A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery Read online

  ‘Am I late? I decided to take a quick bath,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘No. There’s plenty of time. I’ll see you later.’

  Going out again, the smile stiffening on her face, she wondered what on earth had caused the blue and yellow bruises on Dodie’s shoulders.

  Eight

  Supper was more elaborate than usual, something for which the community could thank the presence of the visitors. There was watercress soup, a poached salmon with new potatoes and buttered asparagus, and a summer pudding with cream. There was also a glass of wine by each plate. By the visitors’ plates, Sister Joan corrected, sipping her drink and finding raspberry juice. An extra table had been put up in the refectory for the six visitors with a chair for Sister Joan at the head of it.

  From her own chair at the adjoining table Mother Dorothy said, ‘This is the first opportunity I have had of welcoming you all here. Sister Joan will have told you something of our lives here. At supper we have a reading from a suitable book so that we have something to concentrate our minds while we eat. Sister Katherine is to read from the life of Elizabeth of Hungary whose story is very moving. Let us begin with grace.’

  Rising, bowing her head, Sister Joan wondered if any of the lay visitors present were in the habit of saying grace! From the slightly embarrassed looks she glimpsed, none of them! And why Saint Elizabeth of Hungary? The story of a young wife giving bread to the poor against the orders of her husband and having the bread turned into roses when she was forced to open her apron was hardly intellectually stimulating.

  ‘Are we allowed to talk?’ Fiona demanded in a stage whisper as Sister Katherine paused for breath.

  Sister Joan shook her head, feeling like a school monitor as Fiona made a rueful face.

  She would have liked to enjoy her meal but too many questions buzzed in her mind. Dodie’s bruises didn’t look recent but they looked horrific. Had she been in an accident? If so surely she’d have mentioned it! Barbara’s sickness — why had she had such an extreme reaction to the news of the death of someone she’d never heard of before? Why had Paul become so malicious, so serpent-tongued? Why, why, why?

  ‘Mass is at seven in the morning if anyone wishes to attend.’

  Mother Dorothy was speaking again and Sister Joan hadn’t even noticed Sister Katherine sit down to begin her own meal.

  ‘Is it permitted to congratulate the cook?’ Derek enquired. ‘I think I speak for all of us when I say the meal was delicious.’

  ‘Sister Teresa and Sister Marie will be happy to treasure the compliment,’ Mother Dorothy said graciously. ‘The community now goes to recreation. Then we go into chapel for the final blessing at ten. We look forward to seeing you all again tomorrow. Sister Joan, you will remember that you are still bound by the grand silence after the blessing, except in cases of grave emergency.’

  Sister Joan murmured an assent, wondering indignantly if the Prioress expected her to sit up all night gossiping with her old friends.

  ‘So what entertainment is laid on now?’ Paul enquired, as she shepherded them down into the main hall.

  ‘There are books and board games over in the postulancy,’ Sister Joan said, feeling like a fool as she met Paul’s raised eyebrows. ‘If anyone wishes to take a walk or go into town then that’s fine. The front gate isn’t locked and I’ll sit up until the last one comes in.’

  ‘St Joan the Martyr,’ Paul said. ‘We’ll be back by eleven. Anyone coming for a drink?’

  He looked at the others who shook their heads.

  ‘There’s no sense in coming on a retreat and dashing off to sink pints in the local tavern,’ Derek said.

  ‘Actually I was thinking of a cocktail,’ Paul said. ‘Nobody? Right, I’ll take myself off then. See you all later.’

  ‘Why does he have to be so sneering?’ Fiona said, watching the slim figure recede into the darkness.

  ‘Let’s walk over to the postulancy.’ Dodie sounded bright. ‘I don’t suppose that there’s a television set or a radio?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Actually I don’t much mind. Colin watches it all the time but I can take it or leave it,’ Dodie said.

  ‘Mother Dorothy does take a newspaper,’ Sister Joan said.

  Surely somebody had read about Patricia Mayne’s murder in a newspaper or heard about it from the radio or television? She supposed that there were many violent acts reported these days and none of them had any reason to connect the killing of an unknown girl with the death of Serge Roskoff.

  ‘Scrabble!’ Fiona said brightly as they went into the postulancy.

  ‘Fiona, your spelling is as good as your painting,’ Dodie said.

  ‘I can spell bitch,’ Fiona said so tartly that Sister Joan jumped, ‘and I haven’t descended to designing Christmas cards yet.’

  ‘Those who can paint, paint. Those who can’t paint, teach art,’ Dodie said.

  ‘Oh, do stop bickering!’ Serena said, yawning. ‘Honestly this is supposed to be a nice peaceful few days! So why are we on edge?’

  ‘Because Serge died?’ Sister Joan introduced the name, glancing from face to face. Barbara had sat down, one hand shielding her face; Dodie drew in her head sharply as if she was offended; Serena and Fiona looked down at their hands. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Fiona said, ‘We haven’t talked about it. There didn’t seem anything to say.’

  ‘He didn’t do drugs,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘How do you know?’ Dodie asked. ‘You hadn’t seen him for years. None of us had.’

  ‘Paul was in touch, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Only vaguely,’ Serena said. ‘Wasn’t he thinking of featuring Serge’s work in an arts programme? Nothing came of it though.’

  ‘Serge died last month,’ Sister Joan said. ‘It’s odd that none of you heard about it. I mean, he did have some success in the early years, didn’t he? Don’t any of you read the newspapers or watch television?’

  There was silence still. Barbara was frowning, her hand now plucking the edge of her green sweater.

  ‘We did know,’ she said. ‘At least I knew and Paul knew. I can’t speak for the rest.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say anything?’ Sister Joan looked at her in astonished hurt. ‘Why on earth did you let me go traipsing off to his flat if you already knew he was dead?’

  ‘We hoped you might find out something,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Find out what?’

  ‘Something. Anything. There was a bit in the newspaper ages ago mentioning that a Sister Joan had helped the police to catch a murderer. A gypsy child?’

  ‘I didn’t know my name had appeared anywhere,’ Sister Joan said with distaste. ‘It certainly wasn’t with my permission! But when we met on the train you looked surprised to see that I was a nun!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Sorry!’ Sister Joan echoed. ‘Barbara, if you knew I’d entered a convent why not simply say so. Why pretend?’

  ‘Habit,’ Barbara said abruptly.

  ‘You were the one who set the camera.’ The memory had come out of nowhere. ‘That’s why your face was blurred in the photograph. You set it up and rushed to join the rest of us before the timer clicked. You set the photograph up.’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything,’ Serena said, puzzled.

  ‘Never mind!’ Sister Joan looked at them wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter. You wanted this reunion so you sent round the photograph. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ Barbara shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t send it round.’

  ‘I don’t believe any of us did,’ Fiona said blankly.

  ‘Somebody did!’ Derek who had been staring through the window turned abruptly, his dark face angry. ‘Somebody got us all together! Why? So we could enjoy a reunion?’

  ‘What other reason could there be?’ Fiona asked.

  ‘I have to go to chapel!’ Sister Joan cast a glance at her fob watch. ‘After that it’s the grand silence. It doesn’t apply to you, of
course, but it means I can’t speak save in the gravest emergency until five-thirty tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I think I need some air,’ Fiona said, ‘but I’m nervous about walking in the dark alone.’

  ‘There are torches in the kitchen,’ Sister Joan began. ‘You can use one.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Derek offered.

  ‘So will I!’ Dodie had spoken too quickly.

  ‘I’ll see you all later then.’

  It was with a definite feeling of relief that she turned and hurried out. They had known about Serge — or at least Barbara and Paul had known — yet they’d still allowed her to go to his flat. They’d hoped she find out something, she supposed. But what? That he hadn’t committed suicide? Sister Joan Super Sleuth, she thought without mirth. Reunion my foot! She was being used but by whom exactly and for what eventual purpose she simply didn’t know.

  Once they had all been friends — not perhaps close friends but working together, attending lectures together. To her mind such a bond demanded a certain faithfulness. Fidelity was a cornerstone of friendship. It struck her that they hadn’t shown much either to her or to each other. Perhaps she had lived too long in the community where despite small clashes of personality any one of the sisters would have died for any one of the others! In the world everything was different.

  Father Malone had told her once that scrupulosity was a sin of the conscience, a deliberate dwelling on small faults that in itself could be an occasion for pride.

  I can’t judge others by my own standards, she thought, turning in at the chapel door, trying to fit her mind to the rhythm of the final blessing of the day, but even as the beads of her rosary slid through her fingers the questions continued to come.

  Why was Dodie so dreadfully bruised? Why had she seemed so cross when Derek had offered to accompany Fiona on her stroll? Fiona was a beautiful woman, Derek a handsome widower. If the two of them got together it would make one happy ending. Yet Dodie had behaved like a jealous woman!

  And Barbara! Mousy Barbara Ford whose father hadn’t recovered from any illness and who certainly hadn’t remarried and gone to New Zealand. Barbara had known that she was a nun, had known that Serge was dead. She had tried to draw her into something without being honest about it. And Barbara had been most deeply and terribly shocked when she’d learned of Patricia Mayne’s death. Nobody could fake vomiting.

  ‘In nomine patris et filii—’

  Mother Dorothy’s voice drew a line through the remaining questions. Sister Joan rose, moved up the aisle with the others and knelt to receive the blessing, carefully making her face a sweet blank. There was absolutely no point in worrying her superior with this mishmash of half-formed suspicions when Mother Dorothy was so anxious for the retreat to be a success.

  The grand silence came almost always as a welcome friend, making it impossible to discuss, request or argue. It was a time when troubles could be seen in perspective, when the sounds of living were muted. Tonight she wanted to rush back to the postulancy and submit everybody to the third degree!

  She turned aside towards the open ground that stretched to the low wall. The moon had emerged and there was no need of other light. Since it was unlikely that Paul would return until he’d drunk his fill in the pub and presumably the others were still out for a stroll there was no rush for her to go indoors.

  Alice came bounding up, licking her hand. She stroked the dog absently, her glance sharpening as pinpoints of light hovered beyond the wall. Had all the visitors gone out with torches then? Stepping closer to the boundary wall she watched the line of lights and heard the voices calling.

  ‘Finn! Finn, where are you? Finn!’

  Men’s voices echoing across the moor. She strained to hear more, gripped by a sudden foreboding.

  ‘Sister Joan, is that you?’

  Padraic Lee had reached her, shining his torch and making her blink.

  She nodded, her finger to her lips.

  ‘I know you’re not supposed to talk at this hour,’ he said. ‘It’s young Finn Boswell. He went off to play this afternoon and he’s not back yet. His mam’s getting fretted about him. He’s her own one and she fusses. D’ye know the boy?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He’s a nice little lad,’ Padraic said, trying not to sound worried. ‘Only seven years old. Dark, like all the Boswells. Not a naughty boy at all, but then kids will take it into their heads to wander, won’t they? You don’t think he might have gone into your chapel and fallen asleep or something?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Oh well, I reckon he’ll turn up sooner or later,’ Padraic said. ‘Sorry to bother you, Sister. Tell Sister Teresa that I’ve some nice herrings on order for next week, will you? Half price to her, of course.’

  Since they’d probably fallen off the back of a lorry in the first place, she reflected, half price was fair according to Padraic’s curious moral code.

  The lights were arching away again, paling under the moon, the voices diminishing as Padraic loped back. The Romanies were fiercely fond of their children. They would search until Finn was found.

  A child missing. A child missing. The words repeated themselves in her head, over and over. A child missing. She had read that phrase recently but where? Children often went missing these days. It was one of the most unpleasant facts of life.

  Ten years before a child had gone missing. She’d seen the item in one of the newspapers she’d brought home from Serge’s flat. Sheer coincidence. Nothing to do with anything! Nothing at all! Finn Boswell would turn up safe and well, like that other little boy — or had that other child been found? She couldn’t recall having noticed anything about it. Then she’d been looking for something connected with the college students with whom Serge had mingled.

  Turning, she went back towards the chapel, going in through the unlocked door at the side. By now the connecting door to the living-quarters would be locked and the door to the big storeroom that had been adapted for Sister Hilaria and Sister Bernadette would be locked too. She entered the chapel where the sanctuary lamp glowed scarlet, casting a mellow glow over the carpet on the altar steps. She genuflected, walked softly to the Lady Altar and mounted the spiral stairs at the side of it.

  On the landing above a light switch turned on a low wattage bulb. She turned it on, went softly into the remaining storeroom with its piled boxes, its narrow aisle under the skylight. The newspapers were still here. She picked them up, found a carrier bag and slid them inside. As she turned off the landing light and went down the stairs again she reflected that the grand silence didn’t forbid reading.

  Serena and Dodie were playing Scrabble in the recreation room when she looked in, the latter raising a welcoming hand before continuing to shuffle the letters. There was no sign of the others. Obviously Dodie had returned early from the stroll or hadn’t bothered to go at all.

  She went into her own room across the hall, sliding the bolt on the inside of the door and spreading out the newspapers on the table.

  There had been several missing children during the last ten years — too many — and, in most cases, their stories weren’t even followed up but elbowed aside by fresh, more sensational stories. Here was the item she’d noticed!

  LONDON SCHOOLBOY MISSING

  Johnny Clare, the nine-year-old schoolboy from Chelsea, has now been missing for three days and police are becoming increasingly concerned for his safety. Johnny, a pupil at Cheyne High School, apparently played truant last Thursday afternoon. He had previously missed the occasional lesson but was not, according to his form master, an habitual truant. When he left the school premises after lunch he told a prefect who enquired that he had an errand to run. When he didn’t return to his home in Cheyne Walk, his mother assumed he had lingered to play with friends but by eight o’clock when there was still no sign of him his parents began telephoning round and at nine o’clock informed the police. Preliminary enquiries established he had not returned to school that afte
rnoon, had no errand to run, and had not been seen subsequently by any of his friends.

  Johnny was wearing jeans, trainers with a red logo on the heels, and a blue jersey over a white T-shirt. He is four feet nine inches in height, of slim build with a fresh complexion and brown hair and eyes. He is an adopted child but has known about that since he was a toddler and is happy and well adjusted.

  His father, Henry Clare, an engineer, has offered a substantial reward for any information leading to the return of his son.

  ‘If anyone knows anything at all,’ Mr Clare told our reporter, ‘we wish to hear it. Johnny is a friendly child but he’s sensible and unlikely to go off with a stranger. His mother and I think the world of him and would do anything for news.’

  The next reference was in a paper of the following week and was briefer.

  MISSING SCHOOLBOY

  Hope is fading for the safe return of Johnny Clare, the nine-year-old Chelsea schoolboy who went missing from his school ten days ago. No useful information has been received since he left the school premises at lunchtime. His adoptive parents, Mr and Mrs Henry Clare, have offered a substantial reward.

  There was a small head and shoulders photograph of Johnny. Sister Joan looked at it closely. He had been a pleasant-featured child with a lock of hair cowlicking his brow and a frank, open expression on his childish face.

  The next three newspapers had nothing about the missing child. Her heart sank as she riffled through them. Obviously there had been other more exciting events to place before the public. Johnny Clare had become one of the army of shadowy missing people whose relatives occasionally surfaced on television programmes begging for news when all the signs were that their loved ones were beyond the giving or getting of any information.

  Perhaps she was on the wrong track. Serge had kept the newspapers for no other reason than that there were glancing references in them to his old college friends.