The rain itself had ceased and a faint amber sun showed fitfully between the still louring clouds. She had slept deeply without dreaming, which proved, she thought ironically, that sound slumber wasn’t always a sign of an easy conscience. It had been her duty to inform Inspector Mackintosh about the body in the monk’s habit and modern shoes; she ought to have reported it even after the body had disappeared; she certainly ought to have told him the whole story yesterday. To seek to protect the privacy of a religious community didn’t give her the right to bend the law of the land. It was an offence to withhold information from the authorities. Yet she had slept as sweetly as a baby. She was hungry, having neglected to eat more than a couple of apples before beginning her evening meditations. She found some bread and fried it with a couple of tomatoes – not breakfast as ordered by the rule but extremely satisfying to the stomach. She scraped the plate, treated herself to a second cup of tea with the inward proviso that if one was going to break a rule one may as well break it thoroughly, and put on the oilskins.
