The Religious Body by Catherine Aird

eight-thirty.”
    The priest nodded sagely. “The Press would like that.”
    â€œI do not, Father. The implications are very disturbing. If Sister Anne was dead at half past eight, who sat in her stall at Vespers?”
    The priest sat down heavily. “I don’t know. The fact that we do not believe in—er—manifestations will scarcely influence the public—who don’t know what they believe in. They, and therefore the Press, dearly love a ghost. Can’t you see the headlines?”
    The Mother Prioress winced.
    In intervals between inspecting the Convent Chapel, Sloan took one telephone call and made another from the old-fashioned instrument in the corridor. Both were London calls, but neither would have conveyed very much to Mrs. Briggs at the Cullingoak Post Office, who monitored all calls as a matter of course.
    â€œWith reference to your enquiry,” said the London voice, “we have found a very interesting will in Somerset House, made by one Alfred Cartwright, father of Josephine Mary Cartwright. It was made a long time ago, and, in fact, several years before his death. Sounds as if he and his brother Joe were pretty cautious blokes. They’d got everything worked out carefully enough. If Alfred died first his widow was to have the income from his share of the Consolidated Carbon partnership for her lifetime. If he had children they were to get the share when their mother died. If he didn’t have any children or if those children predeceased him or his brother, Joe, then the share in the Cartwright patent was to go to Joe and then his heirs and successors.”
    â€œKeeping it in the family,” said Sloan.
    â€œThat’s the spirit, old chap. Well, they seem to have gone along fairly slowly with the business—all this was just after the old Queen died, remember. Turn of the century and all that. Then suddenly—and without any warning either—Alfred ups and dies. Pneumonia, it was. We looked up the death certificate, too, while we were about it.…”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œHe doesn’t leave very much but not to worry. Not many years afterwards along comes World War One and Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons can’t help making money. Lots and lots of it. Of course, our Alfred doesn’t get the benefit being dead by now, but the stuff keeps on coming in. Must have been pretty well running out of their ears by 1918.”
    â€œWhat about brother Joe?”
    â€œThere’s no will registered of his, so presumably he’s still alive. He probably made a reciprocal will at the same time as his brother, but of course he could have altered it since.… By the way, we confirm Mrs. Alfred Cartwright’s statement that there was only one child of the marriage. This girl Josephine. Her husband died soon after the baby was born.”
    â€œAnd brother Joe?”
    â€œHe had one son by the name of Harold. He must be all of fifty-five now.”
    â€œWe’ve met son Harold.” A thought struck Sloan. “So Joe Cartwright will be quite an age.”
    â€œPractically gaga, I should say,” said the voice helpfully.
    â€œWhat about the firm now?”
    â€œAh, you want he whom we call our City Editor. I’m only an historian. Fred Jenkins is the chap for the up-to-the-minute stuff. The only policeman who does his beat in striped pants and a bowler. No truncheon either. Says his umbrella’s better. I’ll give you his number.”
    â€œMuch obliged,” said Sloan. He rang it immediately.
    â€œCartwright’s Consolidated Carbons? Very sound, Inspector. Good family firm. A bit old-fashioned but most good old family firms are these days. Well run, all the same. Not closed minds, if you know what I mean. They’re not entirely convinced that one computer will do the work of fifty men, but if you prove it to them they’ll buy the computer and see the fifty men don’t suffer