"Hope you had a decent dinner today," Father Donovan said desperately.

"Pretty good," said Murphy. "Chicken." The grub was getting better by the minute. He was reminded of those poor sods of geese who were forcibly fed so that sodding punks of judges could eat pate de foie gras. "There's no equality," Murphy said, "that's the trouble."

Father Donovan ready to profess red hot Communism -- anything to soothe - agreed.

He wanted to clasp this man in his arms. He wanted to run like h.e.l.l away from him. He wanted to weep and didn't dare.

Clare and Graham arranged to fetch Zanny on the Thursday evening before Execution Friday at just after six-thirty.

Mother Benedicta's timing would have been the envy of a psychiatrist. Tea was at half past four. Between five and five-thirty Zanny with the help of one of the nuns packed her suitcase. Between five-thirty and six the girls went to Benediction. (This could be a time fraught with emotion - or it could be soothed by a holy blessing-Mother Benedicta had to hope for the latter, and did.) At six Zanny was taken to her cla.s.sroom for extra mathematics by Sister Clemence who had a stronger personality than her cla.s.s teacher and wouldn't allow thoughts to stray. Zanny would stay with Sister Clemence until six forty-five. She would then come down to the parlour and meet her parents. If Mother Benedicta hadn't finished talking to them, she would wait outside. As her parents had arranged to take her to the doctor's surgery by half past seven -- a half-hour's drive away -- they would be careful not to be late.

A reluctance to confront Zanny marred the timetable by a deficit often minutes. Graham and Clare, subdued and pale, arrived at six-forty. Zanny hadn't come down to the parlour yet so it didn't much matter; even so Mother Benedicta was annoyed.

"Heavy traffic?" she asked frigidly.

"Pretty heavy," said Graham.

Mother Benedicta had a small speech ready. She came out with it. "The world," she said, "is full of insensitive people who can take the horrors of life and not much care. Your daughter is not one of them. At this time she is suffering quite acutely on Murphy's behalf. Tomorrow morning she will walk to the gallows with him - in her mind. If she can sleep through that appalling period I believe she will be able to accept his death and begin to heal. That's why I'm sending her home with you. She is your responsibility. Only your own doctor can take on the responsibility of giving her that sleep. Will he?"

"Yes, I think so," said Clare, "but he won't give her the pills without checking up on her first."

A sensible precaution, Mother Benedicta conceded, though perhaps a bit fussy in this instance. She had sounded out the convent doctor, Harry Williams, on the same subject. Any knock-out drops, he had told her, had better be given to Murphy before the final drop. Doctors, generally speaking, were too familiar with death. They tended to trivialise it.

"All the nuns are praying for Murphy," Mother Benedicta went on. "I shall personally say a prayer for Zanny. A sensitive imagination can be a Cross. She will need a great deal of help to carry it."

"Yes," said Clare. (And Zanny is our Cross - will somebody please help us?) "I had thought of sending Dolly Morton home with Zanny," Mother Benedicta continued, "but Dolly was quite firm in her refusal." Stark fear had shown briefly in Dolly's eyes -- so briefly that Mother Benedicta had thought she had imagined it. Often a child could help another child, but in this particular case Dolly obviously wasn't up to it.

Not even with my bedroom door locked and bolted, Dolly had thought, would I spend Murphy's last night with Zanny. Look what happened to the judge.

"This is a family matter," she had said tactfully. "I really think it would be better for me not to be there - I mean better for Zanny and her parents."

"You're quite right," Mother Benedicta had said. Dolly usually was. Her one lapse - accompanying Zanny to the police station -- had been forgiven.

Mother Benedicta was about to expostulate about the lateness of everybody when Zanny knocked on the door and came in. She had changed out of her uniform and put on a blouse and skirt. Over this she wore her lightweight raincoat and had put on her straw panama hat with the blue ribbon. Her satchel, bulging with homework given by Sister Clemence, was slung across her shoulder.

"Baby," Graham said with sudden emotion and went over and kissed her.

She responded coolly, like a sleep-walker. Her skin was very pale and her eyes were deeply shadowed. She looked scrubbed neat and young -- and exhausted.

Even Clare felt a twinge of pity. "h.e.l.lo, darling," she said.

"h.e.l.lo, Mummy." Zanny lifted her face to be kissed.

Clare kissed it.

"Now Zanny," Mother Benedicta said crisply, "you're having a long weekend at home - and your parents know the reason. It's no use telling them you murdered Bridget O'Hare. It's no use telling anybody. It's utter nonsense and no one is going to believe you. Nothing you say or do is going to help Murphy. Only the Blessed Lord can do that. Leave it with G.o.d, child, and have an easy mind."

Mother Benedicta, mindful of authority's burden, never kissed any of the pupils, but this time she made an exception. The dry touch of her lips on Zanny's brow was over almost before Zanny was aware of it. "G.o.d bless you," she said.

Kissed and blessed Zanny got in the back seat of the car with her small suitcase. Mummy and Daddy were sitting in the front like a couple of wax effigies. And then they began talking at once.

"Awfully nice to have you home for a few days," said Daddy.

"We're going to Doctor Caradoc's surgery on the way," said Mummy.

"To get you vitamins or something," said Daddy, "to put in your Ovaltine."

"Well, everyone has to try . . ." Mummy said abstrusely.

"I mean to say . . . well. . ." said Daddy.

"Yes . . . quite . . ." said Mummy.

"That's the way it is," said Daddy.

"Shut up!" said Zanny.

Startled, they did.

Caradoc had had a fairly heavy surgery and the last couple of cases had been really ill. He had forgotten about the Moncrief child and was about to lock up when he saw the Moncriefs arriving. Graham, he noticed, had the good sense to stay in the car. The child - child? -young very attractive schoolgirl, more like - was following her mother into the waiting-room. His receptionist glanced at her watch, sighed, and waved them in.

"I don't want to be here either," Zanny told her truculently. "For G.o.d's sake let's all go home."

She was on the edge of hysteria. During the last ten minutes in the car she had been repeating the twelve times table. "Twelve," Sister Clemence had said, "is the shillings and pence table. If you had known that you wouldn't have made such a fool of yourself at the craft stall. You need a good grounding in simple things. Now repeat after me . . ."

Caradoc saw the appeal in Mrs. Moncrief's eyes and responded to it. Instead of telling the unmannerly little madam to get the h.e.l.l out, he told her to get the h.e.l.l in. "You're late. You're doing me no favour by being here. So sit down over there."

He turned to Clare. "Problems?"

"She's very edgy." (And unusually rude.) "You would be edgy," Zanny said sullenly, "if someone was going to die for you."

"Oh, the murder thing . . ." Caradoc snapped his fingers, remembering. He drew his chair up to Zanny's and faced her. "Everyone else takes the rap for you - is that it?"

"If you call being hanged taking the rap - yes," said Zanny.

"Murdered Bridget O'Hare, did you?"

"Yes - and others."

''There are better pastimes," Caradoc observed mildly.

He had just had two bad cases - this was his third. He was wise enough to acknowledge it. All right -- give the kid time - she needed it.

"Tell me," he said.

"You won't believe me."

"Perhaps not, but tell me anyway."