The Sinful Stones by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page B

when you were out last night. They know I’m a policeman. Brother Hope is one of the senior members, and he was listening at the other end. You know the set-up better than I do. Could he be in this on his own, or would he be more be likely to be acting for the whole Community? And if so, why? Are they short of money?”
    â€œIf I knew all that, you damned idiot, would I be asking you to find out?”
    â€œMay I have a look at the lock in the desk, please?”
    â€œIt’s a good ’un. All college servants are thieves. Here’s the key.”
    The key fitted all the drawers. Each lock was a solid brass affair, both intricate and tough, more than a match for the amateur picker; but down the inside rim of the second keyhole there was an extra brightness on one side, ending with a thin curl of swarf still attached to the main brass. No other scratches showed on the well-polished metal, and Pibble was unable to jiggle the key in such a way that it could conceivably have planed off that precise shaving. The lock-picking had been professional then, but far from artistic.
    â€œDo many ex-criminals join the Community, Sir Francis?”
    â€œHow should I know, you nincompoop? You don’t expect me to go hobnobbing with rapists, do you?”
    â€œWell, I thought …”
    â€œI’m tired, damn you. Can’t you stop badgering me?”
    Once again, with unpredictable suddenness, the note of senility had crept into the old voice. He seemed to have lasted longer this time—the result, maybe, of that monstrous helping of salt, and the pill; cortisone, presumably. Pibble stood up.
    â€œI’ll see what I can find out,” he said. “Shall I come back in three and a half hours?”
    â€œDamned fool,” said the old man lethargically, “you won’t find out anything. Do what you like, only go away. Dorrie’ll be waiting outside. Send her in.”
    But the landing was empty. The sentry had deserted her post.
    â€œâ€˜Who would not laugh if such a man there be?’” Pibble asked himself as he went down the stone stairs.
    â€œBeg your pardon,” said Brother Hope, now in his brown habit, coming round the corner at the bottom.
    â€œâ€˜Who would not weep if Atticus were he?’” said Pibble “It’s just a bit of verse I can’t get out of my head. Sir Francis asked me up here to talk about my father, and it seems have stimulated my memory in odd ways.”
    â€œSure,” said Brother Hope. “Brother Simplicity, we call him.”
    And why hadn’t this jovial yogi come bouncing in when the microphone failed? Well, a trance of communion with the infinite may be good cover for an eavesdropper, but the cover’s blown if he snaps out of it too readily.
    â€œHe told me to send Sister Dorothy to him,” said Pibble. “But she wasn’t there.”
    â€œOK, I’ll find a guy to look for her.”
    â€œYou must be proud to have him here.”
    â€œHe’s a good lad, right enough.”
    Brother Hope wrapped his little cynicism in his gaudy laugh, just like any monk in any monastery who wishes to suggest how quaint it is that he should occasionally talk in the wicked accents of the world.
    â€œYou ready for breakfast, Superintendent?” he added.
    â€œYes, please,” said Pibble. It sounded a good chance to start asking questions, a time when it would be unnatural if he didn’t appear inquisitive. But perhaps Brother Hope knew about the kippers.
    â€œBreakfast’s my main meal of the day,” he said.
    â€œSure,” said the monk. “Follow me. The others are waiting.”
    He strode off along the cloisters, light on his feet as a wing three-quarter. Pibble, scurrying beside him, at once banged his good big toe into a flagstone which rose a full inch above its neighbour.
    â€œIt’s a remarkable building,” he said bravely. “It’ll be enormous when