’
Boon smiled. Win or lose, he very much fancied a night out with Becky. ‘You’re on.’
She shook his hand. ‘And I’m going to choose the most expensive thing on the menu.’
‘As long as it’s only the starter, I’m happy with that,’ he grinned.
Becky pressed the doorbell of the small terraced house. A plump, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties opened the door.
‘Hi, I’m Becky. Is your mother in?’
‘My mother doesn’t live here,’ the woman replied, looking confused.
Boon wondered if Becky had been the victim of a hoax call.
‘Sorry, I think we might have the wrong address. Do you know if a Mrs Gorman lives in the street?’
The woman laughed. ‘I’m Annette Gorman. You spoke to me on the phone, Miss Rogers.’
Becky looked embarrassed. ‘I do apologise. I was expecting someone a lot older. This is Detective Constable Boon.’
‘I thought it might be,’ Annette said, inviting them in.
They went to the small living room which was littered with children’s toys.
‘Sorry about the mess. I’ve got two-year-old twin girls. I just put them down for their mid-morning nap, so we shouldn’t be disturbed for a while.’
Becky asked Annette if she’d mind her and Boon taking some notes.
‘Not at all. I don’t really know if I can help you much. I was only ten when the convent closed.’
‘Can I ask why you rang Becky, Mrs Gorman?’ Boon asked, wanting to get straight to the point.
‘I was shocked when I read her article. I couldn’t believe one of the nuns was murdered. I showed it to my husband before he went to work. He knew I’d been an orphan at the convent and said I should call you to see if I could be of any help. He also said I should call the police. But there was nothing in the article about who to call... other than Miss Rogers.’
Boon explained they had been keeping quiet about the murder as they had hoped to identify the nun before going public. ‘When were you at the convent?’ he asked.
‘From about 1957 until just after the fire, which I think was in the summer of 1962. It wasn’t long after that my brother and I were moved to different orphanages.’
Boon realised Annette would have been at the convent at the time the nun was believed to have been murdered. He was about to pick up on it when Becky butted in.
‘Sorry, did you say your brother was there as well?’
Annette nodded sadly. ‘He was my twin. I don’t know where David is now... or if he’s even alive,’ she said, welling up.
‘Have you spoken with the Catholic Children’s Society in Westminster?’ Boon asked.
‘Yes, but they couldn’t help. They don’t keep orphanage records. Sadly, they didn’t have a David Bell with the same date of birth as me on their records. I also wrote to the diocesan archives but just got a letter back saying there was no record of him.’ She started to cry.
Boon felt downhearted. It seemed the Children’s Society would be another dead-end inquiry, though he’d still contact them to double check.
‘I’d like to try and help you find your brother, Annette,’ Becky said.
‘How? I’ve exhausted every avenue there is.’ She wiped her eyes with a tissue.
‘I’ll ask my editor if I can do an article on the orphanage, the loss of your parents and the struggle to find your brother. It might help to locate him.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Not all the children were orphans in the true sense of the word. Some had been abandoned or were from broken homes. When I was sixteen, I ran away from the children’s home I was in to look for my brother. Then I met my future husband, who was eighteen at the time. His family took me in and helped me look for mine.