A Woman Unknown Page 0,81

mouse or a pipistrelle bat. I could not make out what she saw.

And then it came to me that Fitzpatrick had seen something, or more likely someone, when he parted from me in such haste at the cemetery yesterday.

The deckchair was still in the back garden. I sat down and stared into the darkness, remembering the scene at the funeral, and my conversation with Fitzpatrick. He had been telling me about Deirdre, and how she helped him after his mother’s death.

I closed my eyes, to help me recall the scene. He had looked across at the nuns, the Little Sisters of the Poor, and said how good they had been to the people of the Bank. Speech suddenly deserted him, and he left me quickly, which was surprising given that I was the only person at the funeral who spoke to him. Then he had stumbled. Eddie, Deirdre’s childhood sweetheart, had grabbed him, to keep him from falling. But now that I pictured the scene again, I wondered, was Eddie catching him, or stopping him? Where or who would Fitzpatrick have got to if Eddie had not intervened?

Had he swung himself on his crutches in the direction of the family, the neighbours, or the nuns?

Fitzpatrick had been looking at the nuns. All wore black, except one. One nun had worn a brown habit. The lenses of her spectacles had caught the sunlight. She must be some novitiate, I thought.

Across the wall, Sookie prowled. She gave one of her giveaway small meows of frustration. Some prey had eluded her.

And then the wild thought came, and those are always the best thoughts though sometimes far too wild to be true. The nun in brown was Deirdre, with a pair of spectacles to aid her disguise. Eddie had recognised her, and so had Fitzpatrick: the two men who loved her.

Eddie had prevented Fitzpatrick from betraying Deirdre. But Fitzpatrick had hoped she would come to him, to his parents’ grave by the wall where they had once stood together. Perhaps he caught her eye and sent a pleading glance before turning in that direction.

Once more, I went over the scenes from the funeral. There was the long walk from the church, all the way up York Road to the cemetery, the hearse, followed by carriages carrying family, including Fitzpatrick and his crutches, priests and nuns. None of the nuns in the carriages wore brown. Some of the younger ones walked, all wearing black.

The figure in brown had appeared only at the cemetery. The more I thought about it, the surer I felt.

Cold night air made me shudder. I went inside.

Back in the house, I tapped on my housekeeper’s door. Mrs Sugden emerged, spectacles on the end of her nose. She held her thumb in a book to mark her place.

‘Sorry to disturb you so late. I saw the light under your door.’

‘I heard you come in. I hope you didn’t walk home on your own among all them drunks.’

‘No, and they’re a harmless bunch.’

She gave one of her doubting snorts. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve just had an idea. I’ve a question concerning nuns’ habits.’

She looked blank. ‘Don’t ask me.’

‘I wasn’t going to. Miss Merton, will she still be up?’

Miss Merton lives across the street. She and Mrs Sugden exchange books and recipes.

‘Oh no. Early to bed, early to rise, that’s her motto.’ She frowned. ‘What kind of nuns’ habits do you want to know about? I know the ones up the road by sight. They teach at the school and walk in twos.’

‘I mean what sort of apparel do they wear? Which order of nuns wear brown, with a cord belt, and sandals?’

‘Isn’t that just like them.’ Mrs Sugden shook her head in disbelief. ‘They’ll swelter in summer from the robes and be martyred to chilblains in winter from the sandals.’

‘About Miss Merton, how early is early?’

‘Rising or retiring?’

‘Both.’

‘Bed at half past nine, up at five.’

‘But she’ll know, about habits?’

‘Most likely. Converts always take their religion over-seriously. There are certain novels she refuses point blank to read.’

‘Well thanks. Goodnight.’

She shook her head. ‘I might as well make some cocoa.’

‘I’ll go across and have a word with her in the morning. And I’ll make the cocoa, for disturbing you.’

‘Did you see the message by the telephone?’

‘No.’

‘Mrs Runcie wants you to telephone to her, no matter what time.’ She put down her book. ‘I’ll make the cocoa.’

Philippa must have been waiting downstairs, near the telephone. She answered herself.

‘Kate, hello. I’m sorry I wasn’t well when you called.’

‘How are