A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 7

  ‘The rest I can manage,’ Sister Gabrielle said, shaking her younger companion off like an irritating fly. ‘Go and get on with your work. What comes will come. No sense in worrying about it beforehand!’

  Sister Joan nodded and followed the other down the chapel corridor past the two small parlours with their dividing grille where lay visitors came into the chapel itself. Sister Gabrielle settled herself in her accustomed place, crossing herself as she fixed her attention on the altar and Sister Joan mounted the twisting stairs at the side of the small Lady Altar with its plaster statue and vase of late roses.

  Over this wing stretched library and storerooms, the latter now adapted to provide two cells for Sister Hilaria and Bernadette. It had taken considerable ingenuity to get a couple of beds up here and to erect hardboard screens to divide up the space. Since the upper floor was blocked off from the sleeping quarters and dining-room on the upper floor and the one staircase was very narrow they had ended up by passing nearly everything through the windows. The result was surprisingly good, she decided, affording privacy to the novice mistress and her postulant without trespassing on the main library. On the other hand the remaining storeroom was now piled with boxes and clutter.

  She had put the plastic bag with its sheaf of newspapers here, between two piles of old packing cases with a space where it was possible to crouch, reading by the light that came from a narrow skylight above.

  There were about a dozen newspapers, some of them tattered at the edges. Glancing at the dates she noticed they were in chronological order, the earliest dated about ten years before. No items had been ringed round with pencil and nothing had been cut out. Sister Joan grimaced and started skimming the various paragraphs. Folding the newspaper, setting it aside, picking up the next which was from 1987, reading that one with the same rapidity, she could feel exasperation rising in her. There was absolutely nothing in the newspapers that related to the art college or the subsequent careers of its students. A film star had just eloped with a fifth husband; a child had been found strangled and a man arrested; there was an outbreak of typhoid fever in some obscure African state; a boy was missing and his parents were appealing for news; Parliament was going into recess. Even the personal columns yielded nothing of immediate interest.

  She flicked more rapidly through the rest of the pile. There was a review of a television programme with considerable praise being lavished on the set design by Paul Vance. At least one familiar name had turned up! And Serge had kept the pile carefully which surely meant they’d all be important. In a more recent edition she found a brief paragraph about Sally’s death. It was headed CAR-PARK TRAGEDY, and told her nothing she hadn’t already heard. The last in the pile had a short report of an exhibition to be held in a gallery she’d never heard of, and written down the side of it, in pen, a list of numbers — dates, she guessed, looking at them more closely. They meant nothing but whoever had penned them had spanned nearly twenty years. One or two had question marks beside them.

  It would take hours to go through every one of them, and she didn’t have hours to spare. She put the newspapers back, rose, dusting down her skirt, and descended into the chapel again. Sister Gabrielle was right. Time passed and what would be would be. There wasn’t the smallest excuse for her to go ferreting about in what certainly didn’t concern her. At least, not yet!

  She knelt briefly, noticing that Sister Gabrielle was still immersed in her devotions, and went back into the main part of the house.

  ‘Sister, if you’ve nothing else to do can you drive into town for me?’ Sister Teresa asked, coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, of course, Sister. What do you need?’

  ‘I made out a list. Mother Dorothy thinks we ought to get extra flour and sugar and butter ready for any visitors who come for the retreat,’ Sister Teresa said. ‘I’d get them myself but Sister Marie and I started turning out the cupboards and if we leave them half done—’

  ‘I’ll go right now,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Has Mother given permission?’

  ‘She says it’s all right to ask you, Sister.’

  ‘Right then.’ Sister Joan put her thoughts on hold, took the list and the money she had been given, and went out to the van which had replaced the ancient car.

  She had painted the van with a charming design in pink and white which had practically sent Mother Dorothy into an apoplexy and had been hastily repainted a nice respectable, dull grey. Nevertheless the extra labour had been worth it, Sister Joan thought, with an inward grin as she settled herself behind the driving wheel and fastened her seatbelt.

  One day they would probably build a tarmac road across the moor but she hoped it wouldn’t be in her time. The track was wide, meandering over the browning heather in a lazily casual way that gave one leisure to enjoy the drive instead of hurtling from one place to the next with the scenery ignored as it flashed past the windows.

  Brother Cuthbert was chopping wood at the side of the little schoolhouse which he was now occupying for a year while he was on sabbatical from his Scottish monastery.

  Sister Joan drew to a stop as he looked up and waved, his bright red hair a flaming halo round his tonsure. His freckled, youthful face beamed at her window.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan! Isn’t it a glorious day? Were you in need of anything?’

  ‘A bit of your cheerfulness,’ she said wryly. ‘Doesn’t anything ever get you down?’

  ‘Oh, from time to time,’ he admitted. ‘That’s the beauty of the religious life, don’t you find? Whenever something happens to depress you there’s an instant remedy. And isn’t it a privilege to be able to spend so much time praying for people who haven’t got the time to pray for themselves?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Sister Joan felt a stab of shame. ‘The truth is that I spent the day in London yesterday and it put me out of humour.’

  ‘There are sad things happen in cities,’ he agreed. ‘Father Malone was telling me after Mass this morning that he’d had a quick glance at the early edition of the paper and wished that he hadn’t. Slander about the Royal Family, war in Bosnia, a dreadful murder in London.’

  ‘What?’ Sister Joan looked at him sharply. ‘When?’

  ‘Last night sometime. A young girl had her throat cut. She was found in the street. Father Malone said it reminded him of tales he’d read about Jack the Ripper. He asked me to pray in particular for the poor soul. Patricia — I don’t think he told me the last name. Oh, I oughtn’t to have mentioned it! You’ve gone white as a sheet!’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Sister Joan said with an effort. ‘As you say cities are sad places. I’m going into town for some shopping. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Not a thing in the world. Are you sure you’re all right? I ought to think before I speak! Well, the poor little soul will be safe in heaven now, so that’s a comfort.’

  And her killer will still be walking about the streets, Sister Joan thought numbly as she switched on the ignition again and drove away.

  There must be hundreds of girls in London named Patricia. There was no reason to suppose — there was every reason to suppose! In Sister Joan’s experience life fell into a series of patterns and once the pattern had begun to be woven on the tapestry every thread connected it. Even the most seemingly inconsequential remarks and incidents had their place in the overall design.

  She parked the van at the back of the small supermarket, conscientiously purchased all the groceries and lugged them into the vehicle, locked the doors and went at a brisk pace up the road to buy a newspaper and turn into the small café where it was possible to drink a cup of coffee without being deafened by loud music.

  She half feared that the later edition wouldn’t carry the story, but there was a paragraph on page three, headed PUTNEY WALK MURDER.

  It was the same Patricia then. Sister Joan nerved herself to read the account, but it gave only the bare facts. At 1 a.m. the previous night the body of a girl had been found lying outside the closed premises of a betting
shop at the corner of Putney Walk. The girl’s throat had been cut but there were no signs of a struggle nor, as far as was known, any sexual connotation. The girl had been identified as Patricia Mayne, of no fixed address, aged eighteen. Police were conducting house-to-house enquiries.

  Sister Joan folded the newspaper, paid for her coffee, and headed for the police station.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan.’ Constable Petrie, who was on desk duty, greeted her amiably. ‘Nothing wrong up at the convent I hope?’

  ‘We’re all fine there,’ she assured him, ‘but I have some information which may be of help regarding the murder in Putney Walk. You’ve read about it?’

  ‘Glanced at the paper this morning,’ Constable Petrie said. ‘Not on our patch.’

  ‘I believe I was with Patricia Mayne shortly before she was killed,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘You’d better see the boss,’ Constable Petrie said. ‘He’s in his office.’ He moved to tap at the half-glassed door and pop in his head to announce, ‘Sister Joan’s here, sir. Shall I send her in?’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’ Sister Joan went into the small office where the tall, dark detective sergeant rose to shake hands, his face betraying pleasure at the sight of her.

  ‘Sit down, Sister. Good to see you. Not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant Mill.’ Seating herself primly, Sister Joan held out the folded newspaper. ‘Perhaps you’ve seen this?’

  ‘Earlier. It’s not in our area so—?’

  ‘Yesterday I went to London to a reunion of some old friends from art college,’ she said. ‘I met Patricia Mayne. There’s no photograph of her but I’m positive it’s the same girl. The meeting was in Putney Walk.’

  ‘You’d better tell me about it.’ He leaned both elbows on the flat-topped desk and gave her his full attention.

  ‘A group of us met at Westminster Abbey and had lunch at the Tower,’ she began.

  ‘You believe in taking your pleasures sadly,’ he said, with a twitch of a dark eyebrow.

  ‘There were seven of us there out of a possible ten.’ She bit her lip to stifle a laugh. ‘Two had died and Serge Roskoff hadn’t turned up. One of the others knew where he lived and as I had to get back early I offered to call round and see if he’d simply forgotten.’

  ‘Serge Roskoff.’ Detective Sergeant Mill wrote down the name, frowned at it and said abruptly, ‘Russian. Avant-garde stuff, very symbolic. Never made the name for himself that was expected.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were interested in art!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Only since I met you, Sister.’

  ‘Oh. Well, anyway I went round to Flat Fifteen, Putney Walk but Serge wasn’t there. The door was open so I went in. A moment or two later a young girl arrived. She said she was a friend of Serge’s, that he’d christened her Titania but her real name was Patricia. She told me he’d committed suicide last month. An overdose.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He was a lovely person,’ she said. ‘One of the nicest of the bunch. Anyway the girl told me that he’d befriended her, taken care of her—’

  ‘Slept with her?’

  ‘She said it was voluntary,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’m sure it was. Serge was a most attractive young man when I knew him. She’d moved into the flat because his rent was paid three months in advance and she’d nowhere else to go.’

  ‘She wasn’t living with him before?’

  ‘Apparently not. She came and went, no strings. Anyway she told me that she didn’t believe Serge had killed himself.’

  ‘Accident?’ He glanced up from the paper on which he was still making notes.

  ‘She told me that Serge didn’t do drugs. Certainly he never did when I knew him. He loved life — loved people. Oh, he could be a bit moody at times, but never deeply depressed. I found it hard to believe that he’d committed suicide too.’

  ‘People can act out of character.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Anyway I had a train to catch so I went away and came home.’

  ‘At what time were you at the flat?’

  ‘I got there just after five, stayed about — at the most fifteen minutes and then caught my train back to Cornwall.’

  ‘Leaving Patricia Mayne in the flat?’

  ‘Unpacking some groceries,’ Sister Joan nodded. ‘The point is that my fingerprints will certainly be in the flat and when her connection with Serge is known they’ll want to have my prints for elimination purposes, won’t they?’

  ‘Would you be willing to make a formal statement and give us a set of your prints?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked. ‘I’ll get in touch with the Metropolitan Branch and have a word with an old mate of mine there. That way we needn’t have the place cluttered up with police officers.’

  ‘May I ring the convent to tell them I’ll be late for lunch?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ He indicated the telephone. ‘I’ll go and get the fingerprint squad alerted.’

  Meaning he’d haul Constable Petrie from behind the front desk, Sister Joan thought, lifting the receiver.

  ‘I’ll tell Mother Dorothy you’re delayed,’ Sister Teresa said cheerfully on the other end of the line. ‘Is everything all right, Sister?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.’

  Replacing the receiver, following Detective Sergeant Mill down to the room where the fingerprints of suspected persons were taken she felt thankful that she wasn’t of their fraternity. The police station might be small and undermanned but justice still balanced her scales here.

  ‘I’ve had a word.’ Detective Sergeant Mill reappeared just as she was wiping her fingers. ‘They’ll be happy to accept a statement and your prints which will, of course, be destroyed immediately they’ve been eliminated from the inquiry. Actually you did right to come in straightaway. The fellow who runs the betting shop remembers a nun coming in to ask for directions just before five.’

  ‘Was there any further information?’ She paced beside him up the stairs.

  ‘She was killed round about midnight. Taken from behind and her throat cut. A sharp old-fashioned razor apparently.’

  ‘Nobody saw anything?’

  ‘Apparently Putney Walk is a fairly quiet area,’ he said. ‘A few cruising cars, the occasional drunk, nothing very dramatic. People live separate lives, enclosed in their own private spaces. The owner of the betting shop had been out in the back, totting up the takings in a built-on office, and came through the front when he’d finished to lock up. He found her on the step.’

  ‘The newspaper says she was found at about one o’clock in the morning,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Isn’t that late to be totting up the accounts?’

  ‘Apparently he does the accounting at different times and on different days, so that no would-be thief can discern any regular pattern. He’s a respectable fellow. No form at all. Runs an honest business and only knew the girl by sight.’

  ‘You’ll fax my statement through?’

  ‘As soon as you’ve made it. Just stick to the bare facts,’ he advised.

  ‘And not mention Patricia Mayne’s suspicions?’

  ‘Which were exactly?’

  ‘She thought that someone doped Serge’s drink for a rather unpleasant joke. He was apparently in the habit of inviting people up for a drink or a bit of supper.’

  ‘Rather foolish in this day and age,’ Detective Sergeant Mill commented. ‘You can put that in if you like. It might have some bearing. Shall we start?’

  He held the door of the office open.

  Twenty minutes later she signed the statement and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s it. You’ve done your duty as a good citizen. Did you drive the van in?’

  ‘To buy extra groceries for all the visitors we’re hoping will book for one of our retreats.’

  ‘Was that why Mother Dorothy gave you permission to attend the reunion?’ he asked. ‘To publicize the latest money-making venture of the D
aughters of Compassion?’

  ‘I suspect that was part of the reason,’ she admitted.

  ‘Did you get any bookings?’

  ‘I told them about it, but I don’t think it likely anyone will turn up.’

  ‘You said seven of you were there?’

  ‘Yes. Serge was absent. We didn’t know then he’d died. Two others had died already.’

  ‘Recently?’ He was doodling idly on a pad.

  ‘Sally — she married Derek Smith who was another of the group — died accidentally a couple of years back.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She fell out of a multistorey car-park.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could,’ he said.

  ‘Apparently the design of the structure was faulty and there’d been complaints but she leaned out to look at the view before the extra safety precautions were fully implemented.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Bryan Grimes was killed last year by a hit-and-run driver up in Lincolnshire,’ Sister Joan said reluctantly.

  ‘Oh?’ He looked at her with more attention.

  ‘It was an accident I’m sure,’ Sister Joan said. ‘The driver ought to have stopped, of course, but he panicked and drove on.’

  ‘Nobody was charged?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How about those who did turn up?’ he asked.

  ‘They can’t possibly have had anything to do with Patricia Mayne’s death!’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘No, I’m interested in the sort of friends you made in college.’

  ‘Friends is a bit of an exaggeration,’ Sister Joan said. ‘We never really bothered to stay in touch. I think it’s like that often when you’re young. When you’re very young you imagine you’ll keep the same friends for ever and you don’t realize that life moves on.’

  ‘I’ know Serge Roskoff kept up his painting. What about the others?’

  ‘Sally married Derek Smith and devoted herself to his career. He used to sell quite a lot — mainly portraits, if I remember rightly. He runs a fine arts shop now. I don’t know where. Bryan illustrated children’s books.’