Nursery Crimes Part 22

"Free - free - free - "

The cymbals crashed three times.

It was repeated.

"Who do we want?"

"Murph... ee..."

"How do we want him?"

"Free -- free -- free."

The days of cheer-leaders hadn't arrived, but Miss Sheldon-Smythe knew what she was doing. Instinct as old as time prompted, her. She wasn't a rabble raiser, but she knew the tricks. Twelve Greek dancers wouldn't make enough noise, but they would form a very effective prelude to a beautifully orchestrated crescendo.

"Who do we want?" She addressed the pupils directly, her eyes little burning points of fire - her voice as loud as she could make it.

"MURPH ... EE ..." they yelled back, beginning to sway with hysteria.

"How do we want him?"

"FREE - FREE - FREE," they screamed.

She raised both arms, fists clenched, her head thrown back, her mouth a defiant oval of pain and resolution. With the pupils on her side, their parents would have to start taking notice.

"Who do we want?"

It went on -- and on -- and on --

Some of the girls were wailing and crying. One had flung herself on the gra.s.s and was scrabbling at it with her nails.

Zanny, aghast, stood silently and watched. She felt as if she were being flayed alive. Dolly, slightly amused, stood at her side. She hadn't uttered either.

Mother Benedicta, long ago in her youth, had got caught up in a hysterical mob when a hotel had caught fire and the main exit doors had stuck. Young as she was then, she had managed to keep calm. She struggled to be calm now. She explained in a quick aside to Sir Clifford what it was all about. "I'm extremely sorry," she shouted in his ear, "but I don't know how to stop it." Usually her presence, a few sharp claps of the hands, sufficed. This time more was needed.

Sir Clifford, who had on one or two occasions cleared courts, wasn't intimidated. This occasion which only hours ago had threatened to be extremely boring was turning out to be anything but.

"My dear good lady," he shouted back at Mother Benedicta. "leave it with me."

Very few noticed him strolling over to the group around Miss Sheldon-Smythe. There was nothing belligerent in his approach. It was cool. Easy. Her eyes were closed now and her voice was hoa.r.s.e with effort.

"Madam," he said, touching her on her right shoulder. "Madam."

He could feel the muscles tremble under her black cardigan as her raised arm began reluctantly to fall.

She opened her eyes and turned and looked at him. Her action today had burnt her boats for ever. The convent would request her departure. She had nowhere to go. The future had never been more bleak. She had never felt more fulfilled.

He wouldn't believe her, but she had to tell him. "I killed Bridget," she croaked.

His small, blue, piggy eyes were almost compa.s.sionate. When elderly women went off their rockers it wasn't very pleasant. It certainly wasn't funny. An elderly priest was joining them. As if he were presenting Miss Sheldon-Smythe to him in marriage, Sir Clifford took her hand and placed it on Father Donovan's. "Go," he said. .

In the sudden silence everyone watched. The ring of dancers fell away as the old man in black led the old woman in black across the lawn, up the steps to the gravelled area in front of the main doorway, and then through the main door. It closed behind them.

Sir Clifford returned to Mother Benedicta and his wife and this time it was he who raised his hands in control. "Please!" he said, his voice resonant in the continuing silence.

Everyone looked at him. Tears still rolled down some cheeks. Breath came raggedly in tired b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"You may know," Sir Clifford said, "that for many years I was a judge on the Northern Circuit. In that time many prisoners have appeared before me. Some innocent. Some guilty. It is a great responsibility to have a man's life in one's hands. It is a power that none of us wish to have. It is thrust upon us. It is a duty. Here in this beautiful convent you have very little knowledge of the outside world. You are young. You are idealistic. You see no evil in anybody. Let me convince you of this: the law of the land is there for your protection. It is fair. It is just. The law is on the side of the just - on your side. It is on the side of the weak - your side. It is on the side of the vulnerable - the kind - the good . . . your side. The law is on the side of Bridget O'Hare. Young - vulnerable - good - sadly done to death in the days of her joy. It is not on the side of her brutal murderer. Keep your compa.s.sion for those who deserve it. Bridget's family. Her friends. But for Murphy - Iggy Murphy - Bridget would be here amongst us on this lovely day. She would be standing beside you now. Would you have Murphy kill her and survive? Would you want him to go on breathing this beautiful autumn air when she cannot? He came to this convent and abused the trust placed in him. He acted with horrific savagery. And now he has been removed from you. You are safe. Let others take the responsibility of what happens to him. Believe me, it will be merciful and quick."

It wasn't a bad speech, he thought, particularly as it was off the cuff and delivered sober. They were quite a bit calmer now. There was one extremely good looking girl in her middle teens on the edge of the crowd. She had quite the most fantastic golden hair he had ever seen. Her face was grave, very pale. She was looking directly at him, her eyes locked into his.

Reluctantly he looked away from her. "And now," he said briskly, "enjoy yourselves. I'm going to. You've done a marvellous job with your stalls. I hope all the parents - all the visitors - will spend very freely. Mother Benedicta, shall we begin?"

"I can never begin to thank you," Mother Benedicta said. "I'm sure," she added turning to Betty, "that you are extremely proud of your remarkable husband."

"Oh, yes," Betty said easily, "he functions in times of crisis very well." (He also drinks, womanises and can behave quite appallingly - even in court. Why do you suppose he retired at fifty-eight - for love of green fields and pastures new? Oh, no, Mother Benedicta - for love of the bottle - and girls in short white Greek tunics and small round bottoms.) "Remember not to exert yourself," she told him kindly.

She caught Mother Benedicta's expression of enquiry and tapped her heart significantly.

"Nonsense," Sir Clifford said cheerfully, "never been fitter."

"You won't do any good there," Dolly said to Zanny. "You can put the Home Secretary out of your mind. All he'd tell him would be to tighten the rope." She added, "His delivery wasn't bad. For a man who looks like an animated plum he has a fairly decent voice."

"Don't you feel anything?" Zanny asked. In the depths of her stomach was a deep hard pain. Iggy! How dare he use that dreadful diminutive! How dare he debase Murphy - make him sound like an animal! I'll get you, she thought, 7 will get you. It was Dolly's job to start the treasure hunt. She told Zanny she would see her some time. "Aren't you supposed to be guarding your stall?"

Zanny was.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe's pa.s.sionate involvement in Murphy's cause had come as a great shock to her. As she walked over to the main hall she kept thinking about it. It was an intrusion. Miss Sheldon-Smythe was poaching on her preserves. Murphy belonged to her. He didn't -- had never -- belonged to Miss Sheldon-Smythe. She, Zanny, should have been standing in the middle of the dancers yelling for Murphy. She hadn't thought of it. Miss Sheldon-Smythe had taken a march on her. She had presumed. She had a colossal cheek.

Deeply jealous of her initiative, Zanny stood gloomily behind the large table set out with ridiculous objects. Who but a fool would buy egg-warmers knitted in white wool with faces on them? And who but a fool would mark them at one and nine pence halfpenny? How much was that from ten s.h.i.+llings? And look at these mats made from straw - hideous things. And a string shopping basket. String - child of rope.

"How much," said a voice, "is this pen-holder?"

Zanny looked up with glazed eyes. "I've no idea," she said at last. "Whoever is running this stall will be here soon." She was about to walk out when she saw Sister Clemence walking in. "As a matter of fact," she said, in deep anger at being trapped, "it's one and eight pence, and it's no use brandis.h.i.+ng that pound note at me, I haven't any change."

Towards four o'clock Sir Clifford found his way into the reception hall. This was adjacent to the main hall and was used for entertaining visitors when the parlour was in use. It was full of potted palms and wicker chairs. He had noticed its seclusion earlier and marked it for a future retreat. Father Donovan had recently waylaid him in the tea tent and given him a surrept.i.tious drop of what he called the hard stuff. Father Donovan was very grateful for his tactful handling of Miss Sheldon-Smythe. The poor lady, he said, was now lying down in her room with one of the nuns in attendance. She was, the judge understood, didn't he, unwell? Yes, said Sir Clifford, he understood. His understanding had been further rewarded by Father Donovan with a gla.s.s of what looked like pure lemonade, but wasn't. The problem was that no more had been forthcoming and it was easier not to drink at all than to drink a little. Father Donovan's generosity was limited by circ.u.mspection, but at least he still had his own hip flask. He had just downed most of its contents, tactfully hidden by one of the palms, when he noticed the smasher with golden hair sitting in the far corner by the window watching him.

His embarra.s.sment was fleeting.

His embarra.s.sment equated with the degree of his sobriety.

"h.e.l.lo, p.u.s.s.y," he said.

"h.e.l.lo," said Zanny.

She had not been stalking him. She had not had him in mind. She had come here because she had been banished from her stall. She had a vague impression that the academic standards of the convent were likely to fall into grave disrepute if she were to stay at her stall any longer. Sister Clemence had overheard derogatory comments, Sister Clemence had told her. Was she a child of five who couldn't add up or take away? Didn't she know that one and four pence and three and eight pence made five s.h.i.+llings and that if you took that from a pound there were fifteen s.h.i.+llings left? She didn't. Neither did she care. "You may be under strain," Sister Clemence scolded her sharply, "but so are we all. For goodness sake, go and get yourself another job - the bran-tub, perhaps, at tuppence a time."

"Having a rest?" asked Sir Clifford.