A VOW OF FIDELITY an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  BODY OF MISSING SCHOOLBOY FOUND

  Her eyes lit on the headline and she felt a dart of sick excitement. Johnny had been found then. Suddenly she didn’t want to know what had happened to him. Reading about the case made her a voyeur, poking her fingers into other people’s tragedies. Yet it was impossible not to read the item.

  The remains of a child found buried in a field on the outskirts of Maidstone in Kent have been identified as Johnny Clare, the nine-year-old schoolboy from Chelsea, who disappeared six years ago. Preliminary reports indicate that the boy was sexually assaulted and then had his throat cut. Forensic scientists are now making more detailed examinations. The news was given to his adoptive parents by Christchurch police, the Clares having emigrated to New Zealand three months ago.

  It was all there if only she could see it as a whole, and not in little snippets, odd names and words that matched if only she had the key.

  She flicked tremblingly through the other newspapers but there was nothing more about Johnny Clare, no account of anyone ‘helping the police with their enquiries’, no interview with the bereaved parents. There was a brief item reporting the tragic death of Sarah Smith, ‘wife of the portrait painter Derek Smith’ and another longer item about Bryan Grimes, ‘the well-known illustrator of children’s books’, and that seemed to be all.

  One thing was certain. The newspapers would have to be given to Detective Sergeant Mill before he came to give his lecture on Wednesday afternoon. She would ask Mother Dorothy if she could take Lilith for a gallop after Mass in the morning. She was more likely to get permission for that than for driving the van on the Sabbath.

  There were voices in the hall, the sound of the front door closing. She slipped the newspapers back into the carrier bag, thrust it under her camp bed and opened the door.

  ‘There you are, Sister dear!’ Paul stood in the narrow hallway, his eyes over-bright, his mouth twisting slightly.

  She nodded, a finger to her lips, and raised her brows questioningly.

  ‘Ah! The grand silence has begun!’ he said mockingly. ‘Will you save your scolding for me until the morning? I’ve had a couple too many I fear. I never could resist ye olde worlde hostelry with a plethora of fake beams! I saw lights on the moor. Most romantic! I don’t know if anyone else is out or not. I saw nobody and kept my own counsel!’

  He put a long finger to his nose and went on up the stairs, leaving her to stare after him. Whatever he had taken hadn’t been alcohol, she thought. There was no smell on his breath, nothing to suggest the faint thickening of the voice that alcohol caused, not the smallest unsteadiness in his gait. Cocaine? Pep pills? She had no idea of the immediate effect of such drugs.

  ‘Was that Paul?’ Serena came out of the recreation room, yawning. ‘I’m going up to bed now. The car drive made me so tired. Night.’

  She waggled her fingers and went slowly up the stairs.

  Sister Joan went into the recreation room where Dodie was putting away the Scrabble set neatly. Dodie had always been neat. Had Sister Joan been asked to predict the future course of Dodie’s life she would have guessed marriage to a professional man, two children, her talent bringing in a little extra money to be used for family treats. The bruises told another story. Did the estimable Colin come home from work and batter Dodie sometimes? Wife-beating wasn’t confined to the slums. Dodie lived in Maidstone. It was in a field outside Maidstone that poor little Johnny Clare had been found. Johnny Clare, adopted son of Henry Clare, engineer. Dodie’s husband was an engineer. There were apparent links that might not be links at all.

  Dodie looked up, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Sister Joan gave her an encouraging nod, designed to convey that the visitors weren’t bound by any rule of silence, but Dodie shook her head, turning suddenly to the box of Scrabble, her small fingers darting into the bag of letters.

  The letters were laid on the table, her fingers adjusting them, and then she was gone, almost running from the room.

  LOCK YOUR DOOR. Only that. Sister Joan stared down at them, then swept them back into the bag. She would certainly lock her door. She wondered why Dodie had suddenly been impelled to warn her.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ Fiona poked her blonde head round the door. ‘Oh, there you are! I know you’re not allowed to talk but do they let you listen?’

  Sister Joan nodded.

  ‘Barbara came with us in the end,’ Fiona said, seating herself and looking with disfavour at a rip in her tights. ‘Dodie decided to stay in and play Scrabble. We walked for ages. Derek took one of the torches but the moonlight was quite bright in places. We’re late because we ran into a crowd of gypsies, all looking for a child who hadn’t gone home. Derek and Barbara offered to go with them to search and I said I’d come back and tell you not to wait up because Barbara says she’ll lock the front door when they get in and you have to get up at some unearthly hour! Is there a cup of tea going?’

  Sister Joan nodded and went out, crossing to the small kitchen, busying herself. At her heels Fiona was hovering, her voice light and quick, her breathing rapid.

  ‘You know I do think that the others have changed terribly! I hardly recognized Barbara and Paul is grown so spiteful! I do hope they’re not going to spoil things for the rest of us during this retreat!’

  Sister Joan hoped nobody was going to spoil anything but had the gravest doubts. One thing at least was clear to her. Some of those who were here intended to make use of her in order to discover the truth behind Serge Roskoff’s death. Barbara, at least, had finally admitted it. She wondered if Fiona was party to anything. Fiona was so pretty and scatterbrained that people mistakenly regarded her as stupid.

  ‘Well, I’ll not worry you again,’ Fiona chattered, taking the tea. ‘Oh, I think I can hear Barbara and Derek coming back. I wonder if they’ve found that little boy.’

  Derek had opened the front door and ushered Barbara within. Both looked tired and slightly windswept.

  ‘Not a sign of the kid,’ Barbara said. ‘The others — the gypsies said they’d go on looking all night. I told them they ought to report it to the police but they don’t seem too keen on that idea.’

  ‘I believe gypsies usually steer clear of the law,’ Derek said, looking amused.

  ‘Even so!’ Fiona said. ‘When it’s a child—’

  ‘Who will probably turn up safe and sound having spent the night poaching,’ Derek soothed. ‘Is there any more tea where that came from? I’m parched.’

  ‘Speaking of thirst is Paul back?’ Barbara enquired. ‘We saw his car.’

  ‘My car.’ Derek looked slightly annoyed.

  ‘Yes, your car.’ Barbara nodded and went into the kitchen.

  Sister Joan pointed to the ceiling and nodded to indicate that everybody was in, and went to the front door to bolt it.

  As she turned to watch the three of them go across into the recreation room, when she thought of the three who had already gone upstairs, she couldn’t help wondering if she had just bolted danger out or in.

  Nine

  It wasn’t until she’d tethered Lilith in the yard at the side of the police station that she realized that on Sunday morning Detective Sergeant Mill was unlikely to be at his desk. Mother Dorothy had given permission for the ride without question, adding, ‘As long as our guests are not neglected I see no reason why you shouldn’t take a short break from time to time, and Lilith is in need of a good gallop.’

  Sister Teresa and Sister Marie had gone over to the postulancy to make a light breakfast for the guests, only one of whom had surfaced. As she went through the front door Paul, in a dressing-gown of such vivid hues it would have made Liberace cringe, called from the head of the stairs, ‘Good morning! Any chance of getting some Sunday newspapers?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. How are you this morning?’

  ‘Fine. Shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Good,’ Sister Joan said coldly, and went out into the early morning air.

  Paul had followed
her, his dressing-gown clashing with the pale gold of the morning.

  ‘You sound cross, Sister dear,’ he said.

  ‘I was hoping nobody would bring dope here,’ she said frankly.

  ‘I didn’t.’ He spread his hands palm up. ‘I keep a teeny-weeny supply in the car.’

  ‘In Derek’s car. Does he know?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t mind.’ He sounded so casual that her irritation increased.

  Sharply she said, ‘Look! Don’t you have a driving ban? That was why you came down with Derek, right? You drove off down to the village happily enough last night.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think of it at the time. Are you going to drive again?’

  ‘Probably not.’ He sent her a lazy smile. ‘If you really insist I’ll stay off the dope too.’

  ‘That,’ said Sister Joan with asperity, ‘would be appreciated!’

  The moor had been deserted. No sign of searchers combing the bracken. No sign of Brother Cuthbert either who, in any case, generally spent Sundays in meditation and prayer once he had attended Mass in the parish church. Perhaps Finn Boswell had been found safe and well. Her spirits lifted at the thought, and she allowed Lilith to have her head, tearing over the short, autumn-browned grass while Sister Joan, the skirt of her habit flying up, blessed Mother Dorothy for having had the good sense to allow her to wear jeans under her habit when she went riding.

  The town had a Sunday feeling. From first one steeple, then another, bells pealed. She stopped at a newsagent’s and bought a selection of Sunday newspapers, loaded them into the saddle-bag, tethered Lilith to the post and went into the station, the carrier bag containing the old newspapers in her hand.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan.’ Constable Petrie raised his head from the tabloid spread out before him on the reception desk. ‘Nothing wrong up at the convent I hope?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Constable. I brought these in for Detective Sergeant Mill to see. Can you see that he gets them?’

  ‘You can give them to him yourself, Sister,’ the young constable said. ‘He’s in his office.’

  ‘Oh! Thank you.’ She moved to the half-glass door and tapped on it.

  ‘Sister Joan!’ He looked up from the notes he was making with an expression of pleased surprise. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure! Sit down!’

  ‘I brought the newspapers in that I took from Serge’s flat. I didn’t know you worked on Sundays.’

  She put the carrier bag on the table and sat down.

  ‘One Sunday in three. It’s generally a very quiet day. After Saturday night the local criminals take a holiday! Have you found anything in these?’

  ‘One or two odd coincidences. The little boy who was abducted and found dead years later — Johnny Clare?’

  ‘I don’t think I recall the case. Bring me up to date and tell me what it has to do with your present concerns — that’s if you have time?’

  ‘A limited amount.’ She folded her hands in her lap and hesitated.

  Detective Sergeant Mill had complimented her once that she gave evidence more clearly and concisely than anyone he knew outside the Force. At this moment she felt inadequate, too many imponderables muddling her thinking.

  ‘Take your time,’ he encouraged.

  ‘Ten years ago a nine-year-old schoolboy from Chelsea was abducted and not found until six years later when his remains were discovered in a field near Maidstone in Kent. His throat had been cut. As far as I know nobody was ever arrested for the crime.’

  ‘Now I remember it.’ He nodded, frowning. ‘The child’s body had been rather better preserved than is usual. Some minerals in the soil or something. Didn’t they find out he’d been assaulted?’

  ‘Yes, poor child!’ Instinctively she raised her hand to bless herself, caught the detective sergeant’s agnostic eye, and continued hastily, ‘He was an adopted child. His father, adoptive father I mean, was Henry Clare, an engineer. By the time the body was found the Clares had given up hope and returned to New Zealand.’

  ‘Where your friend, Barbara Ford, went.’

  ‘After her father didn’t remarry,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Have you asked her about that yet?’

  ‘There hasn’t been the right moment. She has admitted that she and Paul both knew that Serge was dead before I went to his flat.’

  ‘Then why let you go?’

  ‘Apparently they’d seen my name in connection with something I’d helped out with and decided that I might be useful in some way. The reunion provided them with the opportunity to involve me. I was naturally curious about Serge’s suicide and I naturally began asking questions. In other words they tried to use me!’

  ‘Would you have helped if they’d asked you outright?’ he enquired.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She rose abruptly and went over to the window to stare through the frosted panes at the vague outlines of the yard. ‘I’m a nun, not a detective! My first duty is to the community.’

  ‘I thought it was to God,’ he observed mildly.

  ‘Yes, of course. That goes without saying!’ She swung round impatiently. Her fists clenched. ‘I am not a free agent, Alan! I must be faithful to the vows that I made before anything else. Old comradeship is no more than an exercise in nostalgia. I can’t indulge in it.’

  ‘But you want to find out the truth?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I do.’ She came back to the chair and sat down abruptly. ‘Someone wanted to get us all together for this reunion. Someone sent round the photographs. Oh, it was Barbara who took the photograph. The camera had one of those timing devices and she set it and barely got into her place before the flash went off. Her face is a bit blurred. She says she didn’t send the photograph round. They all say that. And Serge didn’t because he’d had one sent to him.’

  ‘The girl Patricia Mayne told you that?’

  ‘Yes. She mentioned the newspapers too.’ Sister Joan was struck by a thought. ‘Do you think she was there to pique my curiosity further with her hints about Serge not having committed suicide?’

  ‘I doubt if they’re all in league to draw you into their amateur investigations,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right. I’m starting to feel paranoid,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘It’s just that some of them seem so — altered. I know people do mature, change a little, but Barbara has a hard, brilliant edge to her that I’d never have thought she’d acquire in a thousand years, and Paul — Paul used to be so nice, Alan! I didn’t know he was gay then. Twenty years ago people weren’t as open about such things as they are today. He was gentle and rather sweet-natured, and now he’s bitchy and mocking, and so is Dodie.’

  ‘But she’s not gay?’

  ‘Married. Her husband Colin Mason is an engineer and they live in Maidstone.’

  ‘Interesting.’ He had made the connection and was jotting something down on a piece of paper.

  ‘Her shoulders are covered with bruises,’ Sister Joan said tensely. ‘I walked in on her when she was changing for supper and though she quickly pulled up her robe I saw them clearly. I haven’t asked her about them. Last night I thought she wanted to say something to me privately but the grand silence had begun. She took some letters from the Scrabble game and made a sentence. Lock your door. Just those three words.’

  ‘I trust that you did,’ he said mildly.

  ‘I didn’t want anyone finding the newspapers,’ she said.

  ‘And you’ve looked through them again?’ He reached for the carrier bag, drew out the papers and glanced up at her.

  ‘Only the items about Johnny Clare.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the little boy going missing from the gypsy camp.’

  ‘There’s a child missing from there?’

  ‘Yes. Surely they’ve reported it!’ Sister Joan experienced a moment’s bewilderment before she exclaimed, her brow clearing, ‘Obviously he’s home safely. The men from the camp were out on the moor looking for him last nig
ht.’

  ‘And you connected one child with another? That’s rather strange logic.’

  ‘It wasn’t logic at all,’ she protested. ‘It was simply instinct. I didn’t connect them in any real sense. It was simply that when Padraic told me there was a child missing I vaguely recalled seeing something about a missing child in one of the old newspapers and I looked it up. And there were links between Johnny Clare and the class I was in in 1974!’

  ‘Very tenuous ones,’ he objected.

  ‘Barbara Ford went to New Zealand and Johnny’s adoptive parents came from there and went back there when they’d given up hope of finding Johnny. Henry Clare was an engineer and Dodie married an engineer, and she lives in Maidstone where Johnny’s remains were found.’

  ‘New Zealand is a very large country,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. ‘There are thousands of engineers working in the country, and we don’t even know if Dodie and her husband were living in Maidstone at the time the remains of Johnny Clare were found there. You’re trying to make an omelette without any eggs, Sister.’

  ‘It does sound a bit thin,’ she admitted.

  ‘On the other hand instinct does count for something. I’ll check into the Johnny Clare case first thing tomorrow. If nobody was ever arrested it’ll still be on open file. Have you worked out what the written numbers at the side mean?’

  ‘I haven’t looked at them again. May I jot them down?’

  ‘Of course. D’ye need a pencil?’

  ‘I have one attached to my little notebook.’

  ‘Do you also carry a knife that takes stones out of horses’ hooves?’ he enquired dryly.

  ‘I’ll provide myself with one,’ she promised lightly. ‘May I have the numbers please?’

  ‘The first one is ten, dot, eight, dot seventy-five.’

  ‘The tenth of August, 1975?’

  ‘Did anything happen on that date you remember? You’d still have been in college.’

  ‘On vacation. No, I don’t recall anything special happening during that vacation.’

  ‘Did you all keep in touch during the vacations?’