Vow of Obedience Read online

  ‘What? You can talk in front of Sister Joan.’ The other intercepted a discreet glance.

  ‘I went over to the Romany camp to check on the men getting the names of the children whose fingerprints we need …’

  ‘Hardly necessary, Barratt. The two I sent are local men who know the Romanies and can persuade them to bring the kids into the station.’

  ‘It was on my way, sir,’ Barratt said stiffly. ‘It wasn’t my intention to exceed my duty.’

  ‘Of course not. Go on.’

  Sergeant Barratt gave Sister Joan another brief glance and went on.

  ‘One of the men was on his way down to the station when I arrived. The Romanies found a body, it seems. They were all for packing up and leaving the district, not wanting to be involved with police business I daresay. Anyway our men arrived and persuaded them otherwise.’

  ‘Never mind that. What about a body?’

  ‘There’s a hut near the camp where they stack stuff from time to time. Stuff that probably fell off the back of a lorry. The girl was in there, huddled up in the corner on a pile of straw. Wearing a white dress with a wreath of flowers on her head.’

  ‘Identified yet?’ Only a slight tightening of the mouth betrayed his superior’s reaction.

  ‘One of the gypsies – sorry, sir, Romanies, recognized her. Young girl who works in a bread shop over on the new industrial estate. Name’s Tina Davies.’

  ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘They had the sense not to try and move her, sir. She was in the same position as the other – strangled by what appears to be the same method.’

  ‘You’ve left someone there, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got them cordoning off the immediate area. I drove down and parked round the corner. Easier to turn round and drive back.’

  ‘Right. I’ll come with you. Sister Joan, can you delay your soup for half an hour?’

  She had known the request was coming, had steeled herself against it.

  ‘We want you to look at the girl and tell us if she’s in the same position as Valerie Pendon was. If she is – we have a harder case on our hands than we even thought we had. Can you follow us in your car?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Detective Sergeant Mill.’

  Following him she felt the inevitability of fate close round her. Like it or not she seemed to be involved.

  Four

  The Romany camp had existed since time immemorial high on the moor where gorse and bracken created a barrier between the mundane world and the secret enclosed existence of the travelling people. Sister Joan, who had taught several of the Romany children and was accepted by them, if not with friendship at least with tolerance, parked her car at the edge of the clearing and joined the two detectives who were heading for the shed not many yards off. Outside it a police constable stood guard, while another was engaged in marking off a large square with string and pegs, his progress watched by a small knot of men, women and children. A couple of lurcher dogs barked furiously, then slunk away as someone shied a stone at them.

  ‘This is a bloody awful business, ain’t it, Sister?’

  A loose-limbed, rangy fellow with a cap perched at the back of his curly black head and his sleeves, rolled up to reveal brawny, tattooed arms greeted her.

  ‘Padraic Lee, how are you?’ Shaking hands she was aware of Sergeant Barratt’s sidelong glance and lifted eyebrow.

  ‘The better for seeing you again, Sister Joan, and that’s a fact,’ he declared. ‘Time you was back home I was saying to my Madge only the other day. If you’d been around they wouldn’t’ve dared close the school. My Madge was that upset about it. The girls was learning ever so nicely with you and now I’m supposed to get them on that dratted bus every day and me with a business to run.’

  ‘We must all do what the education authorities decide,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Do you know anything about what happened here?’

  ‘It was me that found her, wasn’t it?’ Padraic answered with deep gloom. ‘Went to pick out a couple of things I’d stored there – there’s a market for antiques nowadays – astonishing what you can pick up when you’ve a mind – anyway I came with Luther – you don’t know my second cousin, Luther.’ He nodded towards a thin man who twisted his cap between his hands and scowled darkly at being brought into the limelight. ‘He’s been away a few months – eighteen months to be exact. Anyway, we opened the door and there she was, poor maid, all doubled up on the straw. Gave me quite a turn.’

  ‘So you rang the police?’

  ‘No need to ring them. Two of them was just arriving, wanting fingerprints from the kids who went to your school. They said on account of another murder. And that’s it.’

  ‘Are you certain you didn’t touch the body?’ Sergeant Barratt asked. ‘If you did you might as well admit it at once. Saves us and you a lot of trouble in the future.’

  ‘Tell the man, Sister.’ Padraic grimaced, folding his arms and standing a little way off.

  ‘If Mr Lee says he didn’t touch the body then he didn’t,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘I didn’t realize you knew him well enough to serve as a character witness,’ Sergeant Barratt said with delicate scorn.

  ‘Sister, will you have a look yourself and tell me if the girl is in the same position as Valerie Pendon?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked.

  ‘I’m quite ready.’ She folded her hands at her waist and stepped within the roped-off space, unconsciously jerking her chin slightly to meet the emotional challenge.

  The police constable pulled open the door and she stepped to the threshold. Inside a variety of objects, ranging from Padraic’s precious fireirons to a rusting bicycle were stacked against the rough plank walls. There was straw piled against the opposite wall with wisps of it lying everywhere. Old sacks and bundles of newspapers created a fire hazard.

  No attempt had been made to conceal the body. Tina Davies was huddled on the straw, her white dress neatly smoothed over her bent knees, the wreath of fading leaves crowning the tousled brown hair.

  ‘She’s in the same position,’ she said, crossing herself, keeping her voice low and calm. ‘I don’t see any difference at all.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’ Detective Sergeant Mill had drawn in his breath slightly.

  She turned away, glad when the constable pushed the door to again.

  ‘Who identified her?’ Detective Sergeant Mill looked round the circle of faces.

  ‘I did,’ Padraic said instantly. ‘Works in the little bread shop over on the industrial estate. Nice girl.’

  ‘You knew her intimately?’ Sergeant Barratt spoke sharply.

  ‘I’d seen her a few times. She served me with bread now and then when I was doing a bit of shopping for the wife. Told me her name was Tina. There’s no law against that.’

  ‘What were you doing buying bread over on the industrial estate?’

  ‘I was there doing a bit of gardening, wasn’t I? There’s some ladies that like a bit of help at rock bottom prices.’

  ‘And some girls who might find it exciting to be chatted up,’ Sergeant Barratt said.

  ‘That’s a bloody filthy suggestion.’ Padraic clenched his fists and took a menacing step.

  ‘If I might have a word with you, Sergeant?’ Sister Joan spoke firmly as she might have done to a defiant pupil, moving aside several steps, tacitly forcing the other to follow.

  ‘Sister, I’d take it kindly if you didn’t …’ Sergeant Barratt began.

  ‘Didn’t provide you with helpful information? Sergeant, Padraic Lee is devoted to his wife. She has – well, she has bad health and he’s brought up their children with very little help. He doesn’t – play around.’

  ‘If you had as much experience of the criminal mentality as I have …’

  ‘You think that being a nun insulates one entirely from reality? Padraic Lee may bend the law occasionally but he’s very far from being a criminal. And he most certainly isn’t a murderer.’

  For a moment he faced h
er coldly, his authority threatened, his judgement called into question. Then he said annoyingly, ‘If you say so, Sister. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Did anyone see or hear anything unusual last night?’ Detective Sergeant Mill was asking.

  There were sidelong glances, a shaking of heads.

  ‘No barking from the dogs?’

  ‘They bark all the time. Nobody pays heed,’ one of the men said.

  ‘And by now any clue will have been trodden underfoot,’ Sergeant Barratt said. ‘I must say that I cannot fathom how people can live in this mess.’

  ‘You ought to stand for the council,’ Sister Joan advised sweetly. ‘Then you could figure out how to get running water and adequate sanitation up here on a very limited budget.’

  ‘Barratt, get on to the doctor and the photographer again,’ Detective Sergeant Mill interposed somewhat hastily. ‘We’ll need some extra men here. I’ll go and see the parents. Anybody have an address?’

  ‘They’ll know at the bread shop,’ Padraic offered.

  ‘I’ll try there first. Sister Joan, you’ve been a tremendous help. I may need to call upon you later. Meanwhile give my respects and apologies to Mother Dorothy.’

  From Detective Sergeant Mill she was more willing to take a dismissal. Padraic stepped forward, escorting her to her car with innate courtesy.

  ‘Who’s the other one then?’ He jerked his head over his shoulder towards Sergeant Barratt. ‘Bit of a pig, ain’t he?’

  ‘Sergeant Barratt is an extremely efficient officer who’s been transferred here from Birmingham,’ Sister Joan said severely.

  ‘Oh, a foreigner.’ Padraic nodded as if all was now understood. ‘This is a rotten business and no mistake. There’s been another one done in too, I hear. In the school.’

  ‘Put there after she was killed and after the area had been searched,’ Sister Joan said sombrely. ‘It is, as you say, a rotten affair. I would advise you to co-operate with the police though, even if you don’t like Sergeant Barratt. After all nobody suspects for a moment that anyone from here has had anything to do with murder. The girl wouldn’t have been left on the premises so to speak.’

  ‘And murder’s not in our line except in temper,’ Padraic said self-righteously. ‘Now a bit of poaching

  ‘Don’t tell me anything about any poaching,’ Sister Joan warned. ‘How is your wife?’

  ‘Middling fair.’ His swarthy face had lengthened slightly. ‘She has a bad do now and then. We’ve all got our troubles though, and she’s a good wife. I wouldn’t swap her for the world.’

  Madge Lee, struggling halfheartedly against alcoholism, had a better husband than she merited. Sister Joan patted his arm and got back into the car, lifting her hand in salute as she drove away.

  Soon another family would hear about the death of a loved one, be inundated by the sympathy of neighbours, the curiosity of passers-by.

  ‘You’re very late, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy, meeting her in the hall, frowned ominously.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mother. I was needed to help with the police enquiries.’ Swiftly she explained what had happened and saw distaste and distress on her Superior’s face.

  ‘This is a terrible business, Sister.’ Her hand rose to bless herself while her mind coped with the new tragedy. ‘Of course, if you can assist further it is your duty as a citizen to do so. You may take my permission as read – provided that you don’t neglect your duties in the community. Fortunately Sister Teresa is proving most competent. You had better go and have your lunch and get on with your work.’

  Since her return she hadn’t eaten once with her sisters in the refectory. She went through to the kitchen, accepted the bowl of warmed over soup, slice of bread and ripe pear that had comprised lunch.

  The rest of the day passed without incident. Floors were swept, brasses polished and dishes washed. At five the sisters retired to their cells for private study and the writing up of their spiritual diaries. The two postulants, escorted by Sister Hilaria, came to the parlour for instruction from Mother Prioress. Only the rustling of pages and the scribbling of pens broke the silence.

  What, thought Sister Joan, have I learned from my recent retreat? What have I learned in six years of convent life? Certainly not to be a living rule. If all the written rules were lost no novice would be able to discern them from the way I carry on.

  Her own shortcomings seemed to her magnified like a fly under the microscope. In the Order of the Daughters of Compassion an extra rule, that of compassion itself, was added to the usual three of poverty, chastity and obedience – all spelt with capital letters, she remembered, making hasty alterations in her notebook – as if the rules themselves were sanctified, intrinsically holy.

  Poverty wasn’t so difficult, she thought wryly, when one lived in a large house in the countryside, assured of bed and board for the rest of one’s life. The days when she’d dreamed of roast turkey and Eggs Benedict and strawberries thick with cream and soaked in wine! Chastity and celibacy – she reminded herself that the two were not mutually dependent – were disciplines only slightly shaken by a whisper of longing, a half remembered dream. Obedience seemed to be the rock against which she constantly stubbed her spiritual toes. Not out and out rebellion, but the impulsive action that sent her off on some quest of her own, the stretching of an hour’s freedom into two. The little foxes that ate up her grapes before they were ripe. And Mother Dorothy, instead of imposing more discipline, had virtually given her carte blanche to come and go more or less as she felt necessary. Which meant self-discipline. She made a note and underlined it, heard the chapel bell ringing and rose, going to benediction with a pleasant feeling of resolution.

  Father Stephens was officiating though it wasn’t his turn. Probably Father Malone was still with the Pendons. She bowed her head, the curate’s mellifluous phrases floating above her, and prayed for the bustling woman with the swollen eyes and the bewildered father who had stood, automatically stroking a stuffed toy and spoken of his good, quiet daughter.

  Father Stephens wafted himself away, and the community settled into silent meditation. Outside night waited on the threshold of a magnificent twilight.

  Someone was tugging gently at her sleeve. She came back to earth with a start and saw Sister Teresa giving her a look of apologetic questioning.

  O dear Lord, the lay sisters leave early to prepare supper, was her first flustered thought. While she had been indulging in prayer her companions were risking a late supper. Rising, avoiding Mother Dorothy’s eye, she left the chapel.

  ‘I do apologize for interrupting you, Sister Joan,’ Sister Teresa said as they traversed the hall together.

  ‘You did right, Sister. I had completely forgotten the duties of a lay sister. I really must get my head together.’

  ‘But it must have been most painful to have to go to the scene of a crime,’ the other said. ‘The world is a cruel place, Sister.’

  ‘Lit by flashes of beauty and kindness. Shall we get on with supper and then my conscience will be eased?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  Being a novice in the third year of one’s training was difficult, Sister Joan reflected with sympathy. One had left the cocoon of the postulancy and was in but not yet entirely of the community, distinguished by the wearing of one’s blue habit instead of the grey of the fully professed, knowing that at the end of the year came the two years of silence and virtual solitude as laid down by the founder.

  ‘I am most grateful for your help, Sister,’ she said warmly. ‘I was worried as to how I was going to manage alone. My cooking is awful, and as you’re finding out my mind flies off too frequently at a tangent. We must try not to dwell on unpleasant events in the secular world.’

  In her own ears she sounded impossibly pompous but Sister Teresa nodded and smiled. A nice, competent, dedicated girl, she reckoned. In her early twenties and obviously destined to be an asset to the order. By what strange quirk of fate had this young woman landed in a convent and another
, of about the same age, ended as a body huddled in a shed?

  The reading chosen for that evening as they ate their meal was the life of St Maria Goretti, read in a softly hesitating voice by little Sister Martha. No doubt the history of that raped and violated child who had forgiven her murderer as she lay dying had been suggested to Mother Dorothy’s mind by recent events. Though Valerie Pendon had not been violated she recalled, and felt thankful that she had been spared the final horror.

  Recreation immediately followed supper, a recreation in which the lay sisters generally didn’t join. As Sister Joan hesitated, however, Mother Dorothy paused to speak to her.

  ‘When the dishes are done, Sister, you and Sister Teresa will join us for the hour of recreation. Perhaps you will bring the paintings you did while you were on retreat. We will make our choice of one to hang up and sell the rest at the Christmas bazaar.’

  Recreation wasn’t always the most exciting hour in the day. Sisters were required to bring some useful work with them and expected to sit in a semi-circle, choosing subjects of conversation that would be of general interest. She washed the dishes, slipped out to check on Lilith who greeted her with a reproachful look and went on chewing hay, and made her way upstairs again.

  The recreation room opened off the refectory on the first floor. Once the two huge rooms had been a ballroom where the Tarquin family had entertained. Even with the mirrors gone and the gilt cornices tarnished the apartments had an air of vanished grandeur. Apart from the semi-circle of chairs there was a long table on which wool and sewing baskets were laid out ready for use, and the huge fireplace which was innocent of fire since heating was permitted only in the kitchen and the infirmary.

  ‘Ah, you have brought your pictures, Sister.’ Sister Perpetua looked expectant.

  ‘Only four smallish ones,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I also painted two views of the monastery chapel for the monks who take care of the retreat. These are of the loch, with one of the retreat itself.’

  Laying them on the table her recent stay in Scotland came vividly to mind – the steep climb up to the cave where once monks had kept watch for Viking longboats, the community of brothers living their retired lives on the spit of land that jutted out into the loch – that had been a time taken out of time, weeks that were unlikely ever to come again.