Collected Short Fiction, page 444
Sister Mary Magdalene shook her head violently. “No! No, I’ll be all right; it’s just the—the shock.”
“The bishop gave me strict orders to make sure that none of this disturbs you.”
“I know what he said, and I appreciate it. But I’m afraid we have already been disturbed.” There was a touch of acid in her voice.
Bishop Courtland, his fine old face looking haggard and unhappy, had come and gone again. Sister Mary Magdalene wished he had not gone, but there was no help for it; the bishop had to deal with the stratoplane load of high officials who had rocketed in as soon as the news had reached the Capital.
ONE OF THE World Bureau of Criminal Investigation men removed his hat in a gesture of respect and stepped into the nun’s office. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that the other WBCI men, belatedly remembering where they were, were taking their hats off, too.
“I’m Major Brock, Sister. Captain Lehmann told me that you’re the Sister-in-Charge here.”
Sister Mary Magdalene nodded wordlessly. Captain Lehmann had been in charge of the group that had come rushing in at Father Destry’s call; they had been hidden outside the cathedral grounds, ostensibly to protect the alien visitors.
“I know this is—unpleasant,” Major Brock said. He was a big man who was obviously finding it difficult to keep his voice at the soft level he believed was appropriate in here. “It’s more than a matter of one life at stake, Sister. We have to find out who did this.”
Sister Mary Magdalene nodded, thinking, I sooner you find out, the sooner all of you will leave here. “I’ll do all I can to help,” she told him.
“We’d like to question the sisters,” he said apologetically. “We’d like to know if any of them saw or heard anything unusual during the night.”
The nun frowned. “What time was the alien killed, Major?”
“We don’t know. If she were human, we’d be able to pinpoint it within a matter of seconds. But we don’t know how fast the blood . . .” He stopped suddenly on the “d” of “blood,” as though he had realized that such gory subjects might not be proper conversation here.
SISTER MARY MAGDALENE was amused at the WBCI man’s exaggerated tact. “How fast the blood coagulates,” she completed, a bit surprised at her own calmness. “Nor, I suppose, how soon rigor mortis sets in, nor how long it takes the body to cool.”
“That’s about it. We’ll just have to check with everybody to see if anyone saw anything that might help us.”
“Would you tell me one thing?” Sister Mary Magdalene said, glancing hesitantly at the silent, glowering figure of Father Destry. “Can you tell me who the suspects are? And please don’t say ‘everybody’—I mean the immediate suspects.”
“Frankly,” said Major Brock, “we think it might be one of the aliens; but I’m afraid that might just be prejudice. There are other possibilities.”
“You don’t suspect one of us!”
“Not now. But I can’t overlook the possibility. If any of the sisters has a brother or a father in the Space Service . . .”
“I concede the possibility,” said Sister Mary Magdalene reluctantly. “And I suppose the same thing might hold true for anyone else.”
“It might, but conditions here pretty well confine the suspects to the sisters and the aliens. After all, you’ve been pretty closely guarded, and pretty secure here.” The WBCI man smiled. “Except from invasion by cops.” He won Sister Magdalene’s undying love with that last sentence.
Father Destry swallowed hard to maintain his composure and said, “I suppose I’ll have to remain if the sisters are to be questioned. The bishop . . .”
“I understand, Father; I’ll try not to take too long.” Sister Mary Magdalene sighed and checked the schedule of Masses in the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament. There would be little chance of her hearing Mass in the chapel here, with all this going on.
IV
THE NIGHTMARISH morning dragged slowly along. Sister Mary Magdalene phoned the Mother Superior of the order in Wisconsin, to assure her that everything was under control; it was true, if not wholly accurate. Then it was the nun’s task to interview each of her Sisters, one by one, to learn her story of the night before.
They knew nothing. None of them was lying, Sister Mary Magdalene knew, and none of them was capable of murder.
Not until the Major came to Sister Angela did anything new come up. Sister Angela was asked if she had noticed anything unusual.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “There was someone in the courtyard last night. I saw him from my window.”
“Him?” Sister Mary Magdalene repeated in astonishment, sitting bolt upright in her chair. “Him?”
Sister Angela nodded nervously. “It—it looked like a monk.”
“How do you know it was a monk?” asked the Major.
“Well, he was wearing a robe—with the cowl down. The moon was pretty bright; I could see him clearly.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“It wasn’t that bright, Major. But I’m sure it was—well, a man dressed in a monk’s habit.”
Major Brock frowned and chewed at the ends of his mustache. “We’ll have to investigate this more fully.”
Sister Mary Magdalene rose. A quick glance at the clock told her that it was her last chance to make it to Mass. For an instant, a niggling inward voice told her that missing Mass just this once would be excusable under the circumstances, but she fought it down.
“Would you excuse me?” she said to Brock. “I must attend Mass at this hour.”
“Of course, Sister.” Brock did not seem pleased at the prospect of having to carry on without her; but, as always, he maintained careful respect for the churchly activities going on about him.
SISTER MARY MAGDALENE went out, headed for the Cathedral. Outside, everything looked so normal that she could hardly believe anything had really happened. It was not until she reached the Cathedral itself that depression again struck her.
The vestment radiations were off.
The vestments of the clergy were fluorescent; under the radiation from the projectors in the walls, the chasubles, tunics, and dalmatics, the stoles, maniples, and altar frontal, all glowed with color. The color depended on the wavelength of the radiation used. There was the somber violet of the penitential seasons of Lent and Advent, the restful green of Epiphany and the long weeks after Trinity, the joyous white of Christmas and Easter, and the blazing red of Pentecost. But without the radiations, the vestments were black—the somber black of the Requiem, the Mass of the Dead.
FOR A MOMENT, Sister Mary Magdalene’s thoughts were as black as the hangings on the altar. And then she realized that, again, there was Reason behind whatever was going on here. There was no doubt in her own mind that the Pogatha were intelligent, reasoning beings, although the question had never been settled on a theological level by the Church. She would pray for the repose of the soul of Vor Nollig.
Forty-five minutes later, she was walking back toward the convent, her own soul strangely at rest. For just a short time, there toward the end, she had felt oddly apprehensive about having had Vor Nollig in mind while the celebrant intoned the Agnus—“O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, grant them rest eternal.” But then the words of the Last Gospel had come to reassure her: “All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made.” Surely it could not be wrong to pray for the happiness of one of God’s creatures, no matter how strangely made.
She was to think that thought again within the next five minutes.
SISTER ELIZABETH, round and chubby and looking almost comically penguinlike, was standing at the gate, tears rolling down her plump cheeks.
“Why, Sister Elizabeth—what’s the trouble?”
“Oh, Sister, Sister!” She burst into real sobs and buried her head miserably in Sister Mary Magdalene’s shoulder. “She’s dead—murdered!”
For a wild moment, Sister Mary Magdalene thought that Sister Elizabeth was referring to the dead Pogatha, Vor Nollig; but then she knew it was not so, and her numbed mind refused to speculate any further. She could only shake Sister Elizabeth and say, “Who? Who is dead? Who?”
“Her—her little head’s all burned off!” sobbed the tearful nun; she was becoming hysterical now, shaking convulsively. Sister Mary Magdalene gripped Sister Elizabeth’s shoulders firmly.
“Who?”
Sister Elizabeth looked up. When she spoke it was in a shocked whisper. “Felicity, Sister. Your cat! She’s dead!”
Sister Mary Magdalene remained quite still, letting the first tide of grief wash over her. A moment later, she was calm again. The cat had been her beloved companion for years, but Sister Mary Magdalene felt no grief now—merely pity for the unfortunate one who could have done such a brutal deed, and sorrow over the loss of a dear friend. A moment later the anger began, and Sister Mary Magdalene prayed for the strength to unravel the mystery of the sudden outbreak of violence in these peaceful precincts.
WHEN SHE returned to her office a few moments later, the three living aliens were standing grouped together near one wall of the room. Secretary Masterson and Secretary Bass were not too far away. Major Brock was seated in the guest chair, with Father Destry standing behind him. Brock was speaking.
“. . . and that’s about it. Someone—we don’t know who—came in here last night. One of the Sisters saw him heading toward the back gate of the courtyard, and another has told us that the back gate was unlocked this morning—and it shouldn’t have been, because she’s positive she locked it the night before.” Brock looked up at Sister Mary Magdalene, and his expression changed as he saw the frozen mask of her face. The nun was filled with hot anger, burning and righteous, but under complete and icy control.
“What is it, Sister?”
“Would you come with me, Major Brock? I have something to show you. And Father Destry, if you would. I would prefer that the rest of you remain here.” She spoke crisply. This was, after all, her domain.
She led the two men, priest and policeman, to the courtyard and around to the rear of the convent. Then they went out to the broad park beyond. Fifteen yards from the gate lay the charred, pitiful remains of the cat.
Major Brock knelt to look at it. “A dead cat,” he said in a blank voice.
“Felicity,” said Father Destry. “I’m sorry, Sister.” The nun knew the sorrow was for her; Father Destry had never felt much warmth for the little animal.
MAJOR BROCK rose and said, softly, “I’m afraid I don’t quite see what this has to do with . . .”
“Look at her head,” said the nun in a hot-cold voice. “Burned! That’s the work of a Brymer beamgun. Close range; not more than ten feet, possibly less.”
Brock knelt again, picking up the body and studying it closely for a silent moment. When he looked up, the cat still in his hands, there was new respect in. his eyes. “You’re right, Sister. There’s the typical hardening of the tissues around the burn; this wasn’t done with a torch.”
Father Destry blinked confusedly. “Do you think that the killing of Sister Mary Magdalene’s pet has something to do with the—uh—murder of Vor Nollig?”
“I don’t know,” Brock said slowly. “Sister? What do you think?”
“I think it does, but I’m not sure how. I think you’ll find a connection.”
“This brings something new into the picture, at least,” said the Major. “Now we can look for a Brymer beamgun.”
VOR BETLA, the second Blue, who had never been able to speak English well, had given it up completely. She was snarling and snapping at Vor Vun, who was translating as best she could. It appeared that all three of the aliens seemed to feel that they might be the next to get a carving knife in their insides.
Vor Vun said, “We feel that you are not doing as well as you might, Major Brock. We don’t blame the Government of Earth directly for this insult, but obviously the precautions that were taken to protect us were insufficient.” The Major shook his head. “The entire grounds around the Cathedral were patrolled and guarded by every detection instrument known to Earth. No one could have gotten in.”
Vor Gontakel put the palms of her green hands together, almost as if she were praying. “It makes a sense. You would not want us to get out, of course, so you would have much of safeguards around.”
“We grant that,” agreed Vor Vun. “But someone nonetheless killed Vor Nollig, and her loss is great.”
Vor snarled and yapped.
Vor Vun translated: “You must turn the killer over to us. If you do not, there can be no further talk of peace.”
“How do we know it wasn’t one of you three?” asked Secretary Masterson suddenly.
Vor Betla barked something. Vor Vun said, “We would have no reason for it.”
Major Brock sighed. “I know. That’s what’s bothered me all along. Where’s the motive?”
SISTER MARY MAGDALENE, watching silently, eyed the three aliens. Which one of them would have killed Vor Nollig. Which one might have killed Felicity?
Vor Vun? She hated cats; had she also hated Vor Nollig? Or had it been Vor Gontakel, the despised Green? But why would she kill Felicity? Had Vor Betla done it so that she could become head of the delegation? That made even less sense.
Motive. What was the motive?
Had someone else done it? One of the secretaries, perhaps? Was there a political motive behind the crime?
And then—she had to force herself to think of it—there was the possibility that one of the monks—or, worse yet, one of her own sisters—had done it.
If an Earthman had done it, it was either a political motive or one of hatred; there could be nothing personal in it. If she had been killed by an Earthman, Vor Nollig had been killed for some deep, unknown, or unknowable political machination—possibly by order of the Government itself—or else she had been killed because some Earthman just hated the enemy to such an extent that . . .
Sister Mary Magdalene did not want to think of blind hatred such as that.
On the other hand, if one of the three remaining Pogatha had done it, the motive could be any one of several. It could be personal, or political, or it might even have a basis in racial prejudice.
THE NUN thought it over for several minutes without reaching any conclusions. Motive would have to be abandoned as a way of finding the killer. For once, motive could not enter the solution at all.
Method, then. What was the method?
Major Brock was saying: “Even the best of modern aids to crime detection can’t reconstruct the past for us. But we do know part of the killer’s actions. He . . .”
There was a rap on the door, and Captain Lehmann thrust his head inside. “Excuse me if I’m interrupting. See you a minute, Major?”
Brock frowned, rose and went outside, closing the door behind him. Father Destry leaned over and whispered to the nun. “They may suspect me.”
“Nonsense, Father!”
Father Destry pursed his lips suddenly and said nothing more. Major Brock put his head in the door. “Sister, would you come here a minute?”
She stepped into the hall to confront two very grim WBCI men. Captain Lehmann was holding a Brymer beamgun in one hand and a bundle of black cloth in the crook of his arm. A faint but decidedly foul stench was perceptible.
“This is the gun,” Lehmann said, “that killed your cat. At least, as far as we, know. An energy beam has no traceable ballistics characteristics. We found it wrapped in this . . .” He gestured toward the black bundle. “. . . and shoved under one of the pews in the chapel.”
WITH A SUDDEN movement he flipped out the cloth so it was recognizable. Sister Mary Magdalene had no difficulties in recognizing it; it was the habit of a nun.
“The lab men have already gone over it,” Major Brock said. “We can prove who the owner is by perspiration comparison, but there also happens to be an identification strip in it. The odor is the blood of Vor Nollig. It spurted out when she was stabbed through the heart.”
Brock opened the habit so the ID tag became visible.
It said, Sister Elizabeth, S.H.N.
“We’ll have to talk to her,” said the Major.
“Of course,” said Sister Mary Magdalene calmly. “I imagine you’ll find it was stolen from her room. Tell me, why should Father Destry think you suspect him?”
The sudden, casual change of subject apparently puzzled Major Brock. He paused a moment before answering. “We don’t, really. That is . . .”
Again he paused. “He had a brother. A colonist on Pogathan. The Pogatha caught him. He died—not pleasantly, I’m afraid.” He looked at the floor. “We have a similar bit of information on Sister Elizabeth. An uncle.”
“You haven’t mentioned my nephew yet,” said Sister Mary Magdalene.
The Major looked surprised. “No. We hadn’t.”
“It’s of no importance, anyway. Let’s go check with Sister Elizabeth. I can tell you know that she knows nothing about it; she probably doesn’t even know her spare habit is missing yet, because it was stolen from the laundry. The laundry room is right across from the aliens’ quarters.”
“BUT,” BROCK said.
“You’d rather we didn’t talk to her, don’t you?”
“It would only upset her.”
“How do you know she didn’t do it?”
“For the same reason you don’t think she did, Major. This thing is beginning to make sense; I’m beginning to understand the mind that did this awful thing.”
He looked at her curiously. “You have a strange mind yourself, Sister. I didn’t realize that nuns knew so much about crime.”
“Major,” she said evenly, “when I took my vows, I chose the name ‘Mary Magdalene.’ I didn’t pick it out of the hat.”
The Major nodded silently, and his gaze shifted to the closed door of the nun’s office. “The thing is that the whole pattern is beginning to make sense. But I can’t quite see it.”
“It was a badly fumbled job, really,” said Sister Mary Magdalene. “If an Earthman had done it, you’d have spotted him immediately.”
