A VOW OF ADORATION an utterly gripping crime mystery Read online

  A VOW OF ADORATION

  An utterly gripping crime mystery

  Veronica Black

  Sister Joan Murder Mystery Book 9

  Revised edition 2021

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published by Robert Hale in Great Britain in 1996

  © Veronica Black 1996, 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Veronica Black to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  Cover art by Jarmila Takač

  ISBN: 978-1-78931-825-8

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  ALSO BY VERONICA BLACK

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  ONE

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  ‘I feel like a spare part,’ Sister Joan said gloomily, giving Lilith a last stroke with the brush.

  Lilith turned her head and uttered a low, sympathetic whinny. One of her front hooves pawed the straw delicately as a hint that grooming was all very fine but she hadn’t yet taken her exercise.

  ‘Come on then, girl!’

  Sister Joan reached up for the blanket and saddle, her small hands moving swiftly as she secured the harness. In the yard the glinting sunlight of early summer fell on the cobbles and slanted through the open kitchen door where Sister Teresa could be seen peeling a small mountain of potatoes at the scrubbed deal table. Though she was still only in her mid-twenties she exuded an air of calm security that had caused Sister Gabrielle to observe that the girl had clearly been born to fulfil the role of lay sister in life.

  ‘Did you say something to me, Sister?’ Potato peeler still in hand she appeared at the kitchen door, her lively dark eyes questioning.

  ‘I was just telling Lilith that I feel like a spare part,’ Sister Joan said, leading the pony out.

  Any other sister might have uttered a polite disclaimer. Sister Teresa laughed and said frankly, ‘I’m not surprised! It must be rotten not to have a particular job to do. Why don’t you have a word with Mother Dorothy?’

  ‘Mother Dorothy told me that for the present I’m to plug the gaps,’ Sister Joan said wryly. ‘In other words I’m the odd job nun!’

  Sister Teresa grinned.

  ‘At least it gives you a bit of leeway,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of a ramble across the moors myself.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t be grumbling,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  She swung herself astride, the ankle-length skirt of her grey habit flying up to reveal the denim jeans she wore beneath, a concession allowed by the Prioress to preserve modesty. The short white veil covering her cropped black curls fluttered about a rosy face that looked younger than her thirty-nine years and was enhanced by a pair of dark-blue eyes fringed by long dark lashes that hinted at an Irish ancestor somewhere in her Lancashire family tree. She gathered up the reins, waved to Sister Teresa and trotted beneath the arch round to the front of the beautiful old building where once the Tarquin squires had lived and which now was the Cornish Convent of the Order of the Daughters of Compassion. Its façade was ivied; its long windows set in their mullions curtained plainly in white where once brocade had hung; its long drive still neatly raked between the low grass at each side but free from carriage wheels and the constant coming and going of visitors.

  It was probably ungrateful of her, she mused, that she should feel restless because for the moment she had no definite job within the enclosure beyond looking after the pony and the young guard dog, Alice, who was still far too skittish to guard anything for more than two minutes, and filling in wherever an extra hand was required. The problem was that she sometimes felt that her own gift for painting wasn’t being sufficiently utilized.

  ‘When you can offer up your art for the glory of God and take no personal pride in it whatsoever, then we might be able to find a place for it,’ Mother Dorothy had said.

  And as there wasn’t much hope of that happening yet, Sister Joan thought, she might as well stop feeling sorry for herself! She flapped the reins briskly over Lilith’s broad back and urged the animal into a canter as they passed through the open gates on to the moor.

  No finer site for a semi-enclosed order could’ve been found than here, with the moors spreading around, a broad track leading southwards into the small grey town, the northern track leading to the rash of council houses beyond. Away to the west, the gaily painted vardos and clutter of the local Romanies were spread out along the banks of the river; to the east the moor became wilder, great chunks of rock rising up out of the surrounding moss and peat. Here and there on the horizon a solitary farmhouse stood.

  It had been a wet winter and spring with rain falling in solid sheets and no chance of being able to give either Lilith or Alice their regular exercise. The turf under Lilith’s hooves was spongy and bright green; every bush she passed shook off showers of sun-glistened raindrops in the breeze. Her mood lifted as she rode, and she found herself humming under her breath.

  Brother Cuthbert, emerging from the little stone house which was also convent owned, used in the recent past as a school for the younger children, and now used as a convenient lodging for the young monk, raised a muscular arm and waved vigorously.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan! Did you ever see such a marvellous day?’ he exclaimed.

  Since for Brother Cuthbert every day was a marvellous one Sister Joan merely nodded, pulling Lilith up and looking down with affectionate amusement at the aureole of bright ginger hair surrounding the gleaming tonsure.

  ‘Are you off somewhere, Brother Cuthbert?’ She nodded towards the rucksack on his back.

  ‘I’m off to Scotland, Sister,’ he told her.

  ‘To Scotland!’ There was dismay in her face. ‘You’ve not been recalled to your monastery?’

  ‘I was only permitted to come here for a sabbatical,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Yes, but — we all hoped that they’d forget about you,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Well, not exactly forget, at least not the way it sounds, but feel able to get on without you. You’re very valuable here.’

  ‘Really?’ Brother Cuthbert’s freckled young face brightened.

  ‘It’s very reassuring to wake up on a dark night and know that Brother Cuthbert is only a couple of miles off keeping us all in God’s mind,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that the dear Lord needs my prayers to keep Him up to scratch,’ Brother Cuthbert said with a grin. ‘But I’m not going for ever, Sister. My father superior wants me back with the community for a month. The
n all things being well I’ll be back here.’

  ‘And naturally you’ll be happy to see the other brothers again,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Whether they’ll be so delighted to see me is another matter,’ Brother Cuthbert said, with another irrepressible grin. ‘I was never very much use in the community. Too absentminded and clumsy you know. Anyway I was on my way down into town to leave the key with Father Malone for him to pass to Mother Dorothy. May I give it to you instead?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sister Joan took the key and thrust it into her pocket. ‘But you’re not stealing away without saying goodbye surely?’

  ‘It’s only au revoir,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘I’ll be back before you’ve missed me. Now I must be off. Father Malone has my train ticket so I’d better not keep him waiting. You’ll give my regards to the community and say I hope to see you all very soon?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Have a safe journey and return quickly,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Thank you. God bless, Sister!’

  Brother Cuthbert shouldered his rucksack and went off, his sandalled feet sinking into the turf and causing small waterfalls of damp mud, a fact of which he was sublimely unaware since his eyes were fixed on the heavens again.

  Sister Joan rode back towards the track and watched his figure diminish into the distance. It was odd but though Brother Cuthbert lived solitary and was seldom seen up at the convent she already felt an absence.

  She wheeled Lilith about and set off eastwards to where the moors dipped and then swelled in long curves of peat and bracken and scrubby grass above the little town whose main street ran like a twisting grey ribbon off to the right.

  Apart from the occasional farmhouse there were few signs of habitation here. The moors had retained something of their primitive wildness, wind and rain having carved the stones into grotesque shapes which, seen through the eyes of imagination, assumed the guises of trolls and giants and strange twisted crones reaching skywards.

  She dipped down into a small valley through which a stream bubbled and pulled up Lilith before a low stone building almost buried in creeper, the roof half gone, the oaken door hanging on its hinges.

  This was the first time she had ridden so far and the sight of the unexpected building roused her curiosity. It looked as if a chapel of some kind had once been its purpose, though it had been permitted to fall into disuse long before. Father Malone might be interested to hear of it.

  She slid from the saddle and looked about for something to which she could tether Lilith. There were several thorn trees, stunted and leaning down towards the rain-soaked grass.

  ‘Come on, girl!’

  She looped the reins over the branch of one of the thorn trees and walked on into the building, picking her way carefully over small heaps of mud-encrusted pebbles that half silted up the doorway. An old building like this might well harbour wildlife. Birds and rabbits were welcome but she doubted if she could ever learn to love bats and rats, so kept her eyes fixed on the earth floor, alert for suspicious droppings. To her relief there didn’t seem to be any and when she stopped to look up at the roof with its gaping hole and blackened beams she heard no betraying flutter of wings.

  Half a dozen pews with sides higher than her head were ranged at each side of the unfloored aisle and nearer the entrance some rotting benches were piled up. Moss and lichen had encroached over the inside of the walls, and there was a dank, cold smell despite the breeze that blew the ends of the creepers into fantastic and tangled shapes.

  ‘When Brother Cuthbert returns I’ll tell him about this place,’ she said aloud, and started slightly as her voice seemed to echo around her in a cascade of dying syllables.

  There were no windows in the gaps in the walls and no sign of an altar at the eastern end. Perhaps it had been a Methodist meeting house, Methodism having struck its roots deeply into Cornish culture. On the other hand such buildings were generally well maintained. Stables perhaps at some date in the past? The pews would’ve made excellent stalls.

  She paused by one and pulled open the door, the rusted handle cold and heavy across her palm. Within, the remains of a rotted seat designed to hold about five people held an abandoned bird’s nest, its twigs sodden, its occupants flown.

  She moved on, pulling at the next door, trying to imagine the local people who must once have sat here, the women in bonnets, the men in their Sunday black.

  This pew wasn’t unoccupied. A man wrapped in a greatcoat lay on what remained of the seat, head turned sideways, face beginning to bloat. The smell was very strong.

  She had seen death before and it never failed to move her. Certain deaths horrified her and this was one of them. She hastily made the sign of the cross and stumbled out into the fresh air, retching.

  Almost certainly a tramp had taken shelter there and died of natural causes. Sister Joan felt that she ought to go inside again and take a closer look but her courage and her stomach rebelled against it. Instead she wiped her mouth shakily with a tissue, unfastened the rein and remounted, forcing herself to breathe deeply of the damp, sweet breeze.

  It was a long ride down into town. Somewhere around must be a farmhouse from where she could telephone. She rode up out of the hollow and scanned the landscape.

  Across two fields of grain that had been planted in defiance of the elements, a long, low house hugged the further bank, its façade pebbledashed in white, its roof trimly green with a long plume of smoke waving welcome from one of the many chimneys.

  The crop was sodden from the recent rain but was drying out, struggling upright, pale-green tips blowing in the wind. Sister Joan took the path that bisected the planted acreage, forcing herself to keep Lilith to a steady pace. There was no point in raising a panic when it was clear that nothing could be done. The poor man had been dead for at least a couple of days already. Haste couldn’t help him now.

  The gate at the far end of the second field was open. She rode through into the lane, then dismounted and led the pony through a second pair of gates into a curving drive which led between a series of shallow, flowered terraces towards the front porch.

  There was a low rail before the front door to which she tethered Lilith before she went up the three shallow steps and rang the bell. It shrilled through the house and somewhere inside a radio was abruptly switched off.

  Sister Joan stood back and waited. A curtain covering a bay window at the side was lifted and dropped. A moment later a chain rattled on the other side of the door and the door itself was opened a scant three inches.

  ‘We’re not Catholics here,’ said the woman holding the door.

  ‘I’m not collecting or anything,’ Sister Joan said quickly. ‘I wondered if I might use your telephone for a minute or two. I’m Sister Joan from the convent higher up across the moor.’

  ‘Why would you want to use a telephone?’ The woman’s thin mouth was pulled tighter like a string closing a paper carrier bag. Above the thread of scarlet the eyes were cold and blue.

  ‘There’s been an accident down in the old chapel,’ Sister Joan said, longing to stick her foot in the narrow gap between door and wall.

  ‘Chapel? Oh, that place!’ The woman looked slightly more forthcoming. ‘In that case you’d better come in. That old place ought to be pulled down! I’ve told Mr Peter many a time!’

  She had unlatched the guarding chain and opened the door to reveal a pleasantly sunlit hall with a staircase winding to the right and doors to both left and right.

  ‘Your boots?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Boots?’ Sister Joan looked down at her neatly shod feet.

  ‘Muddy!’ the woman said, screwing up her face. ‘I cannot have mud trodden into my clean carpets!’

  ‘No, of course not! I beg your pardon!’

  Sister Joan hastily knelt to untie her laces and set her muddy boots on the doorstep.

  ‘Is that animal going to defecate on my doorstep?’ the woman demanded, spying Lilith who gave her a look of indignant innocence.
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br />   ‘I can’t guarantee anything,’ Sister Joan said, her patience shredding, ‘but I do know there’s a worse stink down in the old chapel than Lilith can produce. May I please use your telephone?’

  ‘You’d better come this way. I’m only housekeeper here so I have to be particular on account of it isn’t my property,’ the woman said.

  ‘And you are—?’ Sister Joan followed her through the nearest door, her socks sliding over the glossy parquet.

  ‘Mrs Rufus. There’s the telephone.’

  They had entered a long sitting-room furnished in a slightly old-fashioned style with several pieces of what looked like genuine antique furniture arranged against the walls hung with a Regency striped paper in apricot and pale brown. The telephone was a modern one, set on a Queen Anne table with a thick, embroidered runner beneath it.

  Sister Joan lifted the receiver and dialled the three nines. At the door Mrs Rufus said with reluctance in every bone of her angular body, ‘I’ll leave you to phone then. I’ll be in the kitchen making some tea.’

  Obviously she wasn’t sure if nuns could be trusted with valuables. Sister Joan nodded, told the operator she wanted the police and a moment later was speaking to Constable Petrie down at the local station.

  ‘Sister Joan! Nice to hear your voice again, Sister! Detective Mill’s on holiday, I’m afraid, else I’d put you straight through to him. Everybody well up at the convent?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Constable, I’m telephoning from — I didn’t notice the name of the house — but it’s on the eastern slopes above an old building that looks like a disused chapel.’

  ‘Does the house have a nice rockery in front of it?’ Constable Petrie enquired.

  ‘Yes. Yes it does.’

  ‘That’ll be Michael Peter’s house. He owns the antique shop up in Croft Court.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen it but I’ve never had occasion to go in.’