A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 2

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, smiling as the thought occurred to her, ‘I suppose that Our Blessed Lord and His disciples were rather like new-age travellers in their day — a group of men with a sprinkling of women journeying about in the Holy Land, not staying quietly in their homes and minding their own business.’

  ‘I doubt if Jesus and His friends smoked hash or claimed Social Security benefits,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said dryly.

  ‘Probably not! Will you try to move them on then?’

  ‘I’ll try to persuade them not to stay too long,’ he said grimly.

  ‘You don’t mind the gypsies.’

  ‘There’s been a Romany camp up on the moor for nearly three hundred years, Sister. They earn a living of a sort; pay their fines or serve their time if they fall foul of the law, and don’t interfere with the rest of us. We’ve a live and let live policy towards them. The other lot are different. If they give you any trouble at the convent let us know.’

  ‘Oh, Alice will see them off,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully. ‘It was nice seeing you again.’

  ‘You too, Sister. Take care now.’

  He saluted her with a slight lifting of his hand and went on past her down the street. She turned to stare after him, frowning a little. From the beginning there had been an unspoken understanding between them that anything in the nature of a personal friendship was out of the question. She had helped him in a couple of cases in which she had become innocently involved and when the last report had been written they went their separate ways. That he should speak so readily of his impending divorce demonstrated his bitterness. That might indicate there was some feeling left in him for his estranged wife. She resolved to pray about it and went on briskly.

  The smooth folds of velvet were a soft ivory in shade. There would be sufficient over for a heart-shaped cap from which a plain white veil would descend. Sister Teresa had chosen to carry lilies and white rosebuds. With her dark hair and brown eyes she was going to look lovely.

  Paying for the material, watching the assistant parcel it up, she remembered her own dress, of white muslin with a ruffled hem, and white carnations because it had been summer and anything heavier than muslin would have swamped her small, slight frame. Her parents and both her brothers had been there, looking unfamiliar in their best go-to-church clothes, her mother’s face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat so that it was impossible to see if she was shedding a few tears or not. Jacob hadn’t come.

  ‘No point in prolonging the agony,’ Jacob had said, when they’d finally decided that he couldn’t bring himself to marry a Gentile and she had known that she couldn’t bring herself to convert to Judaism much as she respected that ancient faith.

  She’d waited nearly a year before applying to the Order of the Daughters of Compassion, sent Jacob a brief note telling him of her decision, emphasizing that this was what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, but he hadn’t written back and he hadn’t come to see her make her final profession.

  She had no idea whether or not Sister Teresa had left an ex-boyfriend behind, had ever had a boyfriend. In her early twenties, rosy and amiable with a calm, unfurrowed brow Teresa looked as if she had been preparing for the religious life since childhood.

  She came out into the street again, the bulky parcel under her arm, and walked back towards the presbytery. People were doing their morning shopping, a few nodding to her pleasantly as she passed. In the years since the community had taken over the old Tarquin estate the presence of a nun or two in the town occasioned little comment.

  Father Stephens, blond and urbane, was just approaching the gate as she strapped the parcel into the saddle-bag and untied Lilith.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan. Are you coming in?’

  ‘No, I’m on my way back to the convent, Father. Did you have a good visit at the old people’s home?’

  ‘Inspiring,’ he said. ‘Being with old people humbles one, don’t you find? Such experience! Such nobility!’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Father,’ Sister Joan said kindly.

  In her opinion age didn’t always confirm either experience or nobility. Bad-tempered young people simply became more so as they aged, but Father Stephens was still an idealist with no glimmerings of any sense of humour. He would probably end up as a bishop, she thought, and mounted Lilith hastily lest her twinkling eyes betray the course her thoughts were taking.

  ‘You’ve heard the news, I suppose, about the new-age travellers coming?’ In just such sepulchral tones might a Saxon monk have announced that Viking longships were on the horizon.

  ‘Yes, but they’re not here yet, are they?’ she said aloud.

  ‘One hopes they will go elsewhere,’ he said.

  ‘But then someone else will have the inconvenience.’

  ‘You’re right, Sister. That was a selfish thought though I fear I’m not the only one thinking it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one should welcome them. Many must feel rootless, seeking their pleasure in drugs and er — other things.’

  ‘Sex, do you mean?’ Sister Joan gathered up the reins.

  Father Stephens betrayed his youth by blushing bright red.

  ‘I tried it once,’ he said.

  ‘Good Lord, Father!’ She stared at him and he went, if possible, a deeper shade of scarlet as he said hastily, ‘Marijuana, Sister. What they call “hash”. A few of us got hold of some in school and smoked it. Well, I only had a couple of puffs before I felt sick but I feel I have some experience of “being high”.’

  ‘Indeed you have, Father. It gives you something in common with the junkies,’ she said gravely.

  ‘It gives me a slight advantage if I come into contact with them,’ he agreed. ‘What I just told you is confidential, of course, Sister. I’d not wish to shock Father Malone.’

  Father Malone would probably be relieved and amused to learn his curate had a weakness, she thought, but answered promptly, ‘Of course, Father Stephens. I’ll not say a word. Good day to you.’

  ‘God bless you, Sister.’

  He signed a large cross upon the air and turned in at the gate. He already had the long sweeping step of a bishop, she thought, watching him go in with a feeling of exasperated tenderness. She didn’t like to admit it but she was fond of Father Stephens because of his faults and not despite them.

  Riding back up the track that crossed the moor she was conscious, as she always was, of the beauty of her surroundings. The mother house where she had done her training was in the middle of the city with traffic noises interfering with the peace of the cloister. Here there was peace and isolation, the flower-starred grass broken by an occasional patch of peat, dark against the surrounding green, the pale haze of the far hills thrown into focus by a tree standing slantways against the wind.

  Dismounting at the convent gate she stood for a moment to enjoy the loveliness of the old house. Not even the ‘improvements’ inflicted on it by Victorian builders could entirely ruin the classical severity of walls and roof and window lintels. The great house had been built of granite, its tiled roof now worn by age to a silvery grey, its chimneys smokeless since there was heating only in the infirmary and then only in the coldest part of the winter.

  ‘Sister Joan!’ Little Sister Martha who did the gardening, lifting huge loads with an ease that belied her delicate appearance, came speeding down the drive. ‘Sister, Mother Dorothy asked me to look out for you. She wants to see you in the parlour.’

  ‘I wonder what I’ve done wrong now,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you haven’t done anything, Sister.’ Sister Martha’s pale face was startled. ‘She seemed in an excellent humour. Shall I take Lilith back for you?’

  ‘Thank you, Sister, and will you give Sister Katharine the velvet for Sister Teresa’s dress? It’s in the saddle-bag.’

  ‘White velvet. How elegant that will look! I had silk with tiny white and gold flowers embroidered all over it,’ S
ister Martha said with pleasurable recollection replacing the startled look. ‘My godmother bought the material for me. Come along, Lilith.’

  She took the reins and set off up the drive, leaving Sister Joan to follow more pensively.

  Despite Sister Martha’s reassurances it was seldom that Mother Dorothy invited one into the parlour for a happy little chat. On the other hand Sister Joan couldn’t bring to mind any recent infractions of the rule that called for scolding.

  She went in through the front door, leaving Sister Martha to lead the pony round to the back.

  The main hall with its sweeping staircase was polished as usual to the acme of shining slipperiness. To the left and right arched doorways led respectively to the antechamber with the Prioress’s parlour beyond and into the chapel wing where a narrow corridor led past the visitors’ parlour with its dividing grille into the long chapel with its tiny sacristy leading off it. There were no decorations but the height of the ceiling with its swags of white plaster grapes, the intricate carving of the balustrade made gilding the lily unnecessary.

  She straightened her veil, pushed back an errant curl of blue-black hair, checked that her skirt was straight, and went through the antechamber with its long, carved wooden seat and the table on which the mail was laid ready for Mother Dorothy’s inspection, and tapped on the inner door.

  ‘Come in.’ Mother Dorothy’s voice didn’t sound any sharper than usual, but that was no guarantee.

  The parlour beyond had once been a large drawing-room, and the silk embroidered panels, faded but still exquisite, remained on the panelled walls. At the two long windows the original pale curtains hung, their velvet slightly scuffed by the passage of time. A firescreen blocked the hearth above which a plain wooden crucifix hung and the spindly-legged sofas and occasional tables which must once have graced the room had been replaced by a row of filing cabinets, a semi-circle of stools and a flat-topped desk behind which the Prioress sat.

  ‘Dominus vobiscum.’ She gave the customary greeting.

  ‘Et cum spirutu tuo.’ Sister Joan knelt briefly as her superior indicated one of the stools.

  ‘You bought the material?’ As usual Mother Dorothy dealt first with the practicalities.

  ‘Yes, Mother. I called at the presbytery too. Father Malone has made arrangements for the bishop’s coming. He sent his blessing. Sister Jerome gave me a cup of coffee.’

  ‘And which set of photographs did you look at this morning?’ Mother Dorothy asked. Evidently she wasn’t in trouble then or Mother Dorothy wouldn’t have hovered so near a joke.

  ‘Assisi, Mother.’ Sister Joan folded her hands and risked a smile.

  ‘That dear man will never recover from the thrill of his pilgrimage,’ Mother Dorothy said, also smiling. ‘Well we have some news. You know how earnestly we have been praying for new vocations. Well, two young women have applied to stay here for a couple of weeks with a view to entering the order. If both are suitable that means that when Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth enter the novitiate Sister Hilaria will have two new postulants to train. It is extremely good news.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Sister Joan sat up eagerly, her face bright.

  ‘One of them, Bernadette Fawkes, writes to us from Yorkshire. She encloses a letter of recommendation from her parish priest, which, of course, is not strictly necessary yet, but it shows she is serious in her intention. The other is a Magdalen Cole, who writes from London.’

  ‘Two separate applications.’

  ‘Which I prefer. When two friends turn up, declaring they have a vocation, I am always a trifle wary. So often the stronger personality influences the weaker. Now for the bad news.’

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Bad is not accurate — slightly inconvenient would fit better. Miss Cole says in her letter she will be arriving today on the late afternoon train. Miss Fawkes says she will be arriving as soon as I approve her application. She doesn’t take her welcome for granted.’

  It was clear from her tone that she preferred a touch of diffidence.

  ‘You will approve her application?’ Sister Joan queried.

  ‘Yes, of course. I immediately telephoned Miss Fawkes’s parish priest and as luck would have it she was there discussing the matter with him. I suggested she might like to come down immediately so that she could arrive at the same time as Miss Cole, and she said that she’d go at once to the station. Apparently she had her case packed in readiness. Her priest rang me back a few minutes ago to inform me she had caught the London train by the skin of her teeth, so she will be here on the same train as Miss Cole though they obviously won’t be travelling together. It means that we shall have to prepare the two vacant cells upstairs rather quickly and you will have to take the car into town to meet them both.’

  ‘How will I recognize them?’

  ‘If I were you I’d station myself at the station exit and wait for them to recognize you,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Bernadette Fawkes is twenty-two. Magdalen Cole doesn’t give her age.’

  ‘I’ll see they get a good welcome,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Will they join in with the life of the community?’

  ‘As far as their lay status permits. They will be paying a modest fee for bed and board but they will of course, be guests while they’re with us. It will give them the chance to observe the routine of the convent at first hand and help them to decide whether or not the religious life might be for them. As much as we wish for new vocations that is no reason for lowering our standards. I think it might be a nice gesture if we were to put flowers in the two cells and see if Sister Perpetua can provide a couple of hot-water bottles. They may find it cold here at night with no heating.’

  They’re not the only ones, Sister Joan thought irreverently, as she rose and knelt, saying aloud, ‘I’ll see about it, Mother. May I be excused now to get on with lunch?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll announce the imminent arrival of our two guests at the meal. Thank you, Sister.’

  Two intending postulants marked the day as a red letter one. In the hall Sister Joan paused to smile at the prospect. The front door was still open but the sunlight had fled from the lawn beyond. The breeze must have sharpened since there was no other reason for the long shiver that suddenly racked her from head to foot.

  Two

  Sister Perpetua had started off the soup and cut bread for the cheese sandwiches that accompanied it. Lunch, even on non-fast days, was a modest affair. It matched her own culinary skills, she thought wryly, wondering if her own artistic talents would ever be fully utilized. An occasional painting, a piece of embroidery, were all she had been permitted to do since her entry into the religious life. She knew the reason for it which didn’t make it any easier to bear. She took a personal pride in her talents unlike Sister Katharine who produced exquisite lace without thinking for one moment that she achieved anything out of the common run. Personal pride in one’s accomplishments wasn’t to be encouraged lest it lead to singularity. But oh for the swishing motion of a brush loaded with paint in her fingers!

  ‘Sister, you’re spilling the soup!’

  Sister Gabrielle, eighty-six years old and proud of every moment of her years, had come from the infirmary where she and Sister Mary Concepta slept and stood, looking triumphant, in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Sister Gabrielle. I was dreaming.’

  ‘You generally are,’ Sister Gabrielle remarked. ‘I hear we’re to have guests.’

  ‘How on earth did you hear that?’

  ‘Mother Dorothy came to tell Sister Mary Concepta and me. She knows we like to be kept informed of events. It will be agreeable to see a couple of new faces here for a while. If they’re suitable that could mean a couple of new postulants for Sister Hilaria to train. Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth ought to have been admitted into the novitiate months ago.’

  ‘Yes. One doesn’t like to ask but—’

  ‘Oh, they both said they felt they needed more time in the postulancy,’ Sister Gabrielle sai
d. ‘As novices they’d come more directly under Mother Dorothy’s rules and Sister Hilaria would be quite lost without a couple of postulants to trail after her. Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth are two very kind-hearted girls.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sister Joan wondered if she could have endured to spend longer as lowly postulant out of the kindness of her heart and was glad that she had never had to make the decision.

  ‘That soup,’ said Sister Gabrielle, ‘will be stone cold.’

  ‘It’s gazpacho, Sister.’

  ‘In my experience,’ said Sister Gabrielle, stumping back towards the infirmary, ‘cold tomato soup is cold tomato soup in any language.’

  Sister Joan chuckled as she carried the heavy tureen down the narrow passage and up the stairs. At the head of the staircase the two backsweeping wings of the building were at left and right, with double doors at the head of the stairs leading into the former ballroom which was built out over the back courtyard.

  Ballroom was probably an exaggeration in terms since it could never have held more than six couples comfortably, but the two rooms that now occupied the space and were used as dining-room and recreation room were handsome enough, divided by a further wall with double doors. Setting her tray down on the serving table Sister Joan wished, not for the first time, that the original owners had seen fit to install a dumbwaiter for the convenience of the servants. There was a back staircase but carrying the food up there would still entail a longish trip down the passage that led between the sleeping quarters in the left-hand wing.

  The sisters were filing in. Sister Joan hoped that Sister Hilaria, whose absent-mindedness was only matched by her greatness of spirit, had remembered to feed Sister Teresa who had moved back into the postulancy for her year of isolation before her final profession. The novice mistress was entering now, tall and broad shouldered with the prominent eyes of the natural mystic, her two pink-smocked postulants before her, their heads bent within their white poke bonnets.