"Do you think the mother superior will speak to us without an appointment?" I asked Matt as I settled in the carriage.
"I hope so," he said. "It would be better to have a letter of introduction from the police commissioner, though. She'll be more likely to give information if she knows it's for an official investigation."
Our investigation was not official, nor was it even related to a crime. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that the mother superior would tell us anything. We were going to ask her to hand over highly sensitive information—of course she wouldn't do it. Even the police would find it difficult to coerce her. If any institution thought themselves above the law, it was the church—Catholic or Protestant.
"I can't lie," I told him. "Not to a nun."
"Why would you lie?"
"Isn't that your plan? Perhaps tell her that the baby known as Phineas Millroy is your last surviving relative and you need to find him to make your family complete?" It was a story we'd used previously to extract the information that led us to this point. Matt was very good at playing different roles, and I was getting better. But it didn't feel right, now, not inside holy walls. "If you want to go that route, I'll support you by saying nothing."
"I'm not going to use that story," he said. "I'm going to tell her the truth, leaving out the parts about magic, my watch, and the boy being a magician."
I didn't think there was much of a story left after removing those facts.
"I'm also going to offer a sizable donation to the convent to use in any way they see fit." He winked. "I've never known a church to refuse money."
That eased my mind somewhat. "I'm sure they'll be grateful. Catholics are thin on the ground here in England, so donations must be too."
It made sense that Lady Buckland had taken her son to the mostly middle class area of Chelsea. It was far enough from her home in Mayfair that she was unlikely to meet anyone she knew, yet still respectable enough that her son would likely be given to a local family of adequate means and prospects.
The convent belonging to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart was everything my imagination conjured up. The original house was a perfectly symmetrical manor of soot-stained red brick with narrow arched windows. A gabled roof topped three levels and the door looked as if it had been carved from ancient oak and ravaged by enemies that had besieged the convent as far back as the Reformation. The building itself wasn't old, but I liked the idea of its blackened, worn door returning after centuries of exile to a less hostile country.
Matt tugged on the bell pull by the door and after a moment the panel slid aside and a woman's face appeared. She blinked back at us but did not speak. We hadn't checked if this order of nuns took a vow of silence. At least they weren't the cloistered variety. Silence was difficult enough, but access to a cloistered convent would be almost impossible.
"My name is Matthew Glass," Matt said in a pleasant voice, "and this is my friend, Miss Steele. We'd like to see the mother superior about a donation."
The hazel eyes widened then disappeared altogether. The panel slid closed and the door swung open. The hinges groaned.
"Welcome to the Order of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart," the nun said. It was difficult to tell her age with the bandeau covering her forehead and hair but I guessed her to be mid-thirties. "Come with me."
She led us toward the back of the house, passing a young nun carrying a mop and bucket. She gasped when she saw us and blushed profusely when Matt smiled, before hurrying on her way, head bowed. Our guide left us in a plainly furnished sitting room where the pope's portrait looked down at us from his lofty position above the fireplace. A large wooden cross with a crucified Christ hung on the wall, and a tapestry depicting him preaching to a flock of listeners occupied a prominent position on the opposite wall. We sat on stiff-backed chairs nestled around a table with a black leather-bound bible in the centre. The wooden floor was bare and the curtains didn't look particularly thick. It would be a cold room in winter.
I shifted on the hard seat, unable to get comfortable. "Do you think they consider cushions to be a sin?" I whispered to Matt. There was no one near to overhear us, yet I felt the need to keep quiet.
"Perhaps," he said, his attention focused on the view out of the large bay window. A simple rectangular building had been attached to the back and one side of the main convent building. It faced a courtyard paved in the same bricks as the house. Knotty roots from a large lime tree had erupted between the pavers and seemed out of place in this orderly, no-nonsense setting.
A bell rang, and a few seconds later, girls dressed in simple gray dresses surged out of the doors leading from the attached building and into the courtyard. They giggled and talked and skipped in the sunshine until two nuns shushed them. The girls quieted but continued to talk eagerly, as if they'd been waiting an age to do so.
"Our pupils," said a nun standing in the doorway to the sitting room. I hadn't heard her enter, despite the lack of carpet. She moved as stealthily as Matt. "They're all from poor homes and are in desperate need of basic schooling to make them valuable members of society instead of a menace to it."
We both stood and Matt made our introductions. The nun introduced herself as Sister Clare, assistant to the mother superior. Going by the lines on her face and the sagging cheeks, I guessed her to be about sixty. She had kind eyes that smiled even when her mouth did not.
"I hope this isn't an inconvenient time," Matt said. "I'm sure you're very busy."
She removed work-worn hands from the voluminous sleeves of her habit and clasped them in front of her. "Sext prayers are at midday, so now is the best time. The sisters are all at work, either doing their chores inside or out in the garden, or teaching in the school." She glanced through the window. "The students are having a short break for morning exercise now."
The girls had formed several rows and proceeded to swing their arms back and forth at the instruction of the two nuns leading them.
"Do the students live here?" I asked.
"No, we're a day school," Sister Clare said. "The school opened only five years ago. Perhaps one day we'll take in those students with no homes, but we simply don't have the space currently."
She led us up a flight of creaking stairs and through a corridor and outer office paneled in dark wood that made the walls feel close. The door to an adjoining office stood open, and the nun behind the desk looked up upon Sister Clare's light knock.