A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery Read online

  ‘I was more interested in my own love life than anyone else’s,’ she confessed.

  ‘Well, I never had a love life as such. Nothing permanent,’ he said.

  ‘It sounds a bit like me,’ Fiona said.

  ‘You’re gay?’ Derek stared at her.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Fiona said, giggling. ‘No, I meant that I never met the right man, that’s all. Plenty of wrong ones but too many to list right now.’

  ‘What about your painting?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘I never did very much,’ Fiona said.

  ‘That’s because you were always being called on to model,’ Serena said. ‘Did you take it up professionally?’

  Fiona shook her head, the wings of fair hair swinging forward to cover her perfectly moulded cheekbones.

  ‘I went abroad,’ she said. ‘The States first, where I got a small part in a long running soap, and then an aunt died and left me some money — not your kind of money, Serena, but enough to live on if I’m careful. I teach art now part-time. That’s all really. Not very exciting.’

  ‘I daresay you left out the juicy bits,’ Dodie said. ‘Derek?’

  ‘I’m still painting.’ He sounded abrupt. ‘Unlike Paul and Dodie I didn’t sell my soul to commercialism, though I have opened a fine arts shop to supplement my earnings. I get some excellent reviews but these days nobody buys paintings until you’re dead.’

  ‘They never did,’ Paul said. ‘You got married, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sixteen years ago, just after we left college. I met up with Sally and we fell for each other. Funny really because I scarcely noticed her in college. Anyway we got married and Sally took over all the business side of things. I relied on her.’

  ‘And then she died,’ Dodie said.

  ‘How?’ Fiona looked from face to face.

  ‘She fell out of the top storey of a multistorey car-park a couple of years ago,’ he said coldly. ‘Accident.’

  ‘And Bryan Grimes was killed by a hit-and-run driver in Lincolnshire last year,’ Dodie said.

  ‘I can’t even remember Bryan,’ Fiona remarked.

  ‘You ought to,’ Barbara said abruptly. ‘You were sleeping with him at college.’

  ‘Was I?’ Fiona opened her eyes wider, then screwed them shut.

  ‘You can’t expect her to remember names, my darlings,’ Paul mocked.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Fiona said vaguely. ‘If Barbara says I did then I’m sure she’s right. He illustrated children’s books, didn’t he? I do remember that.’

  ‘They all look alike in the dark,’ Dodie said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d ever have had the chance to find out,’ Paul said.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Fiona said. ‘It’s only Dodie’s teasing.’

  ‘Has Joan told you about her weekend retreats?’ Barbara interposed.

  ‘Retreat from where?’ Fiona enquired.

  ‘From stress and strain in the workaday world,’ Sister Joan said, feeling as if she had suddenly been thrust into the limelight. ‘It’s a new venture for us actually, to help pay our way.’

  ‘Don’t you get a grant from Rome?’ Dodie asked.

  ‘From your mouth to God’s ear!’ Spontaneously she used an old phrase of Jacob’s she hadn’t remembered for years. ‘No, we don’t get any grants from anywhere. We’re expected to support ourselves — each house in the Order of the Daughters of Compassion is self-supporting.’

  ‘What kind of work do you all do?’ Serena asked.

  ‘At present, various jobs. We sell garden produce in the local market and Sister Katherine makes lace and Sister David does translations into Latin and Greek and she’s preparing a series of books about the saints for children.’

  ‘What’s your job?’ Derek asked.

  ‘I’m a bit of a jack of all trades,’ Sister Joan said ruefully. ‘I used to teach in a little local school but it had to close when the council provided transport for the local children into Bodmin. After that I was acting lay sister for a bit—’

  ‘Why not paint?’ Paul interrupted.

  ‘Mother Dorothy, that’s our prioress, hasn’t given her permission yet.’

  ‘Then Mother Dorothy wants telling!’ he said brusquely.

  ‘Where is this convent?’ Fiona wanted to know.

  ‘Obviously in Cornwall,’ Dodie said snubbingly.

  ‘On the moors,’ Sister Joan said, wishing suddenly she was back there. ‘The estate used to belong to an important family and the order acquired it after the last of them. It’s a lovely old house set in large grounds with a dower-house in the garden. That’s what we use as the postulancy but as we only have one postulant at the moment we’ve turned it into a guesthouse for visitors.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not trying to get more postulants?’ Fiona asked with another giggle.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but not very practical. No, we’re hoping to provide a series of short breaks at a reasonable price with walks in the neighbourhood, access to the library — we’ve got a good library, a fairly free and easy time in fact.’

  ‘We’re none of us Catholics,’ Dodie said.

  ‘That’s not important. You can join in the daily worship or not just as you please.’

  ‘Can you smoke there?’ Serena asked.

  ‘In the guesthouse sitting-room,’ Sister Joan assured her, bending the rules on impulse. ‘The food’s vegetarian but nearly all home grown. Sister Teresa is an excellent cook.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’ Dodie enquired.

  ‘Ten fully professed, one novice and one postulant. Actually we’re a pretty lively bunch.’

  ‘And you’ve been sent out to do the advertising? You’ve turned commercial too!’ Paul said.

  ‘You know it might be rather fun!’ Barbara exclaimed. ‘After twenty years one day isn’t enough to get everything said. Why don’t we all band together and come for a few days?’

  ‘We only have seven cells — rooms,’ she protested.

  ‘Cells! How delicious!’ Fiona gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘Couldn’t two of us share?’

  ‘One room is larger than the others,’ Sister Joan said, measuring in her mind. ‘If two people did share then they could come for half price.’

  ‘I take it you’ll be sleeping over in the guesthouse?’ Dodie looked at her.

  ‘I’ll share with you,’ Fiona said brightly. ‘Honestly I don’t mind if you don’t.’

  ‘It’ll make a lovely change for you, won’t it, Fiona?’ Dodie said waspishly.

  Sister Joan bit her lip. Funny how in her memory they had all been so much nicer! Young and eager and ready to laugh, not malicious, sniping. If it wasn’t for the fact that the convent needed the money she’d be tempted to tell them all to take a running jump at something or other!

  ‘Fiona can share with me,’ Serena said placidly. ‘Do you have any details about dates and so on?’

  ‘There’s going to be a brochure but it’s not ready yet,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I can give you the prospective dates of the first retreat though. It lasts for a week. Oh, and the phone number of the convent. Then it’s up to you to book if you like.’

  ‘We can fix it all up over dinner,’ Barbara said. ‘Try to find a week when we’re all free.’

  ‘Sorry but I can’t.’ Sister Joan squinted at the steel fob watch pinned to her habit and dug in her deep pocket for her purse. ‘I have to be back in the convent before the grand silence. You sort out among yourselves what you want to do, and give the convent a ring. The first retreat runs from the second to the eighth of October, but anyone’s welcome to come on the previous day since transport isn’t awfully frequent on a Sunday.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to start it on the Saturday anyway?’ Barbara said. ‘Gives the guests time to settle in before Sunday starts.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Sister Joan put her share of the bill on the table. ‘It would make more sense. Mother Dorothy left it to me to arrange date
s so I’ll let her know. Look, none of you has to come, you know.’

  ‘We’d all like to come,’ Barbara said firmly.

  ‘I’m not sure if Colin can spare me,’ Dodie said doubtfully.

  ‘I’ll bet he can!’ Barbara spoke rallyingly. ‘Take a few days out just for yourself. Joan, do you really have to go?’

  ‘I think I’d better. Where are you going on to have dinner?’

  ‘How about the National Theatre?’ Derek suggested.

  ‘We could see the play afterwards if there are any tickets available,’ Barbara said. ‘Wouldn’t you like a trip to the theatre, Joan?’

  The faint smell of dust and sweat, the creaking of the seats as they were tipped up or down, the hum of anticipatory conversation, the dimming of the lights—

  ‘What I can do,’ she said, squashing temptation, ‘is call in and see Serge if you like and tell him where you’ll all be this evening. He may have been held up and didn’t manage to get to the Abbey on time. It seems a shame he isn’t here.’

  ‘Flat Fifteen, Putney Walk,’ Paul reminded her. ‘He’s probably in the phone book.’

  ‘I’ve time to go round,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I can get the Underground from Tower Hill from here. I hope you’ll all be able to come down for the retreat. God bless!’

  Walking away briskly she wondered if she’d meant that. The reunion had been disappointing, but then probably most reunions were. Had they all been in close sympathy they would have kept in touch anyway. Perhaps there was a time limit on certain relationships. The bickering she had just heard had depressed her. Another week of it would be altogether too much to stomach! She shook her head slightly at her own lack of charity. People who were at peace with themselves and the rest of the world weren’t in need of a retreat!

  Putney Walk, according to a map she consulted at the bookstall, was near Victoria Station. She boarded the train and sat, counting the stations again, hoping her sense of direction would hold out. She had forgotten how tiring the city could be. Had she ever swung along in jeans with a huge satchel at her back, talking animatedly without even troubling to glance at street signs?

  It would have made sense to look up Serge Roskoff in the directory but she wanted to see him personally. Serge had been slight and blond, with Slavic cheekbones and a quick, light, darting manner except when he was indulging in a mood of Russian pessimism. She had liked Serge. It would be interesting to find out if he too had changed, or hardened into the personality that wasn’t yet fully formed during their student days.

  Putney Walk was a broader street than she had expected, with houses of decaying gentility down both sides of it and a bookmaker’s establishment on the corner.

  With a spurt of annoyance she realized she didn’t have the house number, only the flat number, and none of the houses seemed big enough to have fifteen flats.

  After a moment she turned and went into the bookmaker’s, noting with relief that only a couple of customers lounged against the counter.

  ‘Excuse me, but would you have any idea where a Flat Fifteen might be?’ she asked.

  The man behind the wiremesh screen of the counter looked at her with pouched, empty eyes.

  ‘Numbers ten, eleven and twelve have been turned into one building,’ he said.

  ‘So the number will be there? Thank you very much.’ She went out, the other men still intent on the television screen beyond the wiremesh.

  Number ten, eleven and twelve were in the centre of the left-hand row, the three front doors enlarged into one, bow windows bulging above with paint peeling from the frames. Sister Joan mounted the steps and looked at the list of namecards slotted into the spaces above the letterboxes in the lobby. Here it was! S. Roskoff. Flat 15. There was no sign of a bell to ring.

  She checked the numbers on the ground floor and took one of two staircases that rose up out of the larger hall beyond. Whoever had done the conversions here hadn’t had much respect for late Regency architecture. The staircases were original, their lines graceful but they were shored up with pinewood and heavily varnished and in the space where the centre staircase had been were a couple of wheeled bins.

  She had picked the correct staircase anyway. Toiling up the stairs where damp stains mingled with erotic, ill-spelt advice to the passer-by, she crossed landings from which doors bearing odd numbers opened or, in this case, remained shut, and went on climbing.

  Light filtered through beautifully mullioned, grubby windows and under the soles of her feet the linoleum was cracked and roughened. Paul had mentioned something about an exhibition. Either it hadn’t taken place or it had been a failure, she decided, because nobody with any money would live in a place like this. And Serge had had a sense of beauty that made him fastidious even as a student. She recalled his pained expression when he was offered coffee in a plastic cup or when one of the others came in with the wrong colour sweater on.

  Number Fifteen was at the top of the building, its door barring her way. She lifted her hand to knock and stopped as she saw the door was slightly ajar already.

  ‘Serge? Serge!’

  Pushing the door wider she rapped on it anyway.

  The apartment behind the door was two or three rooms knocked into one, a huge skylight in the sloping roof in addition to the large picture window at one end. It was easy to see that Serge had rented this place because, whatever its other defects, it made a perfect studio. She went in and let the door swing closed behind her.

  The floor was dusty, bare of rugs, though a heavy tapestry hung against one wall. Out of a dark jungle, redolent with greens and browns and the yellow of corruption, golden eyes slanted with the vague shapes of animals to suggest rather than depict the waiting savagery. On the floor next to it a double bed was neatly made and covered with a soiled white duvet. There was an easel with no canvas on it, a tall cupboard, a couple of chairs and a dais with a stool and a potted plant on it.

  ‘Serge?’ Sister Joan stood in the middle of the space and heard her voice echo off the walls. ‘Serge, are you here?’

  There were two inner doors. She opened one and looked into a shower room with a toilet and wash basin. The other opened into a small kitchen with a large boiler taking up most of the space, a small but shiny cooker, dishes ranged neatly on wall shelves. The sink in the corner had a crack in it but the taps had been polished.

  ‘Serge!’ She crossed to the dais and sat down on the stool there, gazing about her in perplexity.

  Serge certainly lived here. She recognized the little touches he would have added to the basic furnishings, the shine he’d given the taps and cooker. He’d liked to cook and he’d been fussy about hygiene, insisting that a meal should delight every sense apart from that of taste.

  Serge surely wouldn’t go out and leave the door unlocked. Not in London! Not in any town these days.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  The door had opened wide and a girl with bright ginger hair and a sharp, freckled face dominated by enormous and beautiful green eyes stood there, a shawl trailing from her thin shoulders and only half concealing garments that looked as if they were rejects from a thrift shop.

  ‘My name’s Sister Joan. I’m waiting for Serge Roskoff,’ Sister Joan said, rising. ‘The door was unlocked — ajar in fact so I came in.’

  ‘Lock’s broken. Been broken for ages,’ the girl said, crossing to a table and dumping a couple of plastic carrier bags on it. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘I came to see Serge. Are you a friend of his?’

  ‘I’m Tits,’ the girl said. ‘Short for Titania. My real name’s Patricia but Serge said I was a Titania.’

  ‘Are you a—?’ Sister Joan hesitated. ‘Are you a friend of his? He and I were in college together a long time ago.’

  Before you were born probably, she added silently, and wondered uneasily if Serge had taken to cradle-snatching.

  ‘At art college?’ The green eyes were suddenly alert.

  ‘A long time ago. Do you know when
Serge will be back? Only I’ve got a train to catch.’

  ‘Better catch it then,’ the girl said.

  ‘He’s away?’

  ‘Actually he’s dead.’ The word came out flatly, lay between them like something obscene dropped on the bare boards of the floor.

  ‘Dead?’ Sister Joan repeated the word blankly. In her own mouth it was no prettier. ‘When? What happened?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Yes, it matters.’ Sister Joan stepped down from the dais. ‘I used to be a fellow student of his twenty years ago at the college of art. Of course it matters. What happened?’

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ the girl said abruptly. ‘You weren’t a nun back then, were you?’

  ‘No. Patricia, what happened?’

  ‘He died last month,’ Patricia said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Overdose, what else?’ Patricia shrugged and began to unpack some bread and fruit.

  ‘Of drugs? Serge took drugs?’

  Twenty years before they’d all smoked a little pot from time to time, considering themselves decadent and daring. She didn’t recall any of them trying anything stronger, but in twenty years people changed.

  ‘No,’ Patricia said. ‘He didn’t take anything, ever. Wouldn’t let me even start. Said it’d addle my brain faster than anything. No, he never smoked and he never shot up or sniffed. Not ever.’

  ‘But he died of a drug overdose?’

  ‘Crack,’ Patricia said. ‘You’ve probably never heard of it.’

  ‘Crack cocaine. Yes, I have heard of it. He took that? I don’t understand.’

  ‘The coroner understood all right,’ Patricia said coldly. ‘Artist, foreigner, shacked up with his bird — stands to reason he’d be on something or other.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell them?’

  ‘I don’t stick my neck out unless I can’t help it,’ Patricia said. She sounded cross and tired.

  ‘How did he take the crack? Injection? I’m not awfully well up in these matters.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be, would you?’ A faint glint of humour crossed the thin young face. ‘He took a massive dose in his wine. That was what they said anyway.’