A VOW OF EVIL an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 2

  There was a small tin of white paint and a clean brush in the tiny shed by the back door. To her relief it was still there and she knelt to whisk whitewash over the small offending section of wall.

  ‘Sister Joan, what are you doing?’

  The tall, gaunt figure of Luther had lounged up and was standing over her, half in and half out of the kitchen. As usual, he wore faded, patched jeans and a sweater of indeterminate greys.

  ‘Painting,’ Sister Joan said, finishing with a sweep of the brush. ‘If you’re looking for Sister Martha she’s—’

  ‘Helping to choose a new prioress. Aye, she’m told me,’ Luther said. ‘What will become of Mother Dorothy then?’

  ‘She will be called Sister Dorothy again and take her place with the rest of us. There!’

  Satisfied, she stood up and began rinsing the brush under the tap.

  ‘You’m painting in a funny place,’ Luther commented.

  ‘Yes, well, there was a reason. Luther, have you seen anyone round here in the last few days?’

  ‘Not sisters you mean?’

  ‘Not sisters. Boys, kids . . . ?’

  ‘No, Sister Joan.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘Not seen no person like that. Not allowed.’

  ‘Nobody from the camp?’

  A useless and rather insulting question, she chided herself. The local Romanies were generally true bred Rom, not travellers who pitched up for a night, smoked dope and moved out leaving a mess. Not that all travellers were like that, she reminded herself.

  Luther, who was didicoy and not full blood Romany, shook his head again.

  Vandals from the council estate? But they scrawled their words in huge letters on walls and garage doors. And some of the graffiti they produced was really quite artistic.

  ‘So what did you want?’ she enquired aloud.

  ‘Saw you coming in, didn’t I? Thought you might need something fetched or carried or done.’

  ‘That was kind of you, Luther. You could put the paint pot and the brush back in the shed for me.’

  He obeyed, throwing another puzzled glance at the inside of the cupboard before she closed the door again.

  ‘Sister Hilaria will be moving into the big house very soon,’ she said as they started round to the front of the building again. ‘The postulancy is to be rented out. I don’t suppose any of the—?’

  ‘No, Sister, they’m not and I’m not housedwellers,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Then it will be to a family that needs a nice home,’ Sister Joan told him.

  It occurred to her as they crossed the old tennis court that if it was a question of need Luther was a prime candidate. Nobody, not even Sister Martha was quite sure where he spent his nights. In the summer he almost certainly selected a broad tree branch or stretched himself in a hollow of the moor. In winter he occasionally bedded down in one of the Romany vardos and even more occasionally went into the convent chapel and curled up behind the statue on the side altar.

  The chapel itself was always left unlocked for the benefit of any troubled soul who might be passing after dark. The only soul who had availed himself of the privilege and then only on the most freezing of winter midnights was Luther and the only trouble he seemed to have was that God might spot him sneaking himself in and insist he came regularly to church.

  ‘So I curls up behind the lady and she keeps God away,’ he had explained to a bemused Sister Martha and Sister Joan.

  ‘But that is the Blessed Virgin,’ Sister Martha had said.

  ‘Aye, whatever,’ Luther had agreed cheerfully. ‘She keeps Him off me.’

  ‘Luther, she is His mother,’ Sister Martha had begun.

  ‘If God were first how come there’s a mother around?’ Luther had argued.

  Sister Martha had looked helplessly at Sister Joan as both had tacitly agreed to drop theological discussion, and Luther had gone off to check on a couple of fledglings whose parents had unaccountably vanished, his thick fingers softly stroking the downy plumage as he fed the open, cawing mouths bits of worm.

  ‘Autumn’s here,’ Luther announced, as they climbed the steps.

  ‘“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,”’ Sister Joan quoted.

  ‘Hay needs to be got in,’ Luther said more practically. ‘So who be going to live in Sister Hilaria’s place?’

  ‘We are going to advertise,’ Sister Joan said. ‘There will be a few alterations to make to the building. Perhaps you might like to help?’

  ‘I’ll ask Sister Martha if she can spare me,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Luther.’

  She lifted her hand and whistled to Alice who left off investigating a rather promising rabbit hole and came reluctantly.

  ‘Season of mists and the rest of it, eh?’ Luther said, by way of poetic comment. ‘Rattling winds and wet mulch if anyone asked me!’

  He shambled off and Alice reluctantly followed Sister Joan round to the stable yard again.

  Her voting slip was still in her pocket. She marked it with a cross and put it in the post box, then went through into the kitchen where the supper of soup, cheese on toast and rice pudding was being prepared by Sister Marie who shot the newcomer an apprehensive look.

  ‘You don’t have to help, Sister,’ she began.

  ‘Because I’m a dreadful cook or because you have everything in hand?’ Sister Joan enquired.

  ‘Well, you are a pretty dreadful cook,’ Sister Marie said with a chuckle that removed the sting from her frankness, ‘but I have everything under control. Anyway it’s nearly time for chapel.’

  ‘I wonder if everybody’s cast their vote yet,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Oh, I put mine in the box,’ Sister Marie said. ‘I voted for—Well, we’re not supposed to tell and of course I wouldn’t — but you might just be pleasantly surprised, Sister!’

  A remark that sent Sister Joan hotfoot into chapel where she spent the next hour on her knees gloomily contemplating the remote possibility that she might end up as prioress.

  At supper there was a definite frisson of expectation as they ate their mushroom soup and deliciously browned cheese and the creamy rice pudding into which Sister Marie had slipped a cunning handful of currants.

  The recreation room had once been a huge drawing-room walled with mirrors and alcoves in which tall and stately displays of flowers had displayed themselves against pale panels. Flowers and mirrors had long gone but the pale wood was still there between white-painted alcoves.

  Two long tables with chairs round held sewing and knitting and basketwork and another table held a Scrabble board and a chess set.

  Mother Dorothy came in last and seated herself in her usual place. It wasn’t every night she joined recreation but tonight held the tingle of expected change.

  ‘All the votes are in,’ she said, in her usual brisk fashion. ‘None spoiled. The result is a pleasing one. Sister Perpetua had two votes, Sister Joan one, and the rest went to Sister David who now becomes Mother David and our new prioress for the next five years. I know you will all help and support her as you have helped and supported me.’

  There was an enthusiastic burst of clapping in which Sister Joan joined somewhat bemusedly. Sister David as prioress?

  Sister David with her rabbity teeth and anxious, sniffling little nose? Sister David who spent virtually her entire life between the chapel where she regularly cleaned and polished as if the Holy Father himself had intimated he might drop in? Who spent the rest of her time in the library over the chapel where she was working steadily on her Children’s Lives of the Saints?

  ‘I will take over the duties of librarian and Sister Hilaria will undertake the position of sacristan,’ Mother Dorothy — no, Sister Dorothy now! — was saying. ‘For the first week or so I will also be acquainting Mother David with the mechanics of running the house — banks and bills and taxes etcetera.’

  ‘I intend to do my best,’ Mother David said.

  She looked slightly flushed and modestly pleased.

&n
bsp; ‘What of your book, Sis— Mother?’ Sister Martha asked.

  ‘I hope to finish that without neglecting any of my new duties,’ she was told.

  ‘So, Mother Prioress, what are your first instructions?’ Sister Dorothy enquired.

  ‘I think,’ said the newly elected prioress, ‘that we should continue with recreation as usual.’

  There was a general move towards the tables where knitting and sewing waited, save for Sister Katherine who took out the Scrabble board and headed for Sister Mary Concepta.

  Sister Marie, reaching for the square of tapestry she had been struggling to complete for months, gave a yelp.

  ‘Sorry! Pricked my thumb,’ she said, sucking the injured member with a wry expression.

  ‘“By the pricking of my thumbs—”’ Sister Joan quoted.

  ‘“Something evil this way comes”,’ Sister Marie said.

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  TWO

  ‘Do sit down, Sister Joan.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother Prioress.’

  Seating herself on the stool placed in front of the large flat-topped desk, Sister Joan had a sudden sense of déjà vu. Sister, now Mother David, was, though some ten years younger than her predecessor, just as small and slight. It occurred to her that in the main this particular branch of the Order of Daughters of Compassion didn’t attract tall nuns. Sister Perpetua and Sister Hilaria were both tall and Sister Gabrielle had been above middle height before age and rheumatism had bent her, but the rest of them were of barely average height and Sister Martha was positively tiny.

  ‘Sister?’ Mother David was looking at her enquiringly.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mother David!’

  Sister Joan hastily abandoned the wool she was gathering and fixed the other with a businesslike gaze.

  ‘I decided to talk to each one of you privately,’ Mother David said, ‘so that any worries you might have or any questions could be dealt with in confidence. As you probably have guessed Mother — that is to say Sister Dorothy ran this house with quiet efficiency and understanding. I hope I can come near to her standard. Happily our Rule is there to set the standard.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Sister Joan murmured.

  It was said that one ought to be able to write down the Rule simply by watching the behaviour of a perfect nun. Sister Joan doubted if she would ever come anywhere near that standard.

  ‘And since most of our sisters are happy in their present occupations I see no need for change simply for change’s sake,’ Mother David was continuing. ‘Sister Hilaria will make a wonderful sacristan and Sister Dorothy will enjoy her duties as librarian — as I did myself.’

  There was an unconscious wistfulness in her tone. Sister Joan said, ‘What of your book on the saints, Mother David? Will you find time to finish that?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Mother David said. ‘I am writing about St Rose of Lima at present — such a charming little saint, and I have St Scholastica researched — I did consider St Sebastian but small children might be distressed by his martyrdom, don’t you think?’

  ‘All those arrows,’ said Sister Joan.

  ‘The point is,’ Mother David went on, ‘that I have received a most encouraging letter from a publisher who is ready to consider the book as soon as it is finished. However he does mention illustrations . . .’

  Her glance was both self-deprecating and hopeful.

  ‘You would like me to supply illustrations?’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Not, of course, as a question of obedience!’ Mother David made haste to say. ‘If it were a matter of the book’s publication benefiting me personally then I should never dream — but any revenue from the series would naturally go to the order. It would be cutting into your time, I fear, for you are now engaged in helping to prepare the postulancy for its tenants.’

  ‘I would love to illustrate your books,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Only one colour illustration for each saint and then some line drawings perhaps — something amusing and yet not improper.’

  ‘May I read the manuscript?’

  ‘It’s up in the library. The light there is not very good but one of the storerooms has a large skylight. This is very good of you, Sister Joan!’

  ‘Actually it isn’t,’ Sister Joan said frankly. ‘I was trained at art college; I even had thoughts of being — well, famous. I never would have been of course. Talent but no genius. Anyway I shall be very pleased to illustrate your series.’

  ‘Twenty-six of them — very slim volumes,’ Mother David said modestly. ‘In a couple of years — possibly three — I hope to have finished the entire series.’

  ‘You may have to cheat over X,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘St Francis Xavier!’ Mother David said promptly. ‘Such a boon to the Jesuits! Thank you again, Sister. Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Et cum spiritu sancto.’ Briefly kneeling she went out with a light heart.

  Outside, autumnal sunshine striped the grass. She stood in the hall bathing in the light that came through the windows at each side of the main door.

  ‘You look happy!’ Sister Perpetua remarked, coming out of the dispensary with a bottle of liniment in her hand.

  ‘Mother David has asked me to illustrate her series of saints’ tales for children,’ Sister Joan told her.

  ‘As well as helping do up the postulancy? You’re going to be busy.’

  ‘Oh, I shall fit Lilith in too!’ Sister Joan assured her.

  ‘You’re a busy bee!’ Sister Perpetua said, vanishing into the infirmary.

  Had there been an edge of sarcasm in her voice? Sister Joan opened the front door and went round to the back, some of the pleasure forsaking the day. She enjoyed activity, always had done, did that mean that one side of her religious life was lacking in some way?

  ‘We are,’ her original novice mistress had told her, ‘a semi-cloistered order. We leave the convent premises only on necessary business. We work at what we can do best and earn our bread, but our main business is the glorification of God, and that is best achieved in contemplation.’

  Shutting out the world had never been one of her strong points. She shook her head slightly and went across the lawn and towards the long bush-lined walk that connected with the shrubbery and led to the old tennis courts.

  To her surprise as she approached the postulancy, the front door opened and a tall, tonsured figure with a halo of curly red hair about a face made for smiling, emerged.

  ‘Brother Cuthbert! I didn’t expect to find you here,’ she said in surprise, going to meet him.

  Brother Cuthbert had received permission from his own prior to live alone in hermit-like fashion, a permission given, she shrewdly suspected, because Brother Cuthbert was the equivalent of a sorcerer’s apprentice in any community, having a heart of gold and no practical skills whatsoever.

  ‘I thought I’d just wander over and see if there was any way I might help out, Sister Joan. Not that Mother Prioress asked me but one ought to show willing, don’t you think?’ he returned cordially. ‘If the postulancy is to be rented out one might lend a hand with a bit of do-it-yourself, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Sister Joan said, smothering alarm. ‘However very little needs to be done and Mother David has, I believe, already contacted a couple of local builders. But how kind of you to offer!’

  ‘Pure self-indulgence,’ he confessed. ‘I rather fancied the idea of taking up carpentry once. Nice to think of following in the footsteps of dear old St Joseph — but the idea didn’t bear fruit. Are you here to conduct some planning for the tenants?’

  ‘When they arrive. Mother David stipulated a family,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘A nice little family with a couple of children. I do hope so. Children always brighten the world, don’t they? Where’s Alice today?’

  ‘I don’t know — oh yes I do! I’m due to take her to the vet’s for her injection so, as usual, she’s hiding.’

  ‘I haven’t seen h
er anywhere around,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘She may have taken a short walk and be back at the convent waiting for you now.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt it,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Well, I must get on. Praying to do!’ He gave her a companionable grin. ‘If you’re driving into town later do stop by for a cup of tea.’

  ‘I will indeed,’ she assured him.

  Brother Cuthbert made his home in a small building on the moor that had formerly been used as the village school. When regulations insisted local children took a special bus to the spanking new comprehensive school on the outskirts of town, the building had remained vacant until the young monk had landed there.

  Now she waved him off cheerfully and went into the postulancy. There really was comparatively little to do here, she thought. The tiny kitchen could be opened up to make a larger kitchen-diner and a washing-machine and refrigerator installed and some carpeting provided. Some nice bright curtains too.

  Under the sink, the whitewash covered the offending word. The unpleasant thought that other words might have been inscribed in other places, under the beds for example, sent her upstairs to get down on her hands and knees for a close scrutiny. There was nothing.

  Downstairs again, she went into the library. Sister Hilaria’s own things had already been packed and carried to the main house, but the books still leaned together on the shelves. They could be boxed up and put in the main library above the chapel since she doubted if The Confessions of Saint Thomas Aquinas or The Little Way of St Thérèse of Lisieux would appeal to any tenants.

  She took up the latter and opened it at random. A page covered with heavy black scribble met her eyes. Not a thick crayon this time but ink, smudged and smeared over the page and, when she turned the pages, over the remaining ones. Hastily she rummaged through the remaining volumes, finding the same meaningless, spiteful defacement over all but a couple.

  Vandalism? If so it was a curious variety. The books were still in order, their spines undamaged, only the printed words within almost obliterated. Someone, she thought uneasily, had what amounted to a personal grudge.