A VOW OF ADORATION an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 4

  ‘Indeed I haven’t!’ Mrs Rufus said. ‘They know better than to expect anything from here!’

  ‘And Mr Peter wouldn’t have—?’

  ‘Mr Peter picks me up at a quarter to eight every weekday, drops me off here and goes to his shop,’ Mrs Rufus said. ‘He drives back around seven-thirty in the evening, gives me a lift home, and comes back here. If anyone like that had come he’d have mentioned it.’

  ‘And Mrs Peter?’ Sister Joan glanced round the shiny kitchen. ‘Does she help her husband in the antique shop?’

  ‘Her!’ Mrs Rufus elevated her heavily pencilled eyebrows to an alarming level. ‘That one never did a hand’s turn in shop or house! Just sits around all day painting her nails and demanding eight glasses of water to keep her figure trim. Many’s the time I’ve felt like telling her that a bit of scrubbing and polishing’d be wonderful for trimming her figure, but I know my place.’

  ‘She’s not in at the moment?’

  ‘Went on holiday at Easter,’ Mrs Rufus said.

  ‘Yes, of course, you did tell me. She’s visiting her family.’

  ‘So Mr Peter was given to understand,’ Mrs Rufus said.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Easter.’

  ‘Two months ago? That’s a long visit!’

  ‘It can’t be too long for me,’ Mrs Rufus said, pouring more tea for them both. ‘Mr Peter was perfectly contented until that Crystal came along. Did you ever hear such a heathen name? Crystal! He met her at a trade fair and came back married, and after that it was painted nails and pop music and endless glasses of water. I tell you straight, Sister Joan, it wouldn’t bother me one bit if she never came back!’

  THREE

  Funerals were never cheerful affairs but this one was particularly bleak. Sister Joan laid the wreath of spring flowers at the side of the newly dug grave and turned away. Constable Petrie, in a sober black suit that smelt faintly of mothballs, came across to speak to her.

  ‘It was good of you to come, Sister Joan,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘The vicar asked four of his parishioners to be volunteer pallbearers, which they kindly agreed to do, but the poor chap hasn’t had much of a send-off!’

  ‘He’ll probably get a marvellous welcome on the other side,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You don’t know yet who he was?’

  ‘Enquiries are still proceeding,’ Constable Petrie said rather grandly.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We’ve circulated his description to as many police stations as possible. We couldn’t very well use a photograph in the state the corpse was in. So far there’s been no joy. One funny thing though! His clothes were all quite decent, and his shoes were polished. I noticed that.’

  ‘The result of your police training, I suppose,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘I suppose that’s true. We are expected to notice things the general public misses,’ Constable Petrie said modestly.

  ‘What conclusions did you reach?’ she enquired.

  ‘That he hadn’t been on the road very long,’ the constable said, strolling down the path with her. ‘He might’ve lost his memory or decided to disappear for some private reason of his own. You’d be surprised how many people do that. They can’t cope with debt or they’re fed up with their jobs or the wife — or both! So they simply take off. The path. lab. estimate he was about forty-five to fifty. Had a heart condition. He’ll stay in the files as a John Doe unless someone reports him missing.’

  ‘And there was nothing in his pockets?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Constable Petrie said. ‘His clothes were all chainstore bought, not particularly new but not shabby either. No identifying marks on the body. It’s a puzzle, Sister Joan.’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  The folded piece of torn paper sat guiltily at the bottom of her pocket. She decided to say nothing about it for the moment. There was no proof that it was even connected with the dead man.

  ‘I’d better be getting back to the convent,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t ride over on Lilith?’

  ‘I drove the van down. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Sister, but I’m off duty now. The wife and I are going out to tea with her mother so I’ll be getting along.’

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Will it?’ Constable Petrie’s good-humoured young face lengthened perceptibly. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s nice for families to stay in touch. You must miss that — if you have a family, that is?’

  ‘I’ve a mum and a dad and two married brothers at home,’ Sister Joan said. ‘But my real family is the community now.’

  ‘Your family don’t visit?’

  ‘They live in Manchester, so it’s not really convenient. Next year I get home leave after ten years in the order so I’ll be going up to see them all then.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Constable Petrie without irony. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Sister.’

  Nice? Yes, it probably would be nice to see them all again, Sister Joan mused, as the constable walked off briskly through the churchyard gates. Her parents hadn’t approved of her decision to enter the religious life. For both of them the end result of their rearing of an only daughter had been a marriage with Joan in white on her father’s arm, not Joan in white walking alone up the aisle to be married to a Spiritual Bridegroom while her relatives watched from behind a grille.

  ‘You know your dad absolutely adores you,’ her mother said reproachfully. ‘He wants you to be happy and fulfilled.’

  ‘I will be,’ Joan had said, but she doubted if her. parents had ever been truly convinced.

  She had left the van in the nearest car park, feeling that it looked rather out of place at the gates of a cemetery, though the pink and white designs she’d painted over it in a burst of inspiration had been painted over, at Mother Dorothy’s insistence, a ‘nice respectable cream’.

  She stepped out onto the pavement and walked down the long hill that led past the railway station into the town. The small steel fob watch pinned to her belt told her that she still had time to spare before she was due back at the convent for the afternoon cup of tea and the religious discussion that preceded the private examination of one’s conscience. She continued walking, turning down the narrow side street and finally admitting to herself when she arrived at the double-fronted premises of Michael Peter that she’d been aiming for the antique shop all along.

  It was no wonder that she’d never gone inside the shop, she thought, pausing to look at a desk plated in ivory and gold that occupied one window, flanked in the other by a magnificent Persian vase round the base of which a brilliant red silk scarf was coiled. This was the kind of place that expert dealers frequented. Anyone hoping to pick up a bit of Victorian junk was doomed to disappointment.

  She drew herself up slightly, took a deep breath, and entered the shop, somewhat more reassured when she was actually within to find that it was not so different from other antique shops after all with its glass shelves on which smaller items were tastefully ranged, its various pieces of furniture occupying odd corners, and the patina of age seemed to permeate every inch of space. Only the steep prices made the difference.

  The man seated at a table at the far end of the shop with his head bent over a ledger was tall and greying with the myopic stare of someone who dislikes wearing spectacles.

  Sister Joan advanced along the broad strip of carpet that ran along the floor and coughed delicately.

  ‘Yes?’

  The gentleman looked up, one finger still poised on the accounts book down which neat columns of figures marched. She thought that the old-fashioned term of ‘gentleman’ suited the mild, scholarly face with its high forehead and indecisive mouth. Here was a man who could quite easily be jolted out of a happy bachelor existence into matrimony with a pretty girl.

  ‘Mr Michael Peter?’

  ‘I am and you are — of course! you’re from the convent, aren’t you? If it’s a charity subscription—?’

 
‘No, I’m not collecting,’ Sister Joan said, wondering why people always imagined when they saw a nun or a member of the Salvation Army that they were on the grab.

  ‘Then how may I help you, Sister—?’

  ‘Sister Joan. I wondered if you’d heard about the man who was found dead in the old chapel near your house.’

  ‘I believe Mrs Rufus did mention something about it,’ Michael Peter said vaguely.

  ‘I was the one who found him.’

  ‘How exceedingly unpleasant for you!’ His expression changed to one of concern. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m really quite all right,’ Sister Joan said. ‘The man was buried this afternoon. His identity isn’t known yet.’

  ‘Of what did he die? Mrs Rufus mentioned heart.’

  ‘A heart attack, yes. He was about forty-five, wearing decent clothes with no means of identification on him.’

  ‘A drifter? There are many such these days. I don’t quite see—’

  ‘What it has to do with you? No, of course not. It’s merely that I did wonder if you’d had any stranger call on you recently.’

  ‘You mean at the house? I’m in the shop six days a week and Mrs Rufus would certainly have informed me had anyone called.’

  ‘He might’ve telephoned,’ Sister Joan said hopefully.

  ‘I have an answerphone so that people can leave messages. I am not someone who enjoys telephone chats I’m afraid. No, Mrs Rufus didn’t take any messages and nobody rang me up during the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘Not your wife?’ Sister Joan ventured.

  A slight quiver momentarily distorted the placid features.

  ‘Crystal dislikes the telephone,’ Mr Peter said. ‘She’s away on holiday at the moment, visiting her sister and her parents. They went on a tour of France en famille.’

  ‘A guided tour?’

  ‘No, just the four of them in a private car. My business here made it inconvenient for me to join them.’

  ‘When will she be home?’ Sister Joan asked.

  She had ventured too far. Mr Peter’s eyes chilled and he gave her a long, hard stare before saying curtly, ‘I fail to see how my wife’s movements have anything to do with you, if you’ll excuse my frankness, Sister.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘It’s only that I wondered if your wife might’ve known the man who died, that’s all.’

  ‘Why on earth should she?’ Mr Peter went on staring at her. ‘Why should Crystal know a drifter who happens to die in a building not far from where we live? She’s been away since Easter.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Sister Joan gave a small, beseeching smile. ‘Thank you for talking to me anyway. I wish I had the money to buy some of these things.’

  ‘You’re interested in antiques?’ His expression had softened.

  ‘I’m not very knowledgeable about them, but I do a little painting myself and so I have an interest in what’s beautiful and of value.’

  ‘I have some Klee lithographs and a rare Poussin print,’ he said, thawing. ‘I’ll be happy to show you round any time you have an hour or two to spare. My speciality is Victorian waxworks actually. There’s an extension at the back where I’ve set up rather an evocative exhibition. All original costumes too.’

  ‘May I take what they call a raincheck on that?’ Sister Joan asked. ‘I’m due back at the convent soon.’

  ‘And antiques require to be looked at at leisure. Of course, Sister Joan. I shall have pleasure in showing you round when it’s convenient. Forgive my earlier sharpness. I’m afraid that both my wife and I are very private people.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting her when she gets home,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘If she can be persuaded.’ He had come round the table in order to escort her politely to the door, his tall, thin figure looming over her like some Don Quixote. ‘Crystal is a very shy girl, I’m afraid. She’s not terribly strong so naturally I’m very pleased that she’s taking this long holiday. Good afternoon, Sister.’

  There was no point in hanging around. Sister Joan nodded her thanks and went out into the street. Walking to where she had parked the van she decided that the length of Mrs Peter’s holiday really wasn’t her business. Neither did there seem much point in turning over the piece of paper she’d found to Constable Petrie. The man had died of a heart attack. The scrawled name and telephone number might not have been connected with him at all.

  The afternoon talk centred on the degree of respect accorded to the various members of the heavenly hierarchy.

  ‘As we all know,’ Mother Dorothy said, bespectacled gaze sweeping the semicircle of nuns, ‘dulia or respect is paid to saints. It does not mean that we cannot study the saints from an objective, critical viewpoint but we must always bear in mind that those who are in a better position to know about these things than we are have already decided that the saints are people of heroic virtue whatever their small private faults. To Our Blessed Lady we pay hyperdulia, which is marked respect. No other human creature is worthy of that as we all know. To God alone we give adoration and worship. That is something that those who are not of the Faith find difficult to grasp. They imagine that when we kneel in front of a statue we are adoring it, when in fact we are merely using it as an aid to imagination, just as one might look at the portrait of a friend.’

  ‘If some of the saints could come down,’ Sister Gabrielle said darkly, ‘they’d fly into a real temper if they saw some of the statues and portraits of them that some artists have produced.’

  ‘Just think of St Therese of Lisieux with all those roses!’ Sister Teresa exclaimed.

  ‘Whereas the actual photographs of her show that though she was small and pretty she had a strong mouth and chin,’ Mother Dorothy nodded.

  ‘I always think that St John the Beloved must’ve been rather good-looking,’ Sister Mary Concepta said unexpectedly.

  ‘While St Peter probably looked like a boxer,’ Sister Perpetua supplied.

  ‘I think we’re drifting off the subject rather,’ Mother Dorothy interposed. ‘What we look like outside has nothing to do with our spiritual state. That is another very sound reason why we cannot possibly adore a human being since we can know only the outside of them. God can be adored because He is pure Goodness with no outer lineaments in His role as Father to distract us, and since Our Blessed Lord reflects the Father had He a human face and body we also may adore the Son without fear of falling into error. The Holy Spirit, being the love that joins the two and flows from them is coequal with both Father and Son and may also be legitimately adored. Is that clear, Sisters?’

  ‘Do you think that the names people have reflect their inward natures?’ Sister Martha enquired.

  ‘I don’t see how they can,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Parents can’t possibly tell what the baby’s going to turn out like.’

  ‘Perhaps their subconscious guides them,’ Sister Katherine offered.

  ‘There was a boy called Samson at our school. He was the biggest coward you could ever meet,’ Sister Teresa said.

  Mother Dorothy’s gavel rapped sharply.

  ‘To adore is to regard with uncritical and total worship,’ Sister Gabrielle said.

  ‘Doesn’t it ever seem odd to you that we regard with total and uncritical worship a Creator of whom by His very nature we can know nothing for certain?’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘You forget that we have Our Blessed Lord,’ Mother Dorothy said.

  ‘“No man comes to the Father but through me”,’ Sister David quoted.

  ‘Exactly, Sister. We simply cannot apply human criteria to these problems. Now, as time is getting on I suggest we leave the discussion there and go to our private examination of conscience with time to reflect on our faults. Sister Joan, you went to the funeral of that poor man?’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy. They haven’t found out who he was yet though.’

  ‘Very sad for his family if he has any, but his name will certainly be known in Heaven. Thank
you for going. Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Et cum spiritu sancto,’ the community chorused, the younger sisters kneeling briefly, the older and more rheumaticky ones taking rather longer about it.

  The day moved tranquilly to its close. Sister Joan filled in her spiritual diary, and was faintly astonished to discover that she’d managed to cut down her faults by three during the past week. Not that it made much difference, she reflected, since she usually got rid of one fault only to have another pop up in its place!

  Seated on the floor of her cell, her legs tucked beneath her in the customary fashion, she reached for her sketchbook and began idly to draw, her mind still running on the topics discussed earlier. The members of the order either kept their own names if they were suitable or chose others when they entered the religious life. Her name was her given one. Sister Perpetua had mentioned once that she had chosen her name because of the legend of that martyr who had combed her long hair before going into the arena to be killed by the lions. Sister Joan’s pencil etched a hefty Perpetua, dragging a comb through greying ginger hair while a very small lion cowered before her. Mother Dorothy followed, waving a bunch of flowers, with Sister Martha sweeping up the leaves on her heels. Sister Joan’s lips curved into amusement as her pencil flew over the paper.

  Other sketches took shape. A tall, thin Don Quixote with a blonde bimbo on his arm, a woman composed of balls and lengths of twine scowling at her pony — the bell rang, signalling that only half an hour remained before supper. Sister Joan shoved her book on the shelf, rose with the nimbleness of long habit and went down to help Sister Marie with the laying of the tables.

  At recreation she pleased Sister Mary Concepta by playing Scrabble with her, though it was more effort than entertainment since with the advancing years Sister Mary Concepta’s grasp of spelling, never very strong, had deteriorated markedly, a fact she was unable to admit. She merely remarked placidly that spelling had changed since her young days and carefully jotted down the extra ten points she’d just won.

  At the back of her thoughts lay the unknown man in his anonymous grave, the young wife touring France with her family and not contacting her husband, the torn strip of paper folded in the bottom of her pocket, the key—