Part 21 (1/2)

”And what will happen to Zanny?”

Something indescribably awful, Clare thought. My womb cries out in protest.

”If I were religious,” she said, not answering the question, ”I'd leave this one with G.o.d. Either He'll let her get away with it - by not letting anyone believe her confession - or He won't.”

”And as you're not religious?” (If you welsh on Zanny, much as I love you, Clare, I'll kill you.) She took a biscuit and ate it slowly, letting crumbs drop on the sheet. (And if you welshed on her, I expect I'd do the same to you.) ”I'm quite prepared,” she said at last, ”to be temporarily converted.”

The rope over the pool stayed taut. And then, their tension easing very slowly, they moved cautiously back from the brink.

On the whole, they decided, it would be wiser not to go to the convent fair. Zanny, wearied by mathematics and calmed by minor penances, might by then have regretted her impulsive confession -- but they couldn't be sure of it. It was one, thing to keep silent when they were apart from her - quite another to be battered by the truth which she might well scream at them. Silence then would strain them to the limit.

They didn't put it to each other quite like that. They disliked fairs, they said. Graham had met Clifford Ponsonby at a Rotarian lunch and hadn't been impressed. He couldn't hold his liquor for one thing, and had been retired from the Circuit earlier than usual.

”Retired from what?” Clare asked, making safe little stepping stones of conversation away from Zanny.

”The Northern Circuit,” Graham told her. ”He's a retired judge.”

”Not the one that Murphy .. .?”

”Nothing to do with Murphy.”

”Love me,” Clare said, ”again . . .” Conversation was treacherous. Only flesh on flesh could soothe the mind.

He doubted if he had the strength. But he tried. And he had. They lay body on body while the anguish and the guilt oozed safely away.

The invitation to Sir Clifford Ponsonby had been sent and accepted long before Murphy's trial. Had Mother Benedicta been gifted with foreknowledge she would have asked any other local dignitary to do the honours. At this stage, the days getting closer and closer to Murphy's execution, any link with the law, even the retired law, was unfortunate. The emotional climate was well above normal. School essays - not just Zanny's, who wasn't much good at writing anyway -- reflected the situation in different ways. Love, pain, horror in different guises spilled out of fountain pens and into copybooks.

Zanny, on Dolly's advice, wrote to the Home Secretary begging for a reprieve. Mother Benedicta, after much hesitation, allowed the letter to be posted. The Home Secretary would probably get dozens of similar letters. Miss Sheldon-Smythe was bound to have sent one, too.

Zanny's letter to her parents made no mention of the subject of Murphy at all. She hoped very much that they would come to the fair, she told them. That she would be there to receive them, she very much doubted. Her faith in the Home Secretary was implicit. She had told him. He would act. Mother Benedicta would break the news to her parents and explain her absence. On the whole, it was better coming from Mother Benedicta.

In the meantime the convent prepared for the fair. The arts and crafts section was to be housed in the main hall. This included paintings and needlework. Zanny, forced into work therapy, not only struggled with algebraical equations and lost, she painted blue lupins in a pale pink vase against a background of purple. Dolly's ”Yuk!” was fair comment.

Dolly's contribution was clues to a treasure hunt. Her first lot of clues were so abstruse that the treasure -- a box of chocolates -- would have remained hidden for ever. Sister Clemence had pointed out crisply that the public at large were for the most part simple-minded and to devise clues that they might have some chance of understanding.

Most of the outdoor activities were of the sort that could be brought in quickly, should it rain. There were bran-tubs and hoop-la and darts.

There was also a small tent full of rabbits in hutches. They looked appealing. They were cheap. As a way out of Mother Benedicta's problem it was brilliant.

Miss Sheldon-Smythe looked at them sadly. ”Your master,” she told them, ”may not return to you, but I shall fight - fight - fight.” She had her own plans for the day of the fair. She hoped it would be fine.

There was now less than a week to Murphy's execution. Zanny confessed to Father Donovan. ”And don't give me three Hail Marys,” she said, ”as you gave me once before.” It was cheeky. He forgave her. And gave her five. The Home Secretary hadn't answered. The local police were useless. The nuns were working her into the ground. She was tired. She was wan. She had never looked more beautiful.

The day of the fair was cloudless. Hot, golden sunlight poured from the autumn sky. The girls in their neat blue uniforms moved amongst the guests introducing parents and friends. Dolly, as usual, was included in several groups. She still told the occasional fantasy story about her dear dead parents, but for the most part was accepted for herself. Zanny, who had hoped by this day to be absent, mooched glumly on her own. Her parents had phoned Mother Benedicta explaining why they couldn't come. The excuse, a thin one about a weekend in London with friends recently returned from abroad Mother Benedicta accepted with barely concealed annoyance and pa.s.sed along to Zanny. Zanny didn't care. She walked in a fog of depression. Her parents had pushed her off to France during the holidays - and now they were ditching her again. Well, let them. It didn't matter. So - the sun shone - well, let it.

These days of agony, Murphy told her in her mind, will pa.s.s. You must do nothing. Say nothing. Your courage is like a beacon that will blind my eyes in the last moments. I die for you. You must not die for me.

Oh, but I must, Murphy.

And I will. I will. I will.