Vow of Obedience (4 page)

‘I telephoned her from the police station and then Detective Sergeant Mill drove me up here, so Lilith is still in town.’

‘And yourself just back from a Holy retreat,’ he said sympathizingly.

‘Yes.’ Settling herself into the priest’s woefully elderly car she felt as if the lochs and hills of Scotland, the retreat high in the cliff face where a person had time to be alone with God, growing further away in her mind, like a picture seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

Father Malone drove fast and not altogether skilfully, uttering small cries of self-recrimination as his wheels bounced against clumps of turf. He said nothing, and she was grateful for the silence. To have been forced to hear platitudes at this moment would have been unbearable.

‘I can walk from here,’ she offered when they reached the gates.

‘Better be safe than sorry, Sister,’ he returned, turning into the drive with a squeal of brakes.

Surely he didn’t fear for her own safety? She cast him a startled glance, but they were already at the front steps.

‘Thank you, Father. Good night.’ She unbuckled her seat belt and alighted, aware from the look on his face that his mind had already moved ahead, to the ordinary house where two parents waited for the news that would shatter their lives.

‘You had better come in, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy had appeared on the step, her habit fluttering in the wind. ‘May I say that it was exceedingly peaceful here while you were away?’

‘You heard what has happened?’ Sister Joan came up the steps.

‘That very polite desk sergeant from the police station had the kindness to telephone me and inform me of the circumstances that had delayed you. Sister, have you been drinking?’

Mother Dorothy was sniffing the air, a look of consternation on her face.

‘They gave me some brandy and I haven’t eaten all day,’ Sister Joan said, torn between a desire to burst into tears and an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle.

‘You need a good hot meal and some strong coffee,’ Mother Dorothy said, becoming all concerned bustle. ‘Supper is over but Sister Perpetua will give you something in the kitchen. Go along there now. Blessing is in half an hour.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’ Sister Joan knelt briefly and continued on her way across the hall.

‘Plaice and chips, Sister,’ Sister Perpetua said brightly as she entered. ‘I kept it hot for you. Coffee?’

‘Isn’t tea better for shock?’ Sister Joan ventured.

‘Coffee is better for alcohol on the breath. Really, Sister.’ The infirmarian clucked her tongue and gave her usual bark of laughter, her face immediately sobering as she added, ‘But very sensible to take a drop. What a dreadful shock you must have had. I was with Mother Dorothy when the call came from the police. Of course we’ve said nothing to any of the others. If it turns out to be that poor girl then Mother Dorothy will make a brief announcement.’

‘I’m afraid it is true.’ Sister Joan was tucking into the meal. ‘Father Malone recognized the girl as one of his parishioners.’

‘And only sixteen.’ Sister Perpetua poured an extra cup of coffee for herself and sat down at the other side of the table. ‘Poor misguided child. I’m assuming she was – unlawfully killed.’

‘Strangled with some kind of cord, I think, and bundled into the school cupboard.’ There was a definite relief in talking. ‘She was wearing a white wedding dress and there was a wreath of leaves on her head.’

‘Then that is truly wicked.’ Sister Perpetua’s high-coloured cheeks had paled and every freckle on her weather-beaten skin stood out. ‘She had taken up with some boy or other, I suppose, and he lured her to the schoolhouse with promises of marriage. Wicked.’

‘I suppose it might have been like that,’ Sister Joan said doubtfully, ‘but why would she have left home in the middle of the night wearing a wedding dress? If she thought she was going to elope she’d surely have dressed in street clothes first.’

‘Perhaps she did.’

‘But her parents said only the nightgown she was wearing and her slippers and dressing-gown had gone.’

‘She might have purchased something they didn’t know about.’

‘I suppose.’ Sister Joan sipped her coffee, weariness stealing over her.

‘Well thank the Good Lord that the solving of it isn’t in our hands,’ Sister Perpetua said fervently. ‘The police will deal with it.’

‘Sister David and I have to go down to the police station tomorrow morning to have our fingerprints taken – for elimination purposes,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Both of us at various times worked at the school.’

‘Such an unpleasant business,’ Sister Perpetua said, the frown on her face deepening. ‘And so unfortunate that you should return from your retreat to have to face it. Do let us talk of something more congenial. Oh, I moved your things into the lay cell. Sister Teresa is still in her cell upstairs but since she is to assist you during this period of her training she can be moved into the adjoining cell, if you wish.’

‘Whatever Mother Prioress deems fit. Thank you for moving my things. I’m afraid we all take advantage of your kindness and hard work.’

‘Nonsense. If we can’t help out wherever and whenever we’re needed then it’s a poor look-out for our souls,’ the other said briskly. ‘Now that you’ll be sleeping down here you will keep an ear open if one of our old ladies requires anything? Sister Mary Concepta sleeps like a top but Sister Gabrielle – well, you know Sister Gabrielle.’

‘An eighty-four-year-old insomniac,’ Sister Joan said with a grin. ‘I’m surprised she isn’t here right now.’

‘We held vigil last night to pray for your safe return,’ Sister Perpetua told her. ‘Sister Gabrielle insisted on joining in and so she’s flat out tonight. Was that the bell?’

The shrill clanging, calling the community to the blessing, rang through the house. Sister Joan put down her half-drunk coffee, and crossed herself in unison with her companion.

The community with the exception of the two oldest nuns who were sleeping filed silently into the chapel. This was the part of the daily ritual that Sister Joan most relished. After the day’s work all the strands were drawn together as they knelt in their accustomed places, the rosaries at their belts sliding through their fingers as they recited the Litany. Sister Joan knelt with the rest, keeping careful custody of her eyes. She had, in any case, no need to study her companions since
their faces were as familiar to her as her own – more familiar since the convent had no mirrors.

Sister Perpetua knelt stiffly, with no more than the faintest intake of breath to betray the rheumatic pain that plagued her knees. Next to her Sister Martha looked as if a breath of wind would blow her away. Sister Joan always felt astonishment when she saw Sister Martha lugging huge bags of compost around the vegetable garden. At the farther side Sister Katherine moved her hands as if she were still spinning the cotton from which she fashioned the exquisite lace that brought in regular profits for the order.

In the row behind Sister David was gabbling softly, always a syllable ahead of everybody else. With her rabbit features and her granny specs she reminded Sister Joan of a Disney creation. A nice, kind, timid, over-zealous little creation, she amended. Empty seats separated her from Sister Teresa, who having completed her two years in the postulancy, was now with the rest of the community to work out her third year of training before the two years of virtual silence that would bring the five-year training to an end. Sister Joan had little knowledge of Sister Teresa who had only just moved from the status of postulant, a change signified by the white veil she wore over her blue habit.

There was a slight rustling as Sister Hilaria glided in, a few minutes late and, as usual, sublimely unconscious of the fact. Behind her the two postulants in their white bonnets settled themselves meekly. Elizabeth and Marie, Sister Joan remembered. She had caught fleeting glimpses of them – both young girls who had turned their backs on discos and boy-friends and secular life in order to immure themselves for the rest of their lives. She herself hadn’t entered the religious life until she was thirty – a latish vocation by most standards, but she had brought some experience and a little worldly wisdom with her. Sisters Elizabeth and Marie were scarcely more than schoolgirls, not much older than the girl who huddled in the school cupboard with a red line round her neck and a fading wreath on her head.

‘Sisters in Christ, we are very happy to have Sister Joan back in our midst,’ Mother Dorothy was saying, with what sounded like absolute sincerity. ‘She has, as we all know, been on retreat in Scotland and we look forward to seeing the
pictures she has painted while she was there. She has also agreed to take over the duties of lay sister for the time being until we can find one but Sister Teresa will be doing most of the cooking.’

A ripple of laughter ran round the community.

‘I have graver news.’ Mother Dorothy frowned as if she were marshalling her thoughts. ‘You may have heard of the recent disappearance of a sixteen-year-old girl from the town. She has been found and it seems clear she was the victim of violence. This tragedy does not concern us directly, but Valerie Pendon was a Catholic and I know that all of you will wish to pray for her.’

There was a little murmur of assent, hands rising to sketch the sign of the cross. Sister Joan was aware of a few covert glances darted in her direction. Her absence from chapel and supper had been noted and conclusions drawn.

The prioress finished speaking, turned to the altar and genuflected. Then, she walked to the door, took the small lamp already burning there and raised it. With one accord, their physical actions perfectly co-ordinated, the sisters genuflected and filed out, each one kneeling before Mother Dorothy in order to receive the final blessing of the day which marked the start of the grand silence.

‘If you wish to take a short walk in the enclosure before you retire,’ Mother Dorothy said unexpectedly, ‘you may do so for twenty minutes, Sister Joan.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’

Sister Joan hoped she didn’t sound as surprised as she felt. Mother Dorothy was not one to bend any rules, but she seemed to have divined the need for fresh air and the healing silence of the outdoors that Sister Joan was feeling. It was good of her to make such a concession.

As she went out into the cool dark, she reminded herself that it was Mother Dorothy who had suggested she wear jeans under her habit when she rode out on the moor. Mother Dorothy, she decided, had more understanding than appeared on the surface.

Turning aside, her eyes growing accustomed to the dark, she unlatched the wicker gate that led into the enclosure garden.

Sister Martha worked wonders here – using the space with
imagination, weaving narrow paths between beds of herbs whose fragrance haunted the air even in winter. In one corner white headstones glimmered, each one the last resting place of a sister of the order. If she remained in the Cornwall House her bones too would rest here one day.

The moon, rising, illuminated the flying remnants of roses clinging stubbornly to their thorny stems. Against the wind the high hedge of elderberry afforded more shelter and privacy. She walked through to the further gate and stood, leaning her arms on it, letting the breeze lift her short veil.

A young girl had been killed. She, Sister Joan, had found the body. She had no more personal connection with the tragedy than that. Yet within herself the desire to find out, to know, was becoming stronger. With slight shame she acknowledged to herself that part of her was angry that someone should have used the school where children had spent their days as a hiding place for the body. Not that it mattered to poor Valerie Pendon where she had been put, but the violence that had ended her young life was somehow insulting when it was carried out in a place where the innocence of children had reigned.

Surely the moor had been searched immediately after the news of her disappearance had been given, and the school building included as a matter of course? They would argue that the murder had been committed elsewhere and the body hidden after the searchers had gone away again.

She bit her lip, realizing that she was in danger of getting her thoughts involved in something which wasn’t her business.

‘This may be the hardest cross you ever have to bear,’ her novice mistress had once told her. ‘The Daughters of Compassion are only semi-enclosed which means there is always a fine balance between the life of the spirit and the duties of one’s more mundane life. You have lived as an independent woman for several years, have earned your own living, made your own decisions. I am not saying the life of the spirit was not of vital importance to you. I am saying that from the time you enter the religious life the spirit must order and illuminate every pursuit. Your life must become single pointed, with everything subordinated to the one ideal.’

How glibly she had responded, brushing aside the idea that
she might find some difficulties in her chosen vocation. Even the word ‘chosen’ had meant something different from what she had first imagined.

‘We do not choose our vocation,’ Mother Agnes had said. ‘Our vocation chooses us and we forget that at our peril.’

Then why, Sister Joan asked silently, having chosen me does my vocation hide itself away, constantly thrusting me into situations where I have to face the mundane world again? Someone else could have found poor Valerie Pendon. Why did it have to be me faced with a problem that has to be solved by other people?

She was venturing dangerously close to self-pity, she decided, and with a small grimace at her own foolishness, opened the gate and went down the shallow mossed steps that led to the old tennis courts where the Tarquins had once played. They were unweeded now with the posts rusted and the nets gone. Sister Martha occasionally mourned over the wasted space and there had been some talk of playing the occasional game to provide physical recreation but nothing had come of it, and they stretched before her, echoing to the sound of her feet. At the far end a low wall divided the postulancy from the enclosure proper.

The small house had once been a dower house and served its present purpose admirably. For the first two years of their training the novices were segregated as strictly as if they all carried the bubonic plague, attending the services but not the general confession, taking the lowest place at table, helping with the manual work without exchanging a word with any professed nun except the prioress and their novice mistress, spending an enormous proportion of their time in meditation and lessons. Only those absolutely suited to the life managed to struggle through. She had often thought that if it were as hard to get married as to become a nun there would be fewer divorces.