A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery Read online

  ‘Nothing I can put my finger on. Walk back to the gates with me, Sister, will you? I left my car there and walked up to the convent. My way of getting some exercise.’

  ‘I’ll just lock up.’ Suiting action to words, she put the postulancy key in her pocket and walked with him across the old tennis court.

  ‘You said that none of you had kept in touch?’ he said as they paced.

  ‘Not all of us anyway. I told you all this when I came to the station. Why are you checking up?’

  ‘Not because I don’t trust your word,’ he said, ‘but I’m wondering why you haven’t questioned the most obvious thing.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If hardly any of you bothered to keep in touch why did seven of you turn up for the reunion twenty years later?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry! It just didn’t occur to me to — we all got a copy of a group photo that was taken of us sometime after we registered. Just a snapshot.’

  ‘Who sent them round?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly, frowning in her turn. ‘Nobody who was there at the Abbey had sent it. At least they all said they hadn’t. We all decided that it must have been Serge since the photographs were sent out after Sally and Bryan died. But when I got to Serge’s flat the girl, Patricia Mayne, showed me a copy of the same photo that he’d received. So it wasn’t him either.’

  ‘Where were they posted from?’

  ‘All from W.1. I’m sorry but I merely assumed it was a reminder that the reunion was due.’

  ‘Were there any messages with the photographs?’

  ‘Not with the one I got, and the others said they hadn’t had any either. The envelopes were printed I think, at least mine was.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘It’s here in my pocket. I’m afraid I threw the envelope away.’

  ‘May I keep it for a day or two?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, but I don’t see—’

  ‘On second thoughts keep it yourself.’ He gave the photograph a searching look before handing it back. ‘You haven’t changed much, have you? What about the others? Did you recognize them at once?’

  ‘Not Barbara Ford,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She was a shy, mousy creature in college. One of those repressed girls with an invalid father and too much responsibility, and her work was mediocre too. That sounds unkind but it’s true. She worked very hard and yet it never looked quite right. She scraped through the examination at the end of our first term and then had to leave and didn’t come back. Her father recovered and remarried and they all three emigrated to New Zealand. She’s changed a lot! Now she’s smart and vivid and very sure of herself and in public relations. Emigration did her a lot of good.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They’d all developed in the way I’d have expected,’ she said, climbing the steps between the high bushes. ‘Derek always looked like a pirate and he looks now like the captain of pirates; Dodie is small and prim and I’m positive she has an Aga in the kitchen, and Fiona is lovely, perfectly lovely. I can’t even scowl and say she’d obviously had a facelift because she obviously hasn’t!’

  ‘Serena Clark, Paul Vance?’

  ‘Oh, Serena was always plump and vague and good-humoured. She’s more so now, Paul — Paul is—’ She hesitated.

  ‘Paul is what?’

  ‘Gay,’ she said. ‘I somehow never guessed that for a moment when we were at college but then twenty years back people weren’t so open about these things. Now he’s so effeminate and bitchy that I just couldn’t credit it. I must have been green as grass when I was eighteen!’

  ‘I think you were probably charming,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ She felt her ready colour rising and managed a light laugh. ‘Thank you, but it was a long time ago. We were all very young.’

  ‘The point is,’ he said, tactfully shifting the subject, ‘that one of you must have sent copies of that photograph round and whoever did—’

  ‘Had found out where we were all living?’

  ‘Would that be very difficult?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Paul Vance and Derek are fairly high profile so it wouldn’t be very difficult to find out their whereabouts. Serena probably gets her picture in the gossip columns from time to time and Fiona’s done quite a bit of modelling so she may still have an agent. Dodie’s just a wife and mother — sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound patronizing. The point is she’s not a public person, though I suppose the publishers of her greetings cards could pass on mail for her — but I can’t think how anyone knew I was in Cornwall. Most of them had heard that I’d entered the religious life but I hadn’t contacted anybody.’

  ‘Yet someone went to a lot of trouble to contact all of you and make sure you all met up on the appointed day,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  ‘Simply to remind us of a reunion that most of us had half-forgotten about anyway? And if they did then why not say as much? It doesn’t make much sense.’ They had reached the front gates and she stopped, looking up at him with a troubled expression.

  ‘I’ve no idea. The ploy was successful though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Everybody who could did turn up, you mean?’ Sister Joan nodded.

  ‘And they’re all coming to stay here.’

  ‘Whoever sent the photograph round couldn’t have known that,’ she objected. ‘This is a new scheme and there hadn’t been any publicity.’

  ‘Then someone seizes opportunities. Take care of yourself, Sister.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised. ‘My regards to your — family.’

  Three months previously Detective Sergeant Mill had been reconciled with his wife for the sake of their two sons. Sister Joan had never met them and had never enquired into his private life, so there was a faint hesitation in her question.

  ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t enlarge on the subject but got into his car and backed out on to the track again.

  ‘Sister! Sister!’

  Luther was striding towards her, having apparently risen from a clump of bracken where, judging from the state of his garments, he’d slept. She stayed where she was, knowing that any sudden move on her part would send him rushing down the hill again. Luther was part gypsy, a cousin of sorts to Padraic Lee who lived in the Romany encampment and supplied the convent with fish. He was a tall, shambling fellow, vacant-eyed, with the bewilderment of a large child stamped on his irregular features.

  ‘Sister Martha is needing help to pick the last of the apples and pears, Luther,’ Sister Joan said, when he finally stood before her, shifting from one foot to another.

  ‘I do well at the picking,’ he assured her. ‘Sister Martha gave me some apples and a mug of tea and a sweater for the cold nights.’

  ‘Which you’re not wearing, I see.’

  ‘’Tis for best,’ he said shyly. ‘I’ll be picking more just for the tea.’

  ‘She’ll be very pleased.’ She had turned to go when his voice arrested her.

  ‘Luther do have something for you, Sister,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ She turned back to hold her hand out as she said coaxingly, ‘May I have it then?’

  ‘It came a week since,’ he said, handing her the square envelope. ‘I telled the postman I’d bring it up straight.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘I forgot.’ He hung his head, shuffling his feet. ‘I didn’t mean to be bad, Sister. It went in my pocket—’

  ‘And clean out of your head. Thank you, Luther. Go and find Sister Martha and ask her what she needs.’

  ‘Apples and pears, apples and pears!’ he chanted softly as he loped past her.

  She ought to take the envelope with its W.1 postmark and its printed address to Mother Dorothy who read all mail first, but after staring at the envelope with its bent and crumpled edges for a moment she pulled the flap open and drew out the snapshot.

  The same group as before with no message or enclosure. Only the photograph was marked. The faces of Sally, Bryan and Serge had be
en obliterated by heavy black crosses and round her own smiling, youthful face a black circle had been drawn. Warning or threat, she wondered, as she shoved it deep into her pocket and walked back to the main building.

  Six

  ‘Your habit looks very dusty, Sister,’ Sister Perpetua remarked, passing Sister Joan in the corridor. ‘You ought to wear an apron when you’re cleaning.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ Sister Joan met the older woman’s irritable remark meekly, so meekly that the other shot her a suspicious look.

  ‘It’s not like you not to argue back,’ she said. ‘Are you feeling ill or have you decided to humour me because I’m getting old?’

  ‘I’m humouring you,’ Sister Joan said promptly. ‘Anyway I haven’t been cleaning. I’ve been rummaging about in the storeroom. I ought to have worn an apron though. One day we’re going to have to find time to sort out all that stuff.’

  ‘You sort it out! My hands are full,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘The old ladies always seem to develop all varieties of aches and pains as autumn draws on. There was a time when I’d have coped with a smile instead of a snarl. I suppose the truth is that I’m dashing into the sere and yellow.’

  ‘Don’t look round,’ Sister Joan warned. ‘I’m treading on your heels.’

  The brief conversation was cut short by the ringing of the bell summoning the nuns to chapel. A formal benediction was held on Wednesdays and Saturdays by either Father Malone or Father Stephens, but on other evenings there was a simple service of thanksgiving conducted by Mother Dorothy for a day well spent.

  The trouble was that she didn’t feel she’d spent the day particularly well. The morning had been occupied in carrying new mattresses across to the postulancy for the comfort of the intending guests, the afternoon in helping Sister David to tidy up the library, and when she had managed to slip away to take another look at the pile of old newspapers she’d brought away from Serge Roskoff’s flat she’d found nothing in them of great interest. There were several reviews of Paul Vance’s work, a brief item about Serena’s first divorce, an advertisement for a book that Bryan Grimes had illustrated, but that only showed that from time to time Serge had kept newspapers in which his fellow students were mentioned. And the dates meant nothing, if they were dates at all and not something else entirely. She had wasted an hour, getting dusty, and not finding whatever it was she was supposed to be looking for.

  Then there was the photograph that Luther had given her. Three crosses on people who were already dead, a circle around her own face. Meaning what? That she was next?

  If anything does happen to me, she thought wryly, I shall be more annoyed at not knowing why it happened than at being dead!

  ‘Tomorrow our visitors arrive,’ Mother Dorothy was saying. ‘Sister Joan will be leading the retreat.’

  Too right! Sister Joan thought irreverently.

  ‘Everything is in readiness for what we hope will be a pleasantly relaxing week for our guests away from the stress and strain of the outside world. Some of them may wish to converse with you, and it will be your responsibility to answer them with courtesy without allowing yourselves to be drawn into argument and, it goes without saying, without allowing these fleeting contacts with the laity to interfere with your spiritual duties. Sister Bernadette will not, of course, speak to anybody. There are to be some interesting talks given in my parlour during the week, and those of you whose duties permit are welcome to attend. I must warn you that two gentlemen are coming. You will not, of course, waste valuable time in long tête-à-têtes with them.’ She paused, giving a dry little smile to demonstrate that she was joking.

  ‘They are sleeping in the postulancy but will take their evening meal with us so that they get a flavour of convent life. While they are here the postulancy is out of bounds to everybody except Sister Joan, Sister Teresa and Sister Marie, who will be caring for the material wants of our visitors, and of course myself, though I can think of no reason why I should need to go over there. Are there any questions before we go to supper?’

  ‘Are they coming by car?’ Sister David asked. ‘There’s no garage.’

  ‘I believe that was made clear.’ Mother Dorothy consulted the paper in her hand. ‘Mr Smith is driving down with Mrs Mason and Mr Vance. Miss Madox is also driving herself and bringing Mrs Clark with her. Miss Ford is coming by train. Sister Joan, you may take the van down and meet her. I’ll give you the times later.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’

  And why wasn’t Barbara driving down? She bowed and resumed her place.

  ‘Sister Joan, as our guests are arriving tomorrow,’ Mother Dorothy was continuing, ‘it would be best if you moved your things over to the postulancy during recreation, and then you can sleep over there tonight, settle in before the visitors arrive.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy.’

  ‘Benedicite.’ The Prioress turned to genuflect to the altar and went out, followed by the community in order.

  ‘Won’t you be a bit lonely over there all by yourself?’ Sister Katherine whispered, tugging at Sister Joan’s sleeve.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Sister Joan whispered back. ‘I’ll take Alice with me.’

  That decision was neatly overruled just as she’d collected her things after supper and was on her way down the stairs. At the foot of the gracefully carved balustrade Mother Dorothy stood, her expression one of calm approval.

  ‘I know I speak for the whole community,’ she said cordially, ‘when I say that your agreeing to lead this retreat takes a great burden off our shoulders. Do you need help to carry anything?’

  ‘No thank you, Mother. I haven’t got much,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘It’s so convenient not to be weighed down with possessions. You’ll lock yourself in after chapel? Since Alice is needed to guard the entire enclosure then we cannot spare her for just one person, though, of course, you haven’t requested that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sister Joan echoed, wondering fleetingly if it was a grave sin to want to slap one’s superior.

  ‘I’ll see you in chapel then.’ Mother Dorothy mounted the stairs towards the recreation room beyond the refectory where the rest of the community, save for Sister Hilaria and Sister Bernadette and the two lay sisters would occupy an hour in chatting, sewing, playing Scrabble and knitting.

  There are so few of us, Sister Joan thought, lugging her holdall over the front threshold. The ideal number in a convent was nineteen, including prioress and novices. In medieval times there would have been troops of girls wishing to embrace a life that gave them security and a certain measure of independence. Nowadays that simply didn’t apply. Girls went off to travel round the world or become secretaries, nurses, business tycoons, anything that they wanted, and fewer and fewer wanted the mystic marriage, the life of recollected prayer and duty.

  It was darker than she had expected. She reminded herself to bring a torch when she came back later and started violently as a pair of headlamps scythed through the gloom.

  ‘Running away, Sister? I knew you would sooner or later.’

  Detective Sergeant Mill had alighted from the car and strode towards her.

  ‘Only as far as the postulancy. Is something wrong, Detective Sergeant Mill?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Give me your bag and, for heaven’s sake, call me Alan! The full title’s a bit of a mouthful at the best of times.’

  ‘Thank you — Alan. It’s not very heavy.’

  ‘What do you keep in it? Feathers?’ He looked amused as he took the holdall.

  ‘My smalls,’ Sister Joan said mischievously.

  ‘And why to the postulancy?’

  ‘Our visitors arrive tomorrow so I’m sleeping over there tonight, settling myself in.’

  ‘Where’s Alice?’

  ‘Probably having her supper. She’s not my personal guard dog, you know.’

  ‘I’m not interrupting the grand silence yet, am I?’

  ‘Of course not. Even I wouldn’t be chattering like this if w
e were in it.’

  ‘Then I can tell you my findings.’

  ‘Findings?’ She looked at him sharply as they walked down the side of the main building but his face was shadowed.

  ‘Knowing your habit of falling into criminal activities,’ he began.

  ‘You could’ve phrased that a bit better!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Sorry, but you do have a habit of nosing out trouble! I’ve often been grateful that you’re on the right side of the law,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I thought it as well to do a little preliminary research on your intending guests — just to be on the safe side. Nothing very detailed, I’m afraid. A matter of a few phone calls, that’s all.’

  ‘That was very considerate of you,’ she said.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he returned, ‘it’s pure self-indulgence. The locals have been remarkably law-abiding recently. I have to show that I earn my salary or sit in my office twiddling my thumbs and hoping that somebody’ll commit a crime! Anyway I made a few enquiries.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Is it all right if I come into the postulancy for a few minutes? I made some notes.’

  ‘There’s no rule forbidding it,’ Sister Joan said, forbearing to add that the idea that a sister might entertain a gentleman visitor there had probably never occurred to anyone!

  They had reached the tennis court. Walking across it, the tall figure at her side, she wondered if she were putting herself into an occasion of sin. Surely not! She and Detective Sergeant Mill were occasional colleagues and unofficial ones at that. Perhaps it had been a mistake to agree to call him by his Christian name. It stripped away a barrier that had been protective for them both.

  ‘Come into the lecture room.’ She unlocked the front door and went ahead of him, switching on lights as she did so.

  ‘This was the old dower-house, wasn’t it?’ He looked round at the bare, whitewashed walls, the plain wooden cross, the dais and semicircle of chairs, the table.

  ‘Where they used to park mother-in-law when the bride arrived,’ she nodded. ‘Sit down, Detective — sorry, Alan. What have you found out?’