Shadows of the Workhouse

situation, and you’d be as sore as a gumboil. No. We’ve got to prove that she didn’t know what she was doing.” Chummy moved her piece, but decided not to buy.
    Trixie jumped on it in a flash. “I’ll buy that. Come off it. That old girl’s as sharp as a razor. She’s got it all weighed up. No one suspects a nun, so she’s in the clear – that’s what she thinks.”
    “I’m not so sure.” Cynthia moved her piece. “The Angel Islington. I’ll buy that. I like the blue properties. I think her mind is definitely disturbed.”
    “Don’t give me that one,” Trixie snapped. “She’s as crafty as they come. Look how she manipulates everyone to get her own way. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Another visit from the police would do her good. I’ll put a house on each of my properties please, Bank.”
    Chummy was Bank and sorted out the high finance. “Well, I can’t agree, old sport. I think another visit from the police would give her a stroke.”
    “Of course it would.” I threw the dice so hard they overshot the board and landed on the floor. “The police will never know. I’ll see to that.”
    Cynthia, who, as the room-owner, had the right to sit on the only chair, retrieved the dice. “I have a feeling it’s not as easy as that. You have to tell ‘the whole truth and nothing but the truth’.”
    “That’s only in court,” I said, “and we’re not in court . . . yet. Park Lane – I’ll buy that.”
    “You’re not thinking straight, idiot, I’ve already got Mayfair. It won’t do you any good. Anyway, if you end up in court giving evidence, you’ll have to tell the whole truth.”
    I decided not to buy Park Lane and Trixie gleefully snapped it up.
    “If you don’t, it’s called ‘obstructing the course of justice’. I’ve heard my cousin talk about that.”
    It was Chummy’s throw. “I’ve heard of that one, too. It’s the same sort of thing as ‘withholding evidence’, which is a serious offence. I say, this pudding’s no end good. Is there any more, madam hostess?”
    “No, but I’ve got some biscuits here in my wardrobe. Just let me move the chair and I’ll get them. How about a coffee?”
    Trixie shook her head. “I’ve got a much better idea. My brother bought me a couple of bottles of sherry for Christmas; he thought I needed cheering up, stuck in a dreary hole like a convent. We’ll have them now. It will help the discussion. We’ve got to come to a sensible decision about this. Get your tooth mugs, girls.”
    Trixie slid off the bed and Chummy remembered some chocolates and crystallised ginger left over from a previous occasion. I ran down the passage to get my tooth mug and some figs and dates, to which I was partial.
    We settled down again around the Monopoly board, which had wobbled with all the movement on and off the bed. After some argument about whose piece was where, and which houses were on whose properties, we poured the sherry, took handfuls of food, and continued the game.
    Trixie was clearly winning. She had houses on Park Lane and Mayfair, and the dice fell in her favour. Everyone seemed to stop there and had to pay rent. Groans all round. The sherry slid down nicely, assisted by all the sweet food. Chummy made a general point that had been in all of our minds.
    “Where do you think, the old lady got all those sparklers from? I say, this sherry’s going down a treat. I always say sherry tastes so much better out of a tooth mug than one of those bally little glasses, what? Perhaps the dregs of toothpaste in the bottom of the mug give it that special flavour. I did a cordon bleu course, you know, but the teacher never mentioned that. If I ever go back there, I’ll recommend it. Hell’s bells! Go back five places – that puts me in jail!”
    Trixie giggled. “We’ll get Sister Monica Joan in jail before the night’s out. Sorry! Sorry! Don’t take on so. Just stirring it up. Have another sherry!”
    Cynthia filled my mug. “Yes, where did she get it from? There’s nowhere in Poplar that sells expensive jewellery.”
    Trixie had the answer – inevitably. “I reckon she’s been going to Hatton Garden. It’s not far from here, only a short bus ride. A pious-looking old nun going around the shops and warehouses. Easy. No one would think to suspect her, the wicked old thing.”
    “She’s not wicked,” I shouted. “Don’t you dare. She’s—”
    “Now, now, you two. My turn and I collect £200 for passing Go. Come on,