A VOW OF ADORATION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  ‘Alice!’ Inadvertently breaking the grand silence Sister Joan regained her balance and shook her head at the miscreant who immediately dropped to her haunches looking contrite.

  Alice had no business here. She was supposed to be in her basket in the kitchen. Presumably she’d sensed someone in the chapel and come along to investigate, a sign, Sister Joan hoped, that she might have begun to take her role as guard dog more seriously. For a moment more she hesitated and then, moved by an impulse of which she was certain she would later be ashamed, she went to the outer door and drew the bolt.

  ‘Go to bed!’ She mouthed the words at Alice and went back into the chapel. For the next hour at least she was secure in the knowledge that nobody could get in from the outside.

  It was past midnight when she returned to full consciousness of the material world. No great insights had come but she felt more resolute, more clearheaded. She drew back the bolt on the outer door, went through to the main hall and secured the connecting door, looking about her but seeing no sign of the dog. Presumably Alice had gone back to the kitchen. Sister Joan went across to the kitchen wing, trod softly past the infirmary and saw Alice, a dark bulk, curled demurely in her basket. Everything was as it should be within and the problems of the outside world could keep until morning. She moved to twitch the kitchen blind into place and froze, her hand without motion on the edge of the blind, her heart suddenly racing.

  Outside in the yard a tall, cadaverous figure paced slowly across her line of vision and was lost to view. Michael Peter had chosen an unexpected area in which to take a late night walk.

  She let the blind drop, drew a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves and went softly to her cell.

  ‘There is a letter for you from St Catherine’s House,’ Mother Dorothy delayed her after breakfast to tell her. ‘It isn’t personal?’

  ‘No, Mother Prioress.’

  ‘You may have it unopened.’

  The manilla envelope was put into her hand. Sister Joan took it into the antechamber that adjoined the Prioress’s parlour, sat down on the carved wooden bench there and opened it.

  There were the two birth certificates which she had urgently requested. Caroline Hayes, born the 23 February 1972, mother Jessica Hayes and father John Hayes, bank clerk, and Crystal Hayes, born 24th March 1973, mother Jessica Hayes, father John Hayes, bank clerk. Both girls had been born at Marsden Close, Nottinghamshire. There were then two of them, as the photograph in the Peter house had shown. She slid the certificates back in the envelope and went to see to Lilith. There was no sign that anybody had walked in the yard or entered the stable the previous night.

  The van arrived just as she had finished grooming the pony.

  ‘Good morning, Sister.’ Detective Sergeant Mill brought the aura of masculinity into the stable as he put his head round the door. ‘Mother Dorothy said that I’d probably find you here. We can drive the van down again to the station to take your prints and get you up to date on events and then you can bring it back here.’

  ‘Michael Peter was here late last night,’ Sister Joan told him.

  ‘At the convent?’ He looked at her sharply.

  ‘He walked across the yard. I caught a glimpse of him through the kitchen window.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Shortly after twelve.’

  ‘What were you doing prowling round at that ungodly hour? I thought you were all tucked up by ten.’

  ‘Ten-thirty, but I had leave to stay later in the chapel. I saw him for only a moment, but it was definitely him.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I’m sure that he didn’t. Have you arrested him?’

  ‘We’ve not even questioned him yet. I want the autopsy report on Mrs Rufus before I take further steps. I have applied for a search warrant for the house and the antique shop but that will take a little while to come through. Are you ready, Sister?’

  This morning he was, to her relief, brisk and businesslike, with no hint of teasing in voice or eyes. The old team, she thought, taking the keys and mounting up into the driving seat, was back in business, with an easy, undemanding friendliness between the two of them.

  ‘So how are you then?’ he said abruptly, as they were driving through the gates. ‘No ill effects from our last case?’

  ‘None. We have no more money but somehow or other we manage.’

  ‘I filled the petrol tank.’

  ‘I wasn’t hinting,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I know you weren’t, but you do have a habit of helping out to great effect, so it seemed only fair to pay back a little. I must say it feels good to be back in harness. I get restless on holiday.’

  ‘But the boys enjoyed it?’

  ‘I think that I cramp their style,’ he said wryly. ‘They stayed on for a week with their mother, and I came back.’

  ‘Their mother’, not ‘my wife’. Sister Joan said, ‘I got the two birth certificates from St Catherine’s House. It’s just as Caroline told me. You haven’t—?’

  ‘Not yet. By the time we get to the station there should be a forensic report waiting on my desk. Mother Dorothy told me that you’re free for the whole day, so we can get to grips with this without you having to dash off to church. Do you often break the speed limit?’

  ‘Sorry!’ She swerved into the station yard.

  There was no sign of Constable Brown when she went into the reception area. Constable Whitney greeted her with the slightly nervous politeness that non-Catholics were apt to accord nuns, and took her through to have her prints taken, while Detective Sergeant Mill disappeared into his office.

  ‘There we are, Sister Joan!’ He handed her a damp cloth and stood back. ‘You’ve had your fingerprints taken before I understand?’

  ‘Several times.’

  ‘Constable Petrie was telling me, before he went down with the measles, that you’ve been a big help to the Force on several occasions. It must make a bit of a change for you, being involved in a criminal investigation when you spend most of your life shut in.’

  ‘Actually it’s more the other way round,’ Sister Joan said, amused. ‘It’s becoming a nice change for me to spend time in the enclosure.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’ He looked slightly embarrassed at what evidently struck him as an unsuitable vein of humour in a religious, and held open the door. ‘I believe that Detective Sergeant Mill would like a word.’

  ‘The report’s here.’ Detective Sergeant Mill looked up from his desk. ‘Rustle up some coffee, will you, Whitney? As you can see, once you’ve translated all the medical jargon, Mary Rufus was killed by a single blow to the back of the head, and from the angle of the wound it looks as if she was kneeling when she was hit from behind. She was found face down on the new grave.’

  ‘She was kneeling to lay the flowers on the grave?’

  ‘That seems a reasonable assumption. She was killed sometime in the early morning. Exact times are always hard to determine and pathologists always hate being definite. We can place it a little more exactly. She had a return ticket in her handbag to Torquay, one of those day-excursion tickets. The train left at ten-five, so she obviously called in at the cemetery on her way to the station. Michael Peter told you the truth about that anyway.’

  ‘That’s awful.’ Sister Joan took the coffee that Constable Whitney handed her and gazed into its depths. ‘She was carrying out a kindly gesture for a man who’d died without any family being there to pay their last respects and someone crept up behind and struck her down.’

  ‘In the midst of her sins,’ Constable Whitney said.

  ‘D’ye think God doesn’t make allowances for that?’ she demanded sharply. ‘Anyway she was a nice, respectable woman. She’d worked for Michael Peter for years. Has the murder weapon been found?’

  ‘Not yet. There are plenty of large stones lying round the cemetery. Whatever caused the injury was spherical in shape, smooth-surfaced and probably of iron or brass.’

  ‘A large ball of some kin
d? Wouldn’t that’ve been very heavy to carry?’

  ‘The killer was a strong person,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  ‘A globe? One of those balls that used to hang outside pawnbrokers’ establishments?’

  ‘Something antique?’ said Constable Whitney.

  ‘Right then!’ Detective Sergeant Mill drew his pad towards him and began to doodle. ‘I must say that Michael Peter appears to be involved in one way or another in all of this. First his wife stops writing to her father and sister, but sends a signal that she’s in trouble to her sister. Then her father turns up dead in a chapel near the Peter house with three items that belong to him hidden in a toilet roll in Michael Peter’s shower room. Meanwhile Caroline, the sister, turns up, looking for her sister and unaware that her father’s already here. Then Michael Peter’s suitcase, packed with clothes that look as if they belong to his wife, is found on the embankment, and Michael Peter himself tells Sister Joan his wife is touring France with her family, which is a demonstrable lie! And then Michael Peter’s housekeeper is attacked and killed in the cemetery by the grave of the man we now believe to be John Hayes, and Caroline Hayes disappears from the temporary refuge she’d found, leaving bloodstained garments in the boot of an old car. I think we’ll pay him a visit. Sister?’

  ‘I really don’t want to be there,’ she protested.

  ‘You’ve met the man. You’re more likely to pick up something pertinent in his manner or in what he says.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She was here to assist after all, but being present at the questioning of a suspect was something she had hoped to avoid.

  ‘Is our special constable here yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, we’ll leave him to hold the fort. Constable Brown has a long-standing hospital appointment today. Fluid on the knee.’

  Which might well account for his ill temper, Sister Joan thought charitably as she went out to the police car with the two officers.

  They drove through the town, past cemetery and station and took the ring road which curved around the jagged edges of the moor towards the rash of houses, shops and high rise apartments known still as the new estate though it had been established for years.

  ‘The track’s a bit steep. Drive up as far as you can and then park,’ Detective Sergeant Mill instructed. ‘This isn’t going to be an official arrest, but we’ll tape the interview and offer to have his solicitor present. You’re there purely as an observer, Sister. If Michael Peter objects to your presence you’ll have to leave.’

  On a fine morning like this she ought to be riding Lilith over the sparkling grass or arranging flowers in the vase before the Holy Virgin’s altar! Sister Joan lowered her eyes and wished fervently for the calm of the cloister.

  ‘We’ll park here. Whitney, bring the tape recorder. Sister, mind your step. It’s a mite slippery.’

  They scrambled up the last few yards of scree and reached the level ground, bearing to the right where low walls divided the rockery garden from the bracken and heather.

  ‘Lonely place to choose to live,’ Constable Whitney said.

  ‘Michael Peter has the reputation of being a bit of a recluse,’ Detective Sergeant Mill began. ‘Ah, looks as if we’re expected!’

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan!’ Michael Peter had opened the gate and was already loping back into the house. ‘Detective Sergeant — Mill, isn’t it? And Constable—’

  ‘Constable Whitney from Penzance.’

  ‘A most picturesque place, but windy. Do come in. It was very good of you to come so soon. My housekeeper, Mrs Rufus, would be here to greet you but she’s stayed over in Torquay.’

  ‘Oh?’ Detective Sergeant Mill’s face wouldn’t have looked amiss on a top poker player as they trooped into the house.

  ‘There was a message on my answerphone when I got home last night. Rather a bother actually as the house is already getting a trifle dusty. I can make some coffee.’

  ‘Nothing, thank you. Do you mind if we listen to the taped message?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked.

  ‘With pleasure, but I’m afraid I wiped it,’ Michael Peter said. ‘I always wipe messages once I’ve listened to them. She’ll be back tomorrow. What I wished to call you about was a burglary.’

  ‘You called us, sir?’

  ‘Not ten minutes ago. You got here very fast.’

  ‘You’ve been burgled?’ Detective Sergeant Mill took the chair offered.

  ‘Yes. This morning I overslept. Very unusual for me.’

  ‘We did notice your shop hadn’t been opened,’ Constable Whitney said, and subsided at a glance from his superior.

  ‘You wished to see me?’ Michael Peter looked from one to the other. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I rang the station to report a burglary.’

  ‘We wish to have a chat with you concerning Mrs Rufus and one or two other matters,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  ‘Mrs Rufus? She’s in Torquay.’

  ‘I’m afraid she isn’t, sir,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said carefully. ‘I’m very sorry to have to inform you that Mrs Rufus was found dead yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t heard anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Sister Joan, watching closely, could discern nothing in the cadaverous features but surprise and curiosity.

  ‘You were in your shop all day?’

  ‘Yes. No; in the afternoon I went out for a little while. There was a sale at one of the farmhouses so I drove there on the off chance of finding a bargain, but there wasn’t anything that appealed to me. Mrs Rufus dead! I really feel that I ought to have been informed sooner, Detective Sergeant Mill. She had no close family, you know. No next of kin.’

  ‘Would you mind if we switched on the tape recorder? It’s simply routine these days,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  ‘As I’ve never been questioned by the police before I’m afraid that I’m not familiar with the routine,’ Michael Peter said stiffly. ‘I fail to see how I can help you in any case. Mrs Rufus was getting on in years but as far as I know her health was excellent and she did the work here in her own time and at her own pace.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to ring your solicitor, sir, before we proceed any further?’

  Detective Sergeant Mill switched on the tape recorder and looked at the older man.

  ‘A solicitor?’ Michael Peter stared at him. ‘If it’s a question of the bequest that was agreed between us a long time ago, and the solicitor witnessed the papers.’

  ‘Bequest?’

  ‘I aided Mrs Rufus and her late husband to buy their house,’ Michael Peter said. ‘Mr Rufus never earned a great deal and during the eighties property, even over on the new estate, was being advertised at inflated prices, so I paid for most of the house and in return, as neither had any close relatives, it was agreed that the property would revert to me after their deaths. It was all quite legal, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Detective Sergeant Mill frowned and glanced across at Sister Joan.

  Michael Peter, intercepting the glance, said with a faint note of petulance in his tone, ‘May I ask what Sister Joan is doing here?’

  ‘I’m here as an observer but if you wish me to leave then of course—’

  ‘No, no,’ he said irritably. ‘You might as well stay. Did you have the ill fortune to find Mrs Rufus or something? The cemetery? I thought she was going to Torquay. Was she taken ill in the cemetery or something?’

  ‘Shall we ask the questions for the moment, sir?’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. He spoke directly into the recorder, giving time and place, then looked across the pastel-shaded Aubusson carpet at the other. ‘This is an informal chat, sir, but I must make it clear that the interview is being recorded and may therefore be used in evidence.’

  ‘Evidence!’ Michael Peter gave a harsh, rasping little chuckle like a nail being drawn the wrong way over silk. ‘I report a burglary and the next thing I know I’m the one being questioned! I’m
very sorry indeed to hear about Mrs Rufus. She was an excellent worker and a most loyal and discreet housekeeper. But I can tell you nothing about her state of health except that I don’t believe she ever took a day off sick. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what you propose to do about my stolen property?’

  ‘What exactly was taken, sir?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked patiently.

  ‘Let me begin at the beginning,’ Michael Peter said pedantically, clasping one bony hand in the other and leaning forward slightly. ‘Most of my valuables are kept in the shop but I do have some rather nice pieces here. I think that beautiful objects should be lived with. I have security devices in the shop and a burglar alarm here. Unfortunately I neglected to turn it on last night. I was feeling rather tired and went unthinkingly to bed.’

  ‘That was very careless, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Constable Whitney interposed.

  ‘It was exceedingly careless,’ Michael Peter said severely. ‘It means that the insurance company will hesitate about paying anything out. But that is my problem. I overslept this morning as I told you. It wasn’t until I’d had breakfast — coffee and toast — and decided to open later on today — the shop I mean, and came in here to read the Sunday supplement — I didn’t get round to it over the weekend — that I realized that I’d been robbed. There was a Tang horse on the table. Perhaps you remember it, Sister?’

  ‘Yes I do. It was very lovely,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘It wasn’t there,’ Michael Peter continued. ‘I went through into the study at the other end of the house. There are French windows there which are activated when the alarm goes off. The glass in the left-hand one was broken and the door itself unlocked. I sleep at the other side of the house and as I just told you I slept very heavily.’

  ‘What time did you retire last night?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked.

  ‘About eleven.’

  ‘Check the room, Constable.’ Detective Sergeant Mill nodded towards Whitney.