"If you don't want yours," he said, "I'll have it," and helped himself.

Despite the awful fate that was facing Murphy, Graham felt marginally less worried about Zanny now. The case against Murphy had been strong. Circ.u.mstantial evidence, but plausible. He might even have done it; twelve intelligent jurors believed he had.

He put this to Clare. "We could have misinterpreted Dolly's insinuations. Or they could have been made through spite. We were fools to listen to her."

Clare didn't answer. The lethal events in the past, concerning Zanny, Graham had been told about but hadn't seen. He hadn't been there when Peter had lifted little Willie out of the pond and tried to revive him . . . while Zanny stood by. It was she who had been walking down that country road when Evans the Bread's van came thundering around the corner - not Graham. He hadn't felt the heartstopping shock of seeing Zanny's attempt to push Dolly under the wheels. All the information he had received had been diluted to some extent in the telling. For her, today's horror hadn't been diluted by anything anybody had had to say. Murphy was about to suffer for something Zanny had done. She was sure of it. He had stood in the witness box, bewildered, saying all the wrong things. She could have wept for him.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n Zanny," she burst out in sudden fury.

Graham looked at her shocked.

Father Donovan overheard the young woman at the window table G.o.dd.a.m.ning somebody and wished that the Lord's name wasn't taken so lightly. "And may the Lord have mercy on your soul," had been said in all seriousness by the judge. And may He have mercy on yours, M'Lud, Father Donovan thought with some pa.s.sion. It was wrong for anybody to kill anybody, but what could he, an ageing parish priest, do about it? Nothing. Murphy should not have killed Bridget - if he had. But killing him didn't make it any better. Old Testament justice belonged to Old Testament times. A guilty Murphy swinging on the end of a rope surely wouldn't occasion rejoicing in Heaven. And an innocent Murphy swinging should bring forth roars of celestial rage. It was a pity that the good Lord tended to be mute on such occasions. In the meantime he would have to give Murphy as much help as he could - what was it, three weeks between sentencing and execution? " And right now he would have to go back to the convent and tell Mother Benedicta to get off her knees and stop praying for an acquittal. The a.s.sault on heavenly ears would now have to broach the question of a miracle. By G.o.d, he had badly needed this good, strong cup of tea and this b.u.t.tery tea-cake. The trial had left him feeling as weak as a kitten.

Mother Benedicta received the news of Murphy's sentence with icy calm. The papers, she had no doubt, would carry screaming headlines in the evening editions. Her duty, as she saw it, was to protect the girls from the trauma to the best of her ability. They would have to be told, of course, but not by the yellow press. No newspaper while the news was still hot was to be allowed anywhere near them.

She chose to tell them after Benediction in the evening. In the morning might have been better, but the convent had wireless sets and she couldn't confiscate the lot.

It was very sad and unfortunate, she said crisply, but they were not to dwell on it. When they said their rosary they could think of Bridget - and of Murphy, too - and of all the countless people who had died young - of war wounds -- accidents -- and other causes too numerous to mention. Her speech diluted death into little raindrops of pain in a sea of mortality. As an exercise in minimis ing horror it succeeded reasonably well. Some of the girls turned pale -- some felt sick. But n.o.body actually got sick, and n.o.body cried. The opiate lasted for several hours.

For Zanny it began to wear off about midnight.

She had seen Bridget dead and hadn't felt a thing. She visualised Murphy facing death and couldn't bear it. Cold and shivering she crept into Dolly's bed. Dolly, unwelcoming, lay rigid.

"What can I do?" Zanny moaned, her head under the clothes, in case she was again accused of lesbianism. "What can I do?"

"If you've got a conscience - which I doubt - " Dolly said, "there's just one thing you can do -- so b.l.o.o.d.y do it."

Her own conscience, very finely balanced, had come down slowly on Murphy's side. If the Moncriefs wouldn't see her through university because Zanny was languishing in gaol, then the nuns probably would - or she'd get a scholarship -- or something. Academic success shouldn't depend on Murphy's broken neck. But if it did, then Murphy's neck came first. She decided that if Zanny didn't confess she'd tell Mother Benedicta anyway. It was not good policy, however, to tell Zanny this. You don't tell a keg of dynamite that you've got a box of matches handy and intend striking one - not when the keg of dynamite was right beside you.

Zanny, weeping and snuffling under the bed-clothes, wiped her nose disgustingly on Dolly's sheet. Dolly, unaware of this, gave her ten minutes to calm herself. Murphy, she thought, must have been a bit of a berk. Anybody with any sense could have talked himself out of it. He must have had a rotten defending counsel or a very biased judge. If I were his barrister, she thought, he would be back in his cottage now soaked up to his neck in whisky, not fearing for it in an abominable little cell. Her future, nebulous until now, began to take shape. There weren't many women barristers, but this was the middle of the twentieth century and time for things to change. Women judges, too. She visualised herself in gown and wig holding forth in the Old Bailey. Someone like Murphy would be in the dock. A muscular hunk - brainless - innocent. The prosecuting barrister would gouge him with rapier thrusts of wit and render him speechless. The judge, uncaring about the outcome, would sit with glazed eyes. And then she, Dolly, would take centre stage. Coolly, carefully, she would demolish the case for the Crown. Murphy would stand erect with newly gained dignity. The judge would wake up and look at her with respect. The opposing barrister would bl.u.s.ter vainly before wilting into defeat. All her ancestors - the long line of Mortons who had never been on the winning side of anything - would send up a ghostly cheer.

Dolly Morton, K.C.

It would happen. She never dreamed. She planned. She knew now what she wanted to do. It was possible. She would do it. If this Murphy couldn't be saved, then there would be others.

If Zanny were the prisoner and she were the prosecuting counsel ... that was more difficult. Zanny's toes touched hers. She could hear her breathing. She had known her for a long time. Lots of people had probably known Caligula for a long time . . . and Salome. On the other hand, that Scottish bloke, Robert the Bruce, wouldn't have tolerated his spider - even liked it a bit -if he hadn't been forced to live with it.

All right - then let another barrister prosecute Zanny.

Let another judge sentence her.

At least no one would hang her now - she was too young.

The ten minutes were up and she told her to push off. "I want to get some sleep."

"I," Zanny whispered in despair, "will never sleep again."

Five.

That night Miss Sheldon-Smythe slept even less than Zanny. The verdict had come as no shock to her. She had lived with the possibility ever since Murphy had been taken into custody. She had also lived with a mysterious lump in her breast. It could, of course, be benign. It probably wasn't. She didn't want to know. If things were to happen, they would happen. When you were sixty-two you began to see death as a kind of cosy relationship. You lived with it as you might live with an old aunt. She was behind a closed door, undemanding, not frightening. One day you would open the door and go in to her - permanently. Now you just had the occasional chat. It was different when you were in Murphy's position. Death at his age was a vicious enemy - you fought it with everything you had - you didn't submit. And if fighting did no good then someone else lifted the sword for you.

After a lot of thought and some very careful planning, Miss Sheldon-Smythe raised her sword on Murphy's behalf the following morning.

Luckily, Mother Benedicta, unlike most Mother Superiors, was readily available to any pupil or member of staff who wished to speak to her. She was to be found in her study, if she were not busy elsewhere, between ten-thirty and eleven o'clock every morning.

On this particular morning she was standing by her study window looking at the lengthening gra.s.s of the convent lawns. It was difficult to get a replacement for Murphy. Part-time gardners didn't do such a good job. As for the hens and the rabbits, the lay sisters did the best they could with them. Those who were of farming stock could turn a living hen into a dead fowl without too many qualms, but the rabbits, furry and rather beautiful, were another matter. They were breeding extremely fast; soon there wouldn't be enough hutches for them. They had been a very good idea when Murphy was around. Now, in his absence, they were not. Life was full of small problems. Small problems were therapeutic. If you filled your mind with trivia, you hadn't much s.p.a.ce for anything else. You wished you had no s.p.a.ce at all for Miss Sheldon-Smythe. But she was standing at the door, the newspaper in her hand. "Murphy to Hang" was the headline. "Brutal Murder by Convent Gardener" was the line under it.

"I hope," Mother Benedicta asked coldly, "that you haven't let any of the pupils see that?"

Miss Sheldon-Smythe walked across the room with some dignity and stood at Mother Benedicta's side. She didn't see the untidy gra.s.s. She saw bright sunlight on yellow roses. It was a pretty enough world. There were pretty creatures in it, such as her budgerigars. Someone, she supposed, would look after her budgerigars. They would miss her. It should be a sad thought that no one else would miss her, but it wasn't. Families with their obligations tended to thrust obstacles in the way. Property was a similar stumbling block. You owned a nice little house or a flat. You acquired things for it. You had a china cabinet full of knick-knacks -- a vase you got in Greece -- gla.s.s from Venice. They evoked memories. They held you - made you less free. She had sold up her house to help her youngest brother pay his gambling debts. It had seemed a big thing to do at the time -- very heroic. He had been awfully grateful. If he hadn't been killed in the war he might have paid her back. All her five brothers had predeceased her . . . but they had drifted away and lost contact quite a long time before that. You got used to everything. It really didn't matter much.

"No," she said, answering Mother Benedicta's ques tion, "n.o.body else has seen this. It really is quite ridiculous, of course."

And so is your mourning, Mother Benedicta thought. Why can't you wear a white collar, or something - even a chiffon scarf? "It's the will of G.o.d," she said automatically, trying to quench her uncharitable feelings. Of course Miss Sheldon-Smythe was upset. They were all upset. But it didn't do to parade your feelings.

"No, it isn't," Miss Sheldon-Smythe said calmly. "It's a gross miscarriage of justice." She watched a starling alighting on a yellow rose and then flying off again. "Murphy didn't kill Bridget O'Hare," she said. "I did."

Mother Benedicta's mind went blank for almost a minute as if a giant wave had come and washed a beach clean. All trivia -- all flotsam and jetsam - disappeared. She clutched the window ledge until her legs felt strong enough and then walked from the window and over to her desk. She sat down.

"Oh?" she said.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe still stood at the window. Convents were gracious places. The staircase here was particularly beautiful. At the top of the first flight was a statue of the Virgin. A lovely little Virgin in blue and white plaster. The stairs then divided to the right and to the left and on the next landing was a statue of Saint Agnes. On each landing was a wide window - wider than this one - overlooking the gardens. All this she would miss. She wouldn't miss her room. It overlooked the courtyard at the back and had little sun. Murphy had put a couple of pots of geraniums where she could see them, but otherwise there was no colour.

"Yes," she said, almost dreamily. "I pushed her over the cliff."

Mother Benedicta had recovered her equilibrium. "No doubt," she said tartly, her anger rising, "she had annihilated your canary?" And may the Blessed Virgin forgive me, she thought, but I cannot tolerate the babbling of a lunatic at this awful time. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I had no right to be discourteous."

Miss Sheldon-Smythe, during the night hours, had prepared herself to be received with scepticism. Mother Benedicta's tongue despite her daily chanting of prayers could be vicious.

"Budgerigars," she corrected her, "two of them. And no -- my reason wasn't frivolous." She sat down on a red plush chair in the window recess. There was a smear of polish on the mahogany arm; she rubbed it thoughtfully with her finger. The speech she had prepared had become fragmented in her mind. On such a lovely morning it was very difficult to talk about. She concentrated her mind on Murphy sitting in his cell. Only that way was it possible.

"You may remember," she said, "that Bridget O'Hare wanted to borrow fifty pounds from me so that she might pay for an illegal abortion. I told you that I refused her. That was a lie."

She looked up to see how Mother Benedicta was taking it. Her face was expressionless. She went on: "She was so persuasive - so upset - that in a weak moment I gave her the money. Afterwards, when I had time to think about it, I regretted it. I don't have to remind you of the Church's view on abortion. My conscience worried me. I tried to have another talk with Bridget, but here with the children around it was very difficult. On the day of the picnic I decided, on the spur of the moment, to drive over to the picnic site. There was just a possibility I might see Bridget on her own. I didn't join the picnic party and I didn't park anywhere near the school bus. For most of the time I was on the main beach. I saw Bridget and Murphy going up on to the headland and later I saw Murphy coming back on his own. That was my chance and I took it. I went up onto the headland and saw Bridget sitting on the gra.s.s. I tried having a kind and rational discussion with her, but she wouldn't listen. She called me a stupid old woman and told me to stop pestering her. We were standing now -- rather near the edge. She had her handbag in her hand, I thought she might have the money in it. I tried to take it from her. She backed away and lost her footing. The gra.s.s was very slippy. She fell over the edge before I could stop her. I didn't mean to kill her, but I did. Murphy had absolutely nothing to do with it at all."

"Oh, yes?" said Mother Benedicta. It was very plausible. She didn't believe a word of it. "And why didn't you tell me all this before?"

"There was always the possibility," Miss Sheldon-Smythe said, "that Murphy would be acquitted. I am not a very brave woman, Ma Mere. In fact, my silence was extremely cowardly."

If I were your mother in fact - were that physically possible -- Mother Benedicta thought, I would have handed you a modic.u.m of common sense. You are an emotional old woman, Miss Sheldon-Smythe, and what you are doing is very quixotic and makes me so cross I could scream at you. I am uncharitable. I am intolerant. I have a great many sins to confess. But this particular fantasy sin of yours makes me so angry I can't speak.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe, waiting for a moment, waited in vain. Why wouldn't she believe her? It was all perfectly feasible. Murderers had been convicted for less likely reasons.

She stood up. "I am on my way to inform the police," she said. "It seemed polite to come to you first. If I don't return, then I am being held in custody."

"I shall, of course," Mother Benedicta said rather tartly, "bear that possibility in mind."