The Sinful Stones Read Online Free Page A

against his unshaved skin.
    The kissing stopped.
    â€œI am more than gratified that Your Highness was able to come,” said an ultra-genteel female voice. Pibble raised the lantern from the folds of his habit so that he could see who was draped so living-warm, and so garlic-smelling, against him. Black hair, a death-pale oval face—seventeen, perhaps—with a strange, small mouth drawn down into an even stranger smile, the upper lip quite straight and the lower lip bowed so deep that all the gums showed. The girl wore a habit the same blue-green colour as Sister Dorothy’s. Suddenly she disentwined herself and drew back so shrinkingly that Pibble was at once steeling his nerves against the coming scream.
    â€œYour Highness is displeased with my poor hovel,” she said in a faint voice.
    â€œNot at all,” said Pibble emphatically. Then, feeling that he ought to explain the stolidity of his response to her welcome, he added “It’s a cold night.”
    â€œPardon me,” twanged a deep voice behind him. Brother Hope surged out of the darkness, now wearing the brown habit he had worn in the Refectory.
    â€œOne of our servants,” explained the girl rapidly. “They are all desperately loyal to the Cause, I do assure you.”
    â€œMeet Sister Rita, Superintendent,” said Brother Hope at the same time. “Why, Reet, you’ve certain-sure trodden on a big snake tonight. Let’s take you home to Sister Charity.”
    The fat hand looped out from the brown folds, took the girl by the elbow and swung her effortlessly round. Brother Hope’s nod over her shoulder meant, as plain as speaking, that Pibble was expected to take the other elbow and march her back to quarters. But before he could make up his mind which side he was on, or even recover from the mild shock of finding that Brother Hope did know he was a policeman—knew the exact rank, in fact—the girl slipped her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder.
    â€œCome,” she said softly. “This good fellow will show us the way.”
    â€œWhich square were you on, Reet?” said Brother Hope impassively.
    â€œYour Highness will find the dialect a trifle quaint,” said the girl. But she spoke with a degree less certainty, like an actress who knows she has forgotten her next cue.
    â€œCan you count the hairs on your own head, Reet?” said Brother Hope.
    The girl gave a high, social trill of laughter. Then she shook herself, altered her minuet-like pace to a mousy drifting, drooped her head submissively and said, “Only God can count the hairs of His own head.”
    If Pibble had been listening out of sight he wouldn’t have known it was the same woman speaking. She had two voices. Brother Hope dropped his hand from her elbow and she walked on unguided.
    â€œCan you count the sins of your heart, Reet?” said Brother Hope in a tone so conversational that he might have been asking her about her holiday in Torquay.
    â€œOnly God can count the sins of His own heart,” said Rita. “And He has none.”
    â€œAnd He has none,” intoned Brother Hope. “What do the stones say to your feet, Reet?”
    â€œThe Prince has given me such beautiful gold sandals,” said Rita in her other voice. “I am to wear them to the Cardinal’s ball.”
    Brother Hope sighed in the dark.
    â€œThat was some snake you trod on tonight, Reet,” he said sympathetically. “You’ll need plenty ladders to work back to your old square. Good-night, Superintendent. This is as far as we go together. That gate yonder won’t be locked. I’ll see Reet back to Sister Charity.”
    He nodded affably and swung the girl off down a passage. Pibble walked on over the erratic paving, trying to remember something from Police College refreshers about schizophrenia. The schizos he’d met in the course of his job had mostly not been the harmless