Quiet as a Nun (17 page)

Sister Agnes withdrew. But she did not go very far. I could see her shadow outside the cubicle, the elongation of the shadow, its formlessness making her look much taller than she was.

Mandy's story was about a nun too. A strange nun, a nun she had never seen before, who had handed her the typed note. That note which she subsequently presented as being from her sister Tessa. Having been threatened that if she, Mandy, so much as opened her mouth on the subject, or produced the note until exactly one hour after the bazaar ended, the strange nun would come and take her away too. Like Tessa. The story of the Black Nun had clearly not reached the infants at Blessed Eleanor's. Otherwise Mandy Justin would have been not so much tear-stained as hysterical.

'Don't worry, Mandy, don't worry. It'll be all right.' How did one console a seven-year-old child whose ten-year-old sister had been kidnapped? I needed Sister Agnes. But there was one question I had to ask.

'The voice, Mandy; the voice. Did you recognise the nun's voice?'

'I told you I didn't know her. She was a horrid great nun. Besides, she was whispering—'

A horrid great nun who whispered. Was that what lay ahead of me in the Dark Tower? I surrendered Mandy to Sister Agnes.

'She'll sleep now.' I hoped that was true. I left Sister Agnes and the child abruptly. I went back to my room and tore open my note to Tom. I added in a scrawl: 'That isn't all. I love you, my darling. Till - death -but I do hope it won't happen. J.' I ended it with the outline of a heart. It was no longer the sort of note he could show to Carrie. But that would be his problem. I addressed another envelope and replaced the white note on top of the black Treasury.

Down the visitors' stairs, quiet as possible. Into the chapel, checking that the outside door was bolted on the way. It was. The red sanctuary lamp winked and glinted from the altar. The candles at the shrine of the Sacred Heart had burnt low since my first visit there. The statues, like living people, seemed to be making beckoning gestures in the gloom. Sacred Heart of Jesus, pray for me. Heart, my lucky symbol. St Joseph, father of the Holy Family, pray for me. Our Lady Tower of Ivory, pray for me. All the saints, pray for me. I could hear the litanies chanted in my imagination. But I did not pray myself. I merely adjured all possible saints to pray for Tessa Justin, or at least to try and guard her from on high. Tessa, Teresa - St Teresa, pray for her. No, not the great St Teresa of Avila, a woman for whom, beliefs apart, I had a great deal of sympathy. Reading a biography of her once, a composite with the other St Teresa, I had always felt that we should get on. I addressed myself not to that Eagle but to the Dove, the lesser St Teresa, the Little Flower. Sainte Therese, protect your Tessa Justin.

A dark form rose slowly up from the front pew.

Sister Boniface, bending and moving with difficulty. Her agility these days was all in her mind - and her tongue. She gestured me to follow her into the sacristy, to the left of the altar. The oak door was already open. But there was no light. Sister Boniface's heavy breathing was the only noise in the chapel.

Once we were safely in the sacristy, Sister Boniface shut the door firmly. The heavy sound made me jump. But Sister Boniface spoke naturally in the dark:

‘I'll switch on the light for a moment. To find the door to the crypt staircase. Only for a moment. We mustn't alarm the whole community-'

There was an instant of extreme brightness. Sister Boniface felt her way round the oak panelling which lined the sacristy. I saw the priest's robes, already laid out for the next morning's early mass. How elaborately they were embroidered, how minutely, when you saw them close! Even the vestments for an ordinary weekday mass, representing so many hours of nuns' labour. Still, it was labour voluntarily given.
A.M.D.G
.,
as I had quoted to Sister Boniface.

The furthest panel had a little iron inset. It contained a ring. Sister Boniface twisted the ring and pulled it sharply. The panel swung back and a narrow but well-turned stone staircase was revealed.

'I'd better turn out the sacristy light now,' said Sister Boniface. She sounded quite cheerful about it all. 1 switched on my torch. 'Here's the second one. You take that too.' She handed it over.

'When I come back, I'll leave the panel open of course. You'd better come back before early mass. Otherwise whoever serves mass tomorrow might go and shut it. And then where would you be? No windows in the crypt. And very deep down—'

'Sister Bonnie, please!'

We descended.

The crypt was indeed very deep down. And not a very salubrious atmosphere when we got there. At least I was allowed to switch on the light: a rather dim bulb dangled in the centre of the arched ceiling from a wire. But the floor was stone, unlike the floor of the tower, so that we were spared that prevailing smell of damp. The crypt was also, so far as I could see, extremely clean. The convent cleanliness extended even underground. There were various niches in the stone walls, containing more statues. And one large alcove, with a wooden
prie-dieu
in front of it. A kind of shrine, it appeared. The alcove above contained a life-size statue. I inspected it: a queen with a crown on her head - Mary, Queen of Heaven, presumably. The features were idealised, soulful, and reminded me of Sister Agnes. Victorian, I supposed.

'Blessed Eleanor herself,' said Sister Boniface. 'She was briefly Queen of England, you know. Wouldn't it be lovely if we had a Catholic queen again? Do you think Prince Charles—'

It was no time for this Mother Ancilla talk.

‘I should think the statue is about 1860, wouldn't you?' I said hastily.

'Oh no, it's a portrait from the life,' said Sister Boniface reproachfully. 'Very, very old indeed. Anyway there are coffins here. Dame Ghislaine and quite a few of the early nuns. And they certainly are old. They stayed here undisturbed all through the Reformation, thanks to the mercy of God and the protection of Our Lady. Blessed Eleanor herself, I regret to say, was taken to Belgium. Although to be fair she did perform several miracles there in the last century. Which she might not have felt inclined to do here ... Being on her home ground.'

I was not disposed to discuss the finer points of miracle-making either. Besides, I did not like the reference to the other inhabitants of the crypt.

'I can't see any coffins,' I said nervously. 'There's a grille. Look behind you.'

I turned round. The far wall was not in fact made of stone. It consisted of a series of shelves, on which stacked coffins could be vaguely discerned. I had no idea how many of them there were. Or how far back they extended. A large iron grille stood between us and the coffins. Nevertheless I found the sight extremely creepy. But it did not seem to worry Sister Boniface at all. Perhaps it was her own strong faith, perhaps it was her inevitable nearness to death. But Sister Boniface was really quite unconcerned at her presence here among the bones of the dead.

The dust of the dead by now. They had all come to dust. Dame Ghislaine had been dead for over five hundred years. Even her dust had vanished.

'When was the - er - last?' My gaze was still riveted on the grille.

'Reverend Mother Felix. No, Reverend Mother Xavier and Reverend Mother Louise must both have been buried here after her. At my age, one gets muddled. You see only Reverend Mothers are placed here now. The rest of the community are buried in the cemetery. The grille is only opened on the death of a Reverend Mother.'

'So Mother Ancilla—'

‘In God's good time, Mother Ancilla will rest here too.'

It was in both our minds that God's good time for Mother Ancilla could not be far away.

'I'm glad they're still behind a grille. The coffins. They can't get at me.'

'But, my child, it's behind those bars that you have to go,' said Sister Boniface. 'That's where the entrance to the secret passage is. Hidden by the coffins.'

14

The power of darkness

I felt quite sick. Bones, dust, what did it matter?. The fact that the last corpse must have been laid here over thirty years ago? All the same, this was a charnel-house. A grisly trap. I wanted to escape—

'Sister Boniface,' I answered in a shaky voice. 'Please show me now.'

She motioned to the grille.

'It was on the right. You should find the door in the wall on the right. It may be very dusty there. You may have to move a coffin, several. And that grille is probably very stiff. It hasn't been used for a generation.'

But it wasn't stiff at all. I tugged the handle. The grille swung back with ease. There was no dust that I could see. The door was very clearly delineated in the wall. And none of the coffins was blocking it. In short, there was no reason why the door to the passage could not have been in regular use lately. No reason at all.

I felt the door. And found another inset with a ring inside it, similar to that of the sacristy. I turned it and pulled sharply. The door opened. Another exit not to be shut against my return. Blackness yawned, complete blackness, and this time a heavy, disgusting stink of damp. Sister Boniface and I peered into the chasm.

'So it's still there,' she said after a while. 'Do you still want to go, Jemima?'

'I don't want to. I must.'

'I'll pray in the chapel till you come back,' said Sister Boniface. 'Take your torch back.'

'No need, nuns can see in the dark, didn't you know? I'll find my way back to the chapel. God bless you, my child, and preserve you from harm.'

Harm. What is it that would harm me? That evocative phrase, the powers of darkness. Darkness had no powers, I told myself savagely as I stepped into the black chasm. Come on, Jemima. The only power of darkness lay in the use that clever, unscrupulous people made of it to frighten and waylay the innocent. Darkness would have no power over me, because I would not permit it to do so.

I began to feel my way along the passage, watching the ground in the light of my torch. The passage was narrow, and the walls at the bottom crumbly. I could now understand how my coat, covering my unconscious body, had gathered dust. It struck me that I must have been carried, not dragged. There had been no bruises on my body when I was recovering in the infirmary.

But if carried - another inescapable thought assailed me. That meant two people. Two people of considerable strength. I was taller than average. It was not a conclusion to cheer a lonely traveller.

I hoped I would not find two people - two people of considerable strength - at the end of my journey.

The ground was surprisingly even. And above my head was a well-worked stone roof. It was inconceivable that this passage had been constructed in this form in the middle ages. Like the statue of the Blessed Eleanor, I suspected a much later date. It all had the workmanlike look of a well-put-together Victorian folly. Obviously whichever Reverend Mother had been responsible for building the Victorian chapel had had the passage thoroughly overhauled as well.

The existence of the passage had been common knowledge in Sister Boniface's youth: which brought us to a period before the first war. Then the threat of the historian's revelations had induced Mother Felix to impose her vow of silence. But knowledge did not die away so quickly. Sister Hippolytus, for example: did she know about the passage? Was that the revelation she promised us in her manuscript? More than likely. Poking about in the convent records, she could easily have made such a discovery.

I have no idea how far I travelled before the ground began to rise. I had the impression of walking at least half a mile, but the darkness robbed me of a sense of time and distance. As the crow flew the tower was not really so far from the chapel. It was tramping the fields which took the time to get there. No doubt the passage followed the most direct route.

The incline grew more pronounced, the ground was cut into steps. Then there were formal steps of stone, and those in their turn led to a winding staircase. Finally I found myself in front of a door. It was exactly similar to the door at the other end of the passage. The door was shut.

She who hesitates is lost. Come on, Jemima. I twisted the iron ring which held it, extinguished my torch, and pushed the door open. I stepped forward.

Immediately something very hard indeed struck me sharply on the top of my head. I ducked. Instinctively I put up my hand. It felt like stone. A broad smooth stone surface with a sharp edge. Then I heard a noise which sounded like a cat or perhaps a kitten mewing.

There was no other sound at all.

I felt upwards again. I had hit my head on a piece of stone. It was in fact the mantel of a stone fireplace. I recognised where I was: standing bent inside the fireplace of the first floor chamber of the tower. The fireplace where I had originally spotted those tell-tale Gauloises stubs. The winding stair must have come up inside the thick walls of the tower. Boldly, I switched on my torch.

The rocking-chair was still. And empty. There was no sign of a black habit there. Or a black nun.

Tessa Justin was lying on the floor in the corner. In the small light, she looked as if she were asleep or perhaps drugged. But it was she who was responsible for those sounds, the mewings of a kitten. The trapdoor to the ground floor was closed.

I walked across to her. She was not asleep. Her eyes were open. I didn't think she was drugged. She was in fact sobbing, but so tiredly that only these tiny sounds emerged.

'Tessa,' I said softly, 'Tessa, don't cry.'

She didn't look up. Her body - still in its school uniform but the maroon heavily marked with dust - froze.

'It's me, Jemima Shore.' No move still. She didn't look at me. I touched her shoulder. It was quite rigid. Maybe after all she had been drugged.

'I've come to rescue you.' No move. I had an inspiration. 'I've come to hear the story you've got to tell me. Look, look at me, Tessa.'