A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 8

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Dodie’s married with two children. She paints cards for Christmas and birthdays. Barbara went into public relations — she never finished the college course. Serena Clark—’

  ‘The biscuit people?’

  ‘Yes. She got into college because her father made a huge donation to them. I’m not being spiteful. She was always honest about it, amused even. Anyway she didn’t pass any of the examinations and since then she’s been busy getting married and divorced. Paul Vance — but you’ll have seen his work on television.’

  ‘Vance was a compatriot of yours?’

  ‘He’s rather grand and precious now,’ Sister Joan said with a faint grimace. ‘Then there’s Fiona. She teaches art part-time but her real talent is being beautiful. She was always stunning and also very sweet — a bit vague and fey.’

  ‘And none of them knew Patricia Mayne?’

  ‘I’m sure they didn’t.’

  ‘And none of you had kept in touch?’

  ‘Oh, we occasionally ran into one another over the years, but that was all. We’d all grown up and moved on. Detective Sergeant, I really ought to get back!’

  ‘Of course, Sister.’ He rose at once, holding open the door. ‘Give my regards to the community.’

  ‘I will. Thank you, Detective Sergeant Mill. Constable Petrie.’

  Hurrying back to the van she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d done her duty as a citizen, and could put it out of her mind. There’d been no point in mentioning the pile of old newspapers she’d brought away from the flat. They probably had nothing to do with anything anyway. She decided that she wouldn’t waste any more time in scrutinizing them.

  Driving back she reminded herself that at general confession she must remember she’d bought a cup of coffee without permission. It was annoying that after eight years in the religious life she still committed stupid little sins that blotted her copy book without giving her the chance to make some grand reformation.

  Sister Marie was waiting for her at the gate, waving her scarf.

  ‘What is it, Sister?’ She drew to a halt and wound down the window.

  ‘Good news!’ Sister Marie’s round face was beaming. ‘While you were out a lady telephoned and made a block booking for our first retreat! She said six will be coming. All your old friends you met in London! Mother Dorothy is delighted!’

  Starting up the van again, driving round to the back yard, Sister Joan wished she could share her superior’s delight.

  Five

  ‘Yes, Sister?’ Mother Dorothy looked expectantly at Sister Joan as the latter rose from her knees. ‘You’ve heard the good news?’

  ‘About the visitors? Yes, Mother Dorothy. On the face of it it’s a splendid start.’

  ‘On the face of it?’ The Prioress pushed her steel-framed spectacles higher on her small nose and gestured to the stool by her desk. ‘Sit down and explain that remark.’

  ‘This morning I heard that a young girl called Patricia Mayne had been murdered in London,’ Sister Joan said, seating herself. ‘She was found around one o’clock this morning in Putney Walk with her throat cut. The point is that I met the girl myself several hours earlier.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mother Dorothy rested her chin on her hand and waited.

  ‘Ten of us were supposed to meet at Westminster Abbey as I told you,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Seven of us actually turned up and went along to the Tower for lunch. I told you that.’

  ‘And that two of your old group had died and you volunteered to call in on the other missing member of your class only to be told that he, God rest his soul, had committed suicide last month. Yes?’

  ‘The girl who told me about Serge Roskoff was Patricia Mayne,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘I see.’ Mother Dorothy nodded slowly. ‘That was why you requested permission to be late for lunch. Obviously you had to report to the police.’

  ‘I had my fingerprints taken for elimination purposes and made a statement that was faxed to the Metropolitan Branch. Detective Sergeant Mill believes that will be the end of the matter as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I wish I could be as optimistic as Detective Sergeant Mill,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘In my experience you have the most unfortunate habit of getting mixed up in events that have nothing to do with your life as a religious. However I fail to see why the prospect of your other friends coming here for a week-long retreat should worry you.’

  ‘Mother Dorothy, three of us are dead,’ Sister Joan said earnestly. ‘Sally was killed a couple of years ago. She leaned out of the upper floor of a multistorey car-park and fell, and last year Bryan Grimes was knocked down and killed by a hit-and-run driver, and now Serge is dead.’

  ‘A sad sequence of events. I am sorry there was a gloom cast over the reunion.’

  ‘Three deaths, each one unusual, in the space of two years among the same group of people. Reverend Mother, what’s your opinion?’

  ‘That you have a vivid imagination and a craving for variety,’ Mother Dorothy said snubbingly. ‘Neither do I accept your premise of there being anything extraordinary about these particular deaths. You told me that none of you bothered to keep in regular contact with any of the others once your college days were behind you. You were a collection of separate individuals, that’s all, living separate lives. Accidents happen all the time.’

  ‘Patricia Mayne’s death wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘She was a neighbour of Serge Roskoff’s?’

  ‘A stray kitten he fed now and then as far as I could gather,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Serge was always like that, kind and generous. Patricia — the girl was eighteen, red-haired and superficially tough, probably on the game.’

  ‘A soiled dove,’ Mother Dorothy corrected severely.

  ‘More like a soiled sparrow,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Streetwise and suspicious. She didn’t believe Serge had been a suicide. He loved life and he didn’t do drugs.’

  ‘Another accident?’

  ‘You can’t take crack cocaine and LSD mixed up together by accident,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Patricia thought that someone might have given it to him as a joke, a sick joke that went wrong. But now Patricia herself is dead and she didn’t cut her own throat.’

  ‘Poor child!’ Mother Dorothy blessed herself thoughtfully. ‘I shall pray for her. Sister, do you have any reason to suppose that any of your other old friends is mixed up in this?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Only your own instincts, is that it?’ Mother Dorothy compressed her small mouth and looked as if she thought poorly of instincts. ‘Meanwhile, thanks to your excellent publicity, six of your former fellow students are coming here for a week. There isn’t anything very surprising about that. My advice to you is to concentrate on running the retreat in a fitting manner, making our guests as comfortable as possible, and leaving odd coincidences alone.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy, but—’

  ‘No buts, Sister!’ Mother Dorothy rapped the desk sharply. ‘You may go. Oh, the postulancy is looking very nice. You’ve all worked hard on it. We shall pray that this week is only the first of many. Dominus vobiscum.’

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo.’ Sister Joan dipped her knee and departed, unsatisfied.

  She bent her steps towards the postulancy, the old dower-house where widowed Tarquin ladies had once lived out their final years. It was at the other side of the tennis court, separated by a low wall from the grass-grown court with its rusted posts. She never went down the shallow steps without imagining how it must once have been, with the nets taut and young men in white flannels and girls in the loose skirts and long bodices of the twenties. The court hadn’t been used for years despite her hints to Mother Dorothy who had countered her argument that the community needed exercise by pointing out reasonably enough that with vegetables, fruit and flowers to be tended, gravel walks to be weeded and raked, hedges clipped and Alice to train the necessity for a game of tennis came rather low on her list of priorities.

&n
bsp; The postulancy was a simple, two-storey building, displaying the graceful Georgian proportions of the main house, though every trace of gold leaf had been removed and the walls whitewashed. The front door led into a narrow hall with stairs rising out of it, and the rooms subdivided at each side.

  There was a lecture room with a row of chairs and a lectern, a library containing devotional works judged suitable for intending religious, and a much smaller room where the postulants had their own modest recreation. On the other side of the hall were a large room for meditation, a narrow parlour for the novice mistress, and a small kitchen. The library books had been carried up to the newly adapted storerooms, and replaced with a selection of paperbacks by middle of the road writers who could be guaranteed not to shock. There were four ashtrays in the recreation room. Sister Joan trusted the hint not to light up anywhere else would be taken, and in Sister Hilaria’s parlour a camp bed waited for herself.

  ‘You had better sleep on the premises as you are to lead the retreat,’ Mother Dorothy had said briskly.

  Sister Joan sighed, wondering if leading a retreat was quite in her line, and went up the narrow stairs to the six cells above, each with its single bed, extra mattresses still wanting, its ewer and jug on the broad windowsill, its shelf for books and hooks behind a plastic cover for clothes. Since she was sleeping downstairs there was no reason for anybody to share. She took out the neatly printed slips of paper from her pocket and fixed them to the doors. Dodie, Barbara, Serena and Fiona on the left of the corridor, Paul Vance and Derek Smith on the right. The two small bathrooms at the end were functional and clean and that was about all that could be said for them. She fixed the signs Ladies and Gentlemen and went downstairs again.

  There was the usual routine of the convent into and around which the visitors would be fitted. Private meditation in the chapel from 5.15 to 7 for those who wanted it — she doubted if any of them would! Low Mass at 7, with breakfast at 8.

  ‘Their breakfast can be prepared in the postulancy,’ Mother Dorothy had said. ‘Sister Marie will come over and help you. We must make it absolutely clear that the menu is vegetarian.’

  Sister Joan doubted if a slice of dry bread, a piece of fruit and a cup of coffee would be considered adequate by paying guests. There would be fruit juice, cereal, buttered toast and eggs or tomatoes in addition.

  The mornings were free with a list of local beauty spots to visit, details of buses though she guessed most people would come by car, and picnic lunches available or, if the weather broke, cold salad with fish or cheese in the postulancy. In the afternoon there would be a talk followed by a discussion group and a chance for the visitors to meet the professed nuns.

  ‘Who knows but we may find another postulant?’ Sister Hilaria had said, her eyes dreamy at the delightful prospect.

  The evening meal would be taken with the community after which the visitors were free to amuse themselves, though Sister Teresa had suggested hopefully that they might enjoy joining in the community recreation.

  ‘When there are only ladies present I see no difficulty,’ Sister Perpetua had declared, ‘but I think Reverend Mother will agree with me that we don’t want men cluttering up the entire place.’

  ‘Oh, for a bit of clutter!’ Sister Gabrielle had said audibly, and Mother Dorothy’s mouth had twitched.

  ‘Now for the talks!’ Sister Joan spoke aloud and jumped as someone tapped on the window pane.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mill!’ She hastened to open the door. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Mother Dorothy said you were probably over in the postulancy. Is it all right to come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sit down. What’s happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘I drove over to let you know that I did some phoning around after what you told me,’ he said. ‘The other deaths you mentioned — three from the same group within two years — struck me as unusual. Anyway I thought it worthwhile to check up.’

  ‘Mother Dorothy would say you had a vivid imagination too,’ she said wryly.

  ‘Call it a hunch. Anyway this time my hunch was apparently way off course. Sarah Smith née Mount had been doing some late afternoon shopping in town, went back to her car just as lighting-up time arrived and must have ignored the warning board and gone over to look out of the aperture on the top floor. She leaned out, presumably to see the view better, overbalanced and fell. There was a witness.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sister Joan looked at him.

  ‘A couple coming along the pavement opposite. One of them glanced up and saw her leaning out. He mentioned it to his wife, said it looked dangerous, and the next instant she fell. There was nobody else there at that moment. The couple rushed to her but she’d been killed instantly. They gave evidence at the inquest.’

  ‘She was alone then? An accident.’

  ‘A freak accident but they do occasionally happen. There had been complaints about the design and the building’s more secure now.’

  ‘And Bryan Grimes? Did you find out anything about him?’

  ‘Unmarried, lived in Lincolnshire and made a good living illustrating books for children. In fact I think my own two have a couple of his. Anyway I got in touch with the Boston police and made a few enquiries. Bryan Grimes enjoyed walking it seems. Used to walk a few miles every evening. When he didn’t come back from his walk his housekeeper assumed he’d put up for the night at a hotel; apparently he sometimes did that if he walked further than he intended. Some workmen found his body the next morning, multiple injuries caused by a speeding car. Nobody had seen anything and death must have been instantaneous. The case is still on file but it’s doubtful it’ll ever be solved. As for the Roskoff matter, there’s nothing there either that doesn’t suggest suicide. He lived alone, was inclined to be moody from time to time — a local doctor came forward and testified he’d been treating him for mild depression earlier this year.’

  ‘No suicide note?’

  ‘People don’t always write one. It wasn’t as if he had a family and needed to soften the blow by absolving them of guilt. The old lady who found him said that he often invited friends back to his studio for a drink or a bite of supper, but she couldn’t recall anyone in particular. Oh, and Patricia Mayne didn’t come forward at the inquest.’

  ‘I think she avoids the authorities — avoided,’ Sister Joan corrected herself. ‘She was such a tough little girl that it’s hard to believe she’d get herself killed.’

  ‘Whoever did it certainly stepped out and cut her throat with one slashing cut. Right-handed and probably about six inches taller than she was.’

  ‘And she didn’t cry out?’

  ‘Probably never had time. Whoever it was lowered her to the ground and walked off. Nobody saw, or heard a thing.’

  ‘So that case is on file too.’

  ‘And there seems to be no connection with any of the other deaths,’ the detective sergeant said. ‘No case.’

  He sounded, she thought, ever so slightly disappointed.

  ‘It was very nice of you to come over and tell me yourself,’ she said, rising.

  ‘You’re getting the place ready for visitors?’

  ‘Didn’t Mother Dorothy tell you? The six who did turn up at the reunion made a block booking for the retreat.’

  ‘You must have made a strong selling pitch,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t say very much at all,’ she confessed. ‘I felt a bit awkward about it, like peddling something they didn’t want in the hope that they’d feel obliged to buy! Anyway they’re all coming. I’ve been sorting out the accommodation. The next job I have is to arrange six talks for them to attend while they’re here.’

  ‘Talks on the religious life?’

  ‘In a wide sense. Mother Dorothy has promised to give a talk on the history of the order and Sister Perpetua is going to talk about ancient herbal remedies devised by the early monks, and I’m hoping Sister Gabrielle will talk about her life as a religious.’

  ‘How about the morality of criminal
detection?’ he asked. ‘Bringing in examples from Chesterton’s Father Brown, Brother Cadfael, so on?’

  ‘It sounds fun.’ She beamed at him. ‘You’ll give the talk, of course?’

  ‘I was thinking you’d be the right person. You’ve been involved in a few cases yourself so it wouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘I can think of nothing worse,’ Sister Joan said frankly, ‘than standing up in front of people and announcing myself as the nun who solves mysteries, or something equally ridiculous! And if one were to know the people personally — oh no!’

  ‘I suppose I could spare an hour.’ Detective Sergeant Mill frowned. ‘I’d not mention your part in any of the cases of course, Sister. And it might give me a chance to take a look at your old friends.’

  ‘Meaning your hunch wasn’t so far out after all?’ She looked at him sharply.

  ‘Meaning nothing of the kind,’ he retorted, smiling faintly. ‘I’d be interested to find out the kind of people you used to hang out with, that’s all.’

  ‘We were fellow students back in 1974 for three years, except for Barbara Ford. Her father was very ill and she left college halfway through the second term to nurse him. Of the others — well Derek Smith married Sarah Mount quite a time after we all left. I didn’t even know they’d been married let alone that Derek was a widower! We were never really that close any of us. I mean people think that artists ought to be friends simply because they’re doing roughly the same thing but that doesn’t always apply any more than it does to policemen.’

  ‘Did anyone else marry anyone else?’

  ‘No. Bryan and Serge were both single. Barbara isn’t married and neither are Fiona or Paul Vance. Dodie married an engineer and Serena’s on her second divorce.’

  ‘Partnerships?’

  ‘Nothing I knew about,’ she said scrupulously.

  ‘How many of them kept up their art?’

  ‘Derek runs a fine arts shop as I told you: Paul’s in television and Bryan was a children’s books illustrator, and Dodie paints Christmas cards and Fiona teaches art part-time. She inherited some money from an aunt or someone recently and doesn’t need to work full-time. You do think there’s something odd about the deaths, don’t you?’