"Reverend Mother, this is Mr. Glass and Miss Steele." Sister Clare smiled as she introduced us.
The mother superior did not return it. She indicated we should sit and clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. She was similar in age to her assistant, but that was where the similarities ended. Her face was gaunt, as if her cheeks had been scooped out between cheekbones and jaw, and her eyes were sunken inside their sockets. There were no jowls to speak of, and her eyes lacked sparkle. They were as gray as London's sky mid-winter.
Her office was just as unfriendly. An elaborately carved wooden crucifix hung above a bookshelf, but otherwise the walls were bare. The bookshelf housed some old books, and along with the desk, they made up the entire contents of the mother superior's office. The filing cabinets and a large dresser with dozens of small drawers were all in the outer office.
A simple cross hanging around the mother superior's neck bumped the desk as she leaned forward and appraised Matt. "You wish to make a donation."
"A sizable one for the continuing education of local girls in need," Matt said.
"Why?"
Behind me, Sister Clare made a small sound of protest.
"I know someone who was in need of your help some years ago," Matt said. "When I learned of her plight, and how this convent assisted her, I wanted to see if there was anything I could do as a show of appreciation."
"Ohhh," came Sister Clare's soft voice.
"Sister Clare, you have work to do," the reverend mother snapped. "Close the door on your way out." She waited for her assistant to leave before she said to Matt, "And who is this woman to you? A relative?"
"An acquaintance." Matt was not ruffled by the mother superior's brusqueness, although he was not using his charms to their fullest effect, either. He must have suspected they wouldn't work on her. "But the baby son she gave into your care is very important to me."
The mother superior's knuckles whitened. "I see. And you want to know what happened to him after he left here in exchange for your donation."
"You are very astute, Reverend Mother. That's precisely what I want."
"Then I cannot help you. Information about the children who pass through this convent is confidential. As a gentleman, I'm sure you understand that, Mr. Glass."
"It's in the boy's best interests that I locate him," Matt said. "And the best interests of at least one other God-fearing person."
"Then God will guide him to that person." For the first time since our entry, her eyes flared brighter. She enjoyed this verbal sparring.
"Sometimes God needs a helping hand from his earthly agents."
"It's not our policy to give away personal details, Mr. Glass." She did not take her gaze off him and he did not look away, either. Nor did Matt look disappointed. He expected this opposition, and he had come prepared for it. "The Convent of the Sacred Heart provides a confidential service to both the mothers who give up their children and the couples who want them," the reverend mother went on. "We cannot break that confidence and trust."
"What amount can I donate to convince you that it's in your best interests to give me his details?" Matt insisted.
The mother superior merely shook her head.
"Five thousand pounds?" he asked.
I held my breath. That was quite a considerable sum.
She stood. "No, Mr. Glass."
"Twenty thousand?"
Twenty thousand pounds!
The reverend mother unclasped her hands and flattened her palms on the desk. She stared at Matt yet seemed to be looking through him. Perhaps she was calculating all the improvements that could be made to the convent and school with a twenty thousand pound donation.
After a moment, she shook her head. "I'm afraid it's not possible."
"No one need know," I said. "We won't tell his mother or him that we learned his whereabouts through you."
"God will know, Miss Steele."
I gripped my reticule tighter. "Why don't you contact him on our behalf, Reverend Mother? He's an adult now and ought to be allowed to make up his own mind."
She didn't answer; she simply strode to the door and opened it. She moved so quietly that she caught Sister Clare listening on the other side. Sister Clare quickly scurried back to her desk where she pretended to read a document.
"It's a matter of life and death!" I cried.
Sister Clare lowered the document and gawped at us.
"Good day, Mr. Glass, Miss Steele," the mother superior said, not unkindly. She seemed a little sorry for us and not as severe. Perhaps my pleas were getting through to her. "I hope you understand that the poor mothers must be protected, and the children, too."
"Please," I begged, wanting to take her hand but not sure if touching a nun was allowed. "The mother wasn't poor, and as I said, her child is an adult now. Indeed, his mother was a noblewoman and Phineas Millroy would be a man of twenty-seven."
Sister Clare's gasp echoed around the bare outer office. The reverend mother's face paled.
"Twenty-seven years ago," Sister Clare whispered. "That was when—"
"Sister Clare!" the mother superior snapped.
The assistant clamped her lips shut and pressed her fingers to them.
The mother superior drew in a deep, shuddery breath. "Sister Clare, see our guests out." She retreated to her office and shut the door.
Sister Clare indicated we should walk ahead of her. Her outstretched hand trembled.
I waited until we'd reached the front door before stopping and rounding on her. "You remember him, don't you? You remember Phineas Millroy?"
Sister Clare gave the door a longing glance. "Please, Miss Steele. I should not answer your questions."
Should not was better that could not. "You must! A very dear friend's life depends on us finding him."
"How? I don't understand what you mean."
"India," Matt warned. "Let's go."
"But Matt—"
"We won't get any answers here today. It's all right."
It wasn't all right. It was very far from all right. If we couldn't get answers by offering a sizable donation or appealing to the nuns' consciences, then how would we get them? Aside from breaking in and rifling through their records in the night, I could think of no other way.
Perhaps Matt was desperate enough to break in, although I suspected he would hate himself for it afterward.
"Please, Sister Clare," I said. "The baby known as Phineas Millroy, who came here twenty-seven years ago, tell us where to find him."
"That's the entire problem," Sister Clare added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I don't know where he is. Listen. Twenty-seven years ago, something happened here that bothers me to this day. But it may or may not involve the child."