When he cleared out her room after the dreadful event he made some startling discoveries; for Violet Hearne, for all of her saintly activities in her outward life, was a kleptomanic. She only had the one room, and that room was obsessively tidy. It was not the haunt of a hoarder. It was not the dive of an incorrigible thief. It was just the room of a single woman in her thirties, roughly the same age as the century she had been brought up in; neat, clean, drab, livened only by a couple of prints cut from magazines and carefully framed and a picture of her family that she must have brought all the way from England.
In her public life Violet had been astonishing. In fact the local priest was already talking about the possibility of sainthood, maybe in a few hundred years, maybe if her legend stood the test of time. Violet had been a good Catholic, English but of fine Irish descent. She had come out here on a steamship in her twenties in a