Vow of Obedience (19 page)

Sister Marie took out the envelope, then said impulsively as if the idea had just struck her, ‘I forgot all about it, but I have the programme for the Saint Bernadette play we put on. I kept it as a souvenir because I helped to produce it. Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes, I would.’

Taking the neatly typed programme with its black and white sketch of the grotto at Lourdes, Sister Joan read it with interest. Here and there a name she had heard jumped out at her – Carol Preston as Bernadette Soubirous as a child … Marie Brown as co-producer … Flowers by courtesy of St Roc’s Convent …

‘Sister, may I borrow this for a while?’ She spoke abruptly, her eyes still on the typed page. ‘I promise to take good care of it.’

‘Yes, of course, Sister. It was a bit vain of me to keep it, I suppose, but I did enjoy working on the play. Is it important – the programme, I mean?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Sister Joan said honestly. ‘It’s given me an idea, that’s all.’

‘Are you really helping the police with their investigations?’ Sister Marie asked curiously as they went down the stairs again.

‘In a strictly amateur capacity,’ Sister Joan assured her. ‘I happened to be the one who found Valerie Pendon and then Tina Davies was found while I was talking to the detective and I was needed to confirm whether or not she had been left in the same position as the other one. And now, well, with no school to teach I am not the most useful member of the community at the moment, so if I can help out with Mother Dorothy’s permission then I do so, of course.’

‘Under obedience,’ Sister Marie said. Her eyes were amused.

‘Under obedience,’ Sister Joan said, for once not returning the other’s smile.

They went down the stairs together, and Sister Joan locked the front door. If anyone watched as they crossed the tennis court, carrying the laundry bag between them, she wasn’t conscious of it.

‘Am I to tell Reverend Mother what I told you?’ Sister Marie enquired.

‘If she asks you.’

‘And you really think that you know who’s doing these things?’

‘No, of course not, and it would be very wrong of me to start guessing out loud,’ Sister Joan said impatiently, and glancing at her companion’s face gave a reluctant chuckle.
‘Sister, you don’t think that I’m the one with the proof who gets murdered just as she’s about to pass it on to someone else, do you?’ she exclaimed. ‘Things don’t happen like that in real life.’

‘I suppose not.’ Sister Marie looked marginally more cheerful. ‘Sister, I do feel easier in my mind since we talked. I have been wondering for ages if what I said to poor Carol encouraged her to go on believing that she had a vision – and all the time it must have been someone pretending to be one, mustn’t it?’

‘I doubt if anything you said or didn’t say would make any difference,’ Sister Joan said, robustly. ‘Take the laundry to Sister Katherine and then come to lunch.’

‘Can we go on talking?’

‘No, Sister.’ She firmly quashed the hopeful gleam in the other’s eyes. ‘I had permission to speak to you on a particular topic. General chatter wasn’t included.’

‘And that’s the hardest thing about being a novice,’ Sister Marie said plaintively. ‘You know I never did talk a lot before I came here and now I keep thinking of all kinds of things I want to talk about.’

‘Then I’ll remove the temptation,’ Sister Joan said severely, concealing a smile as she turned in the direction of the chapel.

There was time for an Our Father before she started laying the table. She knelt in her accustomed place, her hand as it reached for her rosary touching a corner of the folded programme she had tucked into her deep pocket.

The events of the past few days had had their own subtle, insidious effect. What little conversation there was centred upon Sister Hilaria’s progress and how soon she might be expected back into the community. Now and then glances were shot towards the two novices who would be sleeping in the main house again. Only old Sister Gabrielle struck an inadvertently lighter note when she enquired, ‘How soon do you think it will be before someone else is murdered?’

‘Really, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy glared the length of the table.

‘Well, these things go in threes,’ Sister Gabrielle said serenely.

But there have already been three, Sister Joan thought, as Sister Martha began to talk about the blessing of having root
vegetables in winter. Sister doesn’t know that. I wonder if the police do.

‘Sister, will you take the car and get the shopping this afternoon?’

She jumped slightly as Mother Dorothy addressed her. The request saved her having to ask for permission.

‘Yes, Mother. Of course.’ She was about to continue when the prioress broke in smoothly.

‘Then if you have any other business in town you can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’ Making her way downstairs with a tray of empty soup bowls, she ran her plan of action swiftly through the sieve of her thoughts.

She could, of course, go immediately to see Detective Sergeant Mill and tell him her theory, but trying to play Holmes to his Watson struck her as absurd. The police were too busy to be able to spare time for women with ideas that were not even half proved. Everything she had heard was merely circumstantial.

‘We need spaghetti, Sister,’ Sister Teresa reminded her.

‘And cheese.’ Sister Joan made the necessary additions to her list. For fruit and vegetables the community relied on its own resources. Fish they occasionally bought but Padraic frequently supplied that need, and bread was baked on the premises.

‘Spaghetti,’ she said aloud, her tone unconsciously wistful, ‘should be served
al
dente
with a cheese sauce flavoured with basil and thinly sliced tomatoes and a bottle of good red wine.’

‘I’ll try,’ Sister Teresa said nervously.

Sister Joan, her mind filled with a sudden, sensuous image of meals enjoyed years before with Jacob, laughed as she went out. These past memories were not lessening but the pain they had once brought was diminishing. Nowadays she remembered only the joyous times.

She drove sedately through the front gates, fixing her mind deliberately on the few groceries to be purchased. Sister Perpetua had always relished her monthly excursions into town. She would be glad to resume them when Sister Hilaria was well again.

There were still a few shops where it was possible to buy things without having to drag round a wire basket. The
Sisters were loyal to these small businesses though she
suspected
they might have saved money by going elsewhere, but it was still nice to be treated with courtesy as if one were a person and not a face in a queue.

She bought the spaghetti, sampled and bought some cheese, and added a small jar of olives in a gesture of unashamed luxury.

When she got into the car again the windows were misted by fine rain. Autumn had slipped away without fanfare and winter peered over the horizon.

‘So whither now?’ she enquired aloud of herself. She could drive to the police station and insist on speaking to Detective Sergeant Mill who, lacking further proof, might snub her as he had every right to do; she could call at the hospital and find out if Sister Hilaria was awake. This latter course struck her as the most potentially fruitful and she drove there briskly.

To her relief it was Constable Stephens and not Sergeant Barratt who rose from the chair by the bed, and greeted her.

‘How are you, Sister Joan? Bent on errands of mercy?’

‘Just looking in at Sister Hilaria.’ Instinctively she had lowered her voice.

‘She’s awake, Sister,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘She dozes off and on, but she hasn’t had much to say.’

‘Sister, how do you feel?’ Going to the bed, taking the policeman’s vacated chair, she bent forward slightly.

‘Much better,’ Sister Hilaria said, weakly but firmly. ‘Everybody has been very kind. Most kind.’

‘You’ve made good progress, thank God.’ Sister Joan laid her hand briefly over the other’s. ‘Of course we’ve all been praying for you.’

‘The novices?’ Sister Hilaria hitched herself higher on the pillows. ‘Sister Elizabeth and Sister Marie? Are they …?’

‘Oh, they’re both anxious for you to return,’ Sister Joan assured her, ‘but Sister Perpetua is deputizing for you at the moment.’

‘I told them about the vision,’ Sister Hilaria said, her pale face troubled. ‘I never do speak of such experiences, as you know, but sometimes it is good to remind the young ones of the joy of a vocation, of how near heaven is to earth.’

‘The vision of Our Blessed Lady?’ Sister Joan said cautiously.

‘Yes, but – it wasn’t. It wasn’t what I thought it was.’

‘I don’t understand, Sister. You mean you were mistaken?’

‘Mistaken? Yes, very much mistaken,’ Sister Hilaria said. ‘Our Blessed Lady rode a donkey. She did ride a donkey.’

‘Yes. Yes, so we are told.’

‘Or walked. There were no motor vehicles in those days. Even if She were seen today one cannot imagine Her on a bus or in a pick-up.’

‘A pick-up?’ Perhaps she had spoken too sharply. The older woman’s lips were suddenly pressed tightly together.

‘You went outside the gates.’ Sister Joan resumed on another tack.

‘Oh, that was a bad example to set,’ Sister Hilaria said sighingly. ‘I was supposed to take the novices across to the main house for a talk from Mother Dorothy, as I usually do. They were writing their spiritual diaries and I went out for a breath of air.’

‘Surely there’s no harm in that?’

‘No harm and it was only to the gates. I stood there and then I saw …’ Sister Hilaria stopped abruptly, tightening her lips again.

‘Yes?’

‘I cannot tell you more Sister Joan. I gave my word,’ Sister Hilaria said.

‘But why shouldn’t you tell me what happened?’ Sister Joan asked in conclusion.

‘Mother Dorothy wishes me to keep my own counsel,’ Sister Hilaria said. She was drifting into sleep again but her voice remained firm. ‘It’s a question of obedience.’

When it came to a question of obedience Sister Hilaria couldn’t be moved and she would be wasting her breath. She stayed a few moments longer, giving the novice mistress encouraging titbits of news about the splendid way the novices were coping, and was surprised to startle a chuckle out of the older woman.

‘Sister Marie is quite an original, isn’t she? Always ready to drop everything and comment upon the human condition. Sometimes I am hard put to it to answer her queries. Now Sister Elizabeth accepts everything she is told without question. Both of them have strong vocations but I visualize Sister Marie as a future prioress.’

‘I didn’t realize …’ Sister Joan flushed and stammered herself to a stop.

‘That I evaluated the novices?’ The pale, prominent eyes were amused. ‘Dear Sister Joan, but I would be a very bad novice mistress if I spent all my life in the enjoyment of private revelations and neglected the needs of such ardent young souls.’

‘Yes, of course, Sister Hilaria.’

Rising to leave Sister Joan felt an unwonted humility. It was so easy to put others into neat little categories and leave them there, without troubling to discover other facets of their personalities.

But for the moment she had work to do. She went back to the car and sat there, studying the programme in her pocket and the list of mental homes that she had culled from the library. Later on there would be a telephone call to make but she would be better able to control the expression on her face if she didn’t have all the relevant information.

She drove slowly out of the town, taking the road that led to
the industrial estate, resisting the temptation to call in at the police station and seek out Detective Sergeant Mill. While she was talking to him other evidence might be destroyed.

The houses with their raw red roofs and half-finished gardens were like a rash over the hillside. She reminded herself that to the families who lived there the characterless houses probably represented security and happiness. In thirty years’ time the estate would have mellowed, blended into the landscape. Perhaps a sense of real neighbourliness would have grown up.

Daisy Barratt must have been polishing the windowsill or something since she had opened the front door before Sister Joan had set foot on the path.

‘Good afternoon, Sister. Nothing wrong, I hope?’ Her hands twisted nervously.

‘Nothing at all,’ Sister Joan reassured her. ‘I happened to be passing and thought I would call. Is it inconvenient?’

‘No indeed, Sister. I’m very pleased to see you. How is Sister – Hilaria?’

‘Much better and due to be discharged very soon if I read the signs aright.’ She stepped into the shining little hall and stood as Daisy closed the door.

‘So soon? Then she wasn’t seriously hurt?’

‘Only her memory.’ Sister Joan followed the other into the spotless dining-room. ‘She has no memory of the accident yet. Well, not any memory she has confided to me anyway. That was a very nasty blow on the head though. It does look as if she was hit by the pick-up truck from the Romany camp. It isn’t a large truck but still one wouldn’t like to be run over by it.’

‘I told my husband that it was a disgrace to have those gypsies allowed to wander all over the place,’ Daisy said, running the edge of her hand across the highly polished surface of the table. ‘Unhygienic and immoral.’

‘They really aren’t as bad as many people imagine,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Once you get to know them they seem almost like everybody else – except for poor Luther of course. He is certainly a trifle peculiar – a little lacking in his wits, I fear.’

‘I don’t know any of them,’ Daisy said. She sounded prim.

‘Well, they provide a certain amount of colour, I suppose,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Will you have a cup of tea, Sister?’ Daisy glanced towards the kitchen door.

A cup of tea would have been nice but she doubted if she could stand the fuss and bother that went with it.

‘I really haven’t time. I merely called in on an impulse, just to find out how you were. Have you made any friends yet?’

‘Oh no, Sister.’ Daisy looked even more prim. ‘No indeed I haven’t. I came to the conclusion that it really is much better to keep myself to myself – on account of my husband’s position, you know. He has always been very strict about that and I may be out of date but I do feel one ought to obey one’s husband.’

‘Then you must have a lot of time on your hands.’

‘Oh no, Sister.’ Daisy shook her head. ‘There’s the cooking and cleaning and the shopping and the planning of the garden and – no, I have very little leisure.’

‘It seems to be a sad feature of modern life,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I mean today we have all kinds of electrical gadgets they never dreamed of a hundred years ago, and yet our ancestors seemed to have time for so many things – watercolours and lace-making and tapestrywork and that white on white embroidery that looks so delicate.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t sew at all,’ Daisy said.

‘Such a nice way of passing the time. One of our novices looks to me as if she might be talented in that direction – long fingers, you know. I’ve had a little more to do with the novices since Sister Hilaria was hurt. Sister Marie – but you may know her. She comes from Birmingham.’

‘Birmingham is a very large place.’

‘Perry Barr, I believe,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Perry Barr?’ Daisy wrinkled her forehead slightly. ‘No, I can’t say that I know …’

‘A nice child anyway,’ Sister Joan said. ‘A trifle too apt to chatter but that’s a habit she will learn to control. Which reminds me that a pot ought not to call the kettle black. I’ve the shopping to take back and you must have lots to do.’

Exactly what those would be since the entire house appeared to be in pristine condition she couldn’t imagine, but Daisy was nodding and opening the door and then she herself was in the short driveway again. She turned to lift her hand in farewell but the front door was already closed again.

There remained only the telephone call. A kiosk,
fortunately
not vandalized, stood on the corner where the road joined the track to the moors and the Romany camp. She stopped the car and went in, pulling the door shut, checking the number, sacrificing some of her monthly pocket money in what she thought wryly was rather like a peace offering to her conscience. Not that she had any intention of telling lies and Mother Dorothy had given her permission to act as she saw fit, but she was certainly going to prevaricate a little.

When she came out of the kiosk she was paler than before but quite composed. What she had begun to suspect from the flotsam and jetsam of information she had garnered was proving to be true. The jigsaw was falling into place. The thought of it gave her no pleasure.

‘Are you all right, Sister?’ Sister Teresa gave her a worried glance as she carried her purchases into the kitchen. ‘You look tired.’

‘Don’t remind me of my advancing age, Sister.’ Her joke was half-hearted and she was forced to smile a little too widely. ‘Put these away for me, will you? I want to go into chapel for a while.’

Want? Need? When did one become the other? Kneeling, her hands tightly clasped, she sent her problem into the silence and received silence back again.

When she finally rose her chin was tilted in the way her two brothers would have called ‘our Joan’s mulish look’. All the tiny pieces fitted but separately each one might be explained away especially by someone with a vested interest in the result. There was no point in telephoning the police sation.

‘Sister Teresa?’ Returning to the kitchen she addressed the other.

‘Yes, Sister?’

‘Will you make certain that the two novices don’t leave the house during the recreation period after supper?’ Sister Joan asked. ‘Keep them both indoors and don’t leave them.’

‘Yes, Sister.’ The other gave her a faintly puzzled look but asked nothing further.

Sister Teresa was a treasure, she reflected. A sound, honest young woman who would make an excellent nun. While the professed sisters were at recreation she would guard them unquestioningly as faithfully as any watchdog.

There remained Sister Katherine to see. Leaving Sister Teresa to get on with cooking the supper she went in search of her and found her where she usually was, seated on the floor of her cell, engaged in the embroidery of a cope ordered by a provincial bishop.

‘Sister, forgive me for disturbing you but may I borrow the keys of the linen cupboard?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course, Sister.’ Sister Katherine detached them from their place on her belt. ‘Is there anything I can get for you?’

‘No thank you, Sister.’

Sister Katherine who was blessedly uncurious nodded amicably and drew a silver thread through green silk with an air of absorption.

The linen cupboard so called was actually a small room on the upper floor, its walls lined with deep shelves on which the sorted and numbered linen was laid. It smelt of soapflakes and sunshine and there was a tactile delight in the handling of cotton and starched linen. She stepped to the section where the clean habits lay and took out one of the pink smocks that the novices wore while they spent the first two years in the postulancy. There was a spare bonnet, deep brimmed and of straw, on a higher shelf. She took it down, wrapped both bonnet and smock in a sheet and left the room. She would return the keys later. The word ‘later’ had a pleasantly optimistic ring. She repeated it mentally as she went downstairs again and left both garments and keys in the lay cell where she now slept.

Nothing now remained but to wait. Waiting, she decided, was one of the hardest things in the world to do. She started piling up dishes and getting out knives and forks. At such a time it was better to force one’s concentration on to mundane matters.

Supper passed with Sister Perpetua reading some of
The Interior Castle
by Saint Teresa of Avila. Much as Sister Joan relished the brilliance and humanity of that great work she would have preferred something less daunting as she ate her supper. When it came to the exploration of her own interior castle she had the uneasy notion that she was still sweeping the rubbish out of the courtyard.

She sent Sister Teresa a reminding glance as the other
collected the two novices and bore them down to the kitchen. She was confident that Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth would be safe while she herself took her place in the semi-circle and tried to take an intelligent interest in the various
unexceptionable
subjects that Mother Dorothy raised as suitable subjects for conversation. By common consent nobody spoke of the
murders
though Sister Gabrielle remarked obliquely, ‘Isn’t it odd how at recreation we always end up chattering about things we have not the slightest interest in?’

Sister Perpetua cast the old lady an apprehensive look and launched into a somewhat muddled account of a holiday one of her nephews was thinking of taking.

‘A very lovely country if I could only recall its name. But they alter so.’

‘Time for chapel.’ Mother Dorothy brought recreation to an end.

Sister Joan, who had worked only a few rows of the scarf she was knitting, put wool and needles back on the table with relief and filed down the stairs with her companions. She felt a rush of relief for a different reason when, entering the chapel, she saw Sister Teresa kneeling with her fellow novices.

The service proceeded calmly along the usual lines. No shocks or surprises to mar the cadences of prayer and worship. Part of her stood aside and marvelled that nobody turned to give her a puzzled glance. Surely someone could sense the turmoil inside her.

It seemed not. Mother Dorothy rose and went to the door to give the great blessing; the grand silence fell like a curtain over any possibility of conversation.

In the lay cell she swiftly changed her grey habit and white veil for the smock and straw bonnet worn by the novices during the first two years of their training. Her fingers fumbled with the strings and she was aware of her heart beating rapidly.

Perhaps she was being a fool? Perhaps nothing would happen, no one come, or perhaps even now as she scribbled a hasty note and pinned it to the back of her door the last moments of her life were ticking inexorably past.

And that, she told herself scoldingly, was ridiculous. She had always been capable of talking her way out of anything, according to Jacob. Strange that she should think of Jacob
now, his clever, dark face, his obstinacy, his gift for making other people look at the world in a different way.

She opened the door and looked out into the kitchen. There was still a faint warmth lingering from the old-fashioned cooker and through the uncurtained window the faint greyness of emerging moonlight. She unbolted the door, tensing as it grated a little, and stepped into the yard. For a moment she stood, feeling the cold as it swept through her smock, wishing she had had the forethought to bring a cloak. Then she dipped her head and set off across the yard into the enclosure. The heavy torch was hidden against her side. As a last resort it might serve as a defensive weapon, but she prayed silently it wouldn’t be necessary. Meanwhile she didn’t reveal its existence by switching it on, but found her way by moonlight and memory through the gates, past Sister Martha’s vegetable plot and neatly pruned roses and the tiny cemetery where other sisters slept even more soundly than those in the main house and went down the steps into the sunken tennis court.

So far – nothing. Not a footfall save her own ruffled the silent ground. Apart from her own somewhat ragged breathing there was only the wind as it swooped down to rusting posts and a tangle of broken net.

She had reached the postulancy. It stared blank eyed from behind the low wall. Her own novitiate had been spent in the London house where the postulancy was a separate wing and not a separate building altogether. She had taken the spare key from its hook and used it now to open the front door. It was a pity that she didn’t have a dog with her, she thought suddenly. There was something very reassuring about a large, padding dog with a rough warm coat.

She closed the door behind her with a slight and deliberate bang. It was time to advertise her presence, to tell whoever might be lurking within earshot that the postulancy was occupied again. There was a lamp just within the door. She lit it and carried it up the narrow staircase to the cells above. Whoever had stolen the pages from Sister Hilaria’s spiritual diary had almost certainly been forced to look into all the rooms in order to find the right one. Sister Joan hoped they had noticed some evidence of Sister Marie’s occupancy of her own particular cell.