Vow of Poverty

by Black, Veronica

  Ten

  Monday had passed quietly. Sister Joan, drinking her cup of breakfast coffee on Tuesday, hoped it wasn’t the calm before the storm. She had made excellent headway the previous afternoon in clearing the storerooms, managing to clear out half a dozen orange boxes filled with broken crockery and rusted cutlery – hadn’t the Tarquins ever thrown anything away? A flat, leather-covered case at the bottom of the last box had yielded a handsome necklace set with amber which she’d carried down in triumph to Mother Dorothy.

  ‘The silver isn’t first-rate quality but the amber is pretty,’ the prioress had said, peering at the necklace. ‘A gold setting would triple the value. However once it’s cleaned up it might fetch a hundred and fifty. You’ve done well, Sister.’

  ‘There are half a dozen spoons too, Mother Dorothy. They’re silver, I think.’ The spoons had been duly examined and Mother Dorothy had lifted her head, her face positively benign.

  ‘These are Hester Bateman spoons,’ she’d pronounced. ‘They’ll bring in a good price, about a hundred each probably. Excellent!’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were an expert, Mother,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Hardly that.’ Mother Dorothy shook her head. ‘My father was a jeweller who dabbled in antiques, and I picked up some useful scraps of knowledge when I was a girl. Now we’ll get these cleaned and I’ll make some enquiries about current market value.’

  She nodded pleasantly, leaving Sister Joan to ponder on the fact that this was the first time her superior had ever mentioned her life in the world before she entered the Order. Usually she behaved as if she’d been born with a veil on her head. She also actively discouraged the others from mentioning the lives they had led in the world, since detachment had to be practised assiduously. Sister Joan wondered if Mother Dorothy was mellowing. A few moments later, hearing her scolding Sister Marie for slopping some water, she decided that she wasn’t.

  ‘We enjoyed your reading last night,’ Sister Katherine said, approaching. ‘I’ve always loved the story of Jeanne d’Arc.’

  ‘And her favourite saint was Saint Katherine,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘I know. Some people say that Saint Katherine never existed, but I find that very hard to believe. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that because there isn’t scientific proof for anything that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Excuse me, Sister,’ Mother Dorothy broke in. ‘There was a telephone call earlier for you from Detective Sergeant Mill. Jane Sinclair is to be laid to rest this afternoon in the new municipal cemetery and he wondered if we wished to send a representative. Miss Sinclair wasn’t a Catholic but as you actually met her and as she had made very few friends in the district I thought it would be a nice gesture if you were to go. They are sending a car for you after lunch. Sister Martha will make up a posy of whatever flowers are still available. You will join the funeral party at the graveside but not, of course, attend the Protestant service.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Prioress.’

  Whatever His Holiness in Rome said, Mother Dorothy had grave reservations about the ecumenical movement.

  She filled the morning with housework, it being her turn to assist Sister Teresa which was convenient since Sister Marie was scrubbing the stonework as a penance for her earlier carelessness. Sister Joan shot her a sympathetic look as she collected polishing cloths and the cake of beeswax with which the wooden floors were still burnished to perfection, but the round-faced novice looked quite cheerful despite the damp air that would make her task unpleasant. She would make a good nun when she had made her final profession.

  Polishing gave one time in which to think. Sister Joan proceeded to think about recent events, to place them in some kind of order in her mind. The decision had been made to clear out the storerooms and she had mentioned it to Luther who had gone off and chattered about it. Someone – Mr Monam? – had heard and hastily printed the circular and registered with the Falcon Agency. No, there was something wrong there. It had happened too quickly. Mr Monam must have already been registered with the telephone answering service before he’d heard Luther’s chatter. The circular must have been printed already and thrust through the convent door as soon as he learned the clearance of the storerooms was imminent. It didn’t make sense, she decided. Rather, it must make sense but a piece of the pattern was still missing. She went on thinking, recalling her own visit to Nightingale Court, her brief meetings with Jane Sinclair and young Jeb Jones. And then Jane Sinclair, who liked walking in the old cemetery and looking at Victorian photograph albums, had rung to arrange a meeting with her, a meeting she had never kept because a phone call had taken her to the office where her killer was waiting. Why had she been killed at that particular time? Who had known she had information she wanted to pass on? There was another bit of the pattern missing there too.

  ‘If you polish that bit one more time,’ Sister Perpetua observed, coming through the hall with a basket of washing, ‘we’ll all break our necks and you’ll be responsible, Sister. Do move on to another part! It’ll be lunchtime soon.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister!’ She hastily shuffled along and resumed her work, pushing the broken bits of pattern to the back of her mind.

  Detective Sergeant Mill was driving the squad car when she went out to meet it after lunch. He had put on a dark suit and a black tie, and gave the posy of late heather and ferns she was carrying a glance of appreciation as she got in the car.

  ‘A nice gesture, Sister. I’m glad you got permission to come. There won’t be many there, I’m afraid, though we can expect quite a few reporters.’

  ‘Did you meet her parents?’ she asked.

  ‘A nice ordinary couple. They’re bearing up very well. Mrs Dalton will be there and the Falcon Agency are sending a representative, but that’s about it. Jane Sinclair didn’t make much impact on the world.’

  ‘Sufficient to get herself killed,’ she reproved.

  ‘That’s true.’

  She shivered slightly. ‘Alan, I’ve been trying to put things in order and they won’t go. I told Luther we were going to clear out the storerooms and within twenty-four hours someone printed a circular and put it through our front door and got an estimate sheet into the filing cabinet in Nightingale Court, having already registered with the Falcon Agency – there wasn’t time.’

  ‘Perhaps the two murders had nothing to do with the fact that you’re starting a spot of spring cleaning,’ he said slowly.

  ‘But it has something to do with the Tarquins!’ she explained. ‘The boy was killed in the empty house that Grant Tarquin built for himself and then carried to the old chapel with the two Tarquin tombs in it, and the blanket – do you know anything about the blanket yet?’

  ‘It’s still being examined. If there’s a single hair from Jeb Jones’s head, or a few drops of sweat then we can tie it in scientifically.’

  ‘Never mind scientific – what do you think?’ she demanded.

  ‘I think it’s the blanket used to wrap up Jeb’s body and carry him over to the old cemetery.’

  ‘And then laid on Grant Tarquin’s grave and covered with all that brushwood.’

  ‘Again pointing to the Tarquins – which seems careless if it was a member of the family who committed the murders.’

  ‘Not careless, deliberate,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Someone who likes taking risks and feels quite sure he’ll get away with it. Someone mocking us all the way. Alan, you may scoff as much as you like but I’m positive that Grant Tarquin stood beneath my window the other night. I do wish—’

  ‘I’ve made some enquiries,’ he said, swinging the car neatly to the right and driving down the high street past the small railway station and on to the dual carriageway.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Grant Tarquin left the district and went abroad just after you came to Cornwall,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know that.’*

  ‘He went to the Middle East – Turkey, Cyprus then Algeria – travell
ing light. He must’ve returned to this country once or twice, since one or two people saw him but he never stayed for more than a day or two and, as he was perfectly entitled to come and check on his house, nobody took much notice. He died out in Turkey – a road accident. A Dr Gullegein signed the death certificate and made arrangements for the body to be flown back to England and buried. He’d left money with his solicitors to cover that.’

  ‘Psychic, was he?’

  ‘It’s perfectly normal for someone to make provision for the unexpected if they spend most of their time abroad but wish to be buried in their native land. Anyway he’d already purchased a burial plot for himself and everything was very quietly arranged.’

  ‘So the body was flown home and quietly buried. Did anyone identify it?’

  ‘The doctor who signed the death certificate was well acquainted with Grant Tarquin. Sister, Turkey is on the fringes of Europe. They have television there and fast food.’

  ‘Have you contacted this Dr Gullegein?’

  ‘I rang our consul there. Dr Gullegein left the country about eighteen months ago and went to do voluntary work in Sudan.’

  ‘Do you know anyone very high up in the Home Office?’

  ‘If I did I wouldn’t be a detective sergeant in the wilds of Cornwall,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Isn’t there a case for exhuming the body of Grant Tarquin because the blanket was hidden on his grave? Alan, I wouldn’t ask but my instincts tell me that you’ll only find bricks in that coffin.’

  ‘Here’s the new municipal cemetery.’ He slowed down as he turned in the gates.

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘I know a couple of fellows who might agree to grant the exhumation order,’ he said reluctantly, ‘and the High Sheriff might go along with a request from me, but it’s by no means certain.’

  ‘But you’ll try?’ Her glance was eager.

  ‘Lord help the man who tries to avoid your requests!’ he said. ‘Yes, Sister, I’ll try. Come on. We’ll park here and walk the last hundred yards.’

  There was a small knot of people gathered round the graveside. A youngish woman in a black coat and hat leaned on the arm of a tall, balding man with a black band round his sleeve. There was a smartly dressed young woman in a grey suit with a brooch representing a falcon on her lapel, two or three inquisitive looking spectators, a couple of photographers and, standing a little apart with a scarf over her head and a bunch of flowers clutched in her hand, Anne Dalton. The ceremony was half over. Sister Joan moved to stand next to Anne Dalton who gave her a somewhat watery smile before she returned her attention to the ceremony again.

  Was the murderer here too? There was some reason for supposing that the old belief that murderers felt compelled to attend the funerals of their victims was true, Alan Hill had told her once. Hiding nearby? She looked round and decided that was impossible. The new cemetery had none of the melancholy charm of the Victorian one. There were no weeds here, no paths twisting between high granite and marble monuments. The deceased were laid out in straight rows like patients tucked up by an old-fashioned matron and forbidden to move until Doctor had done his rounds. The headstones were uniform, upright lozenges.

  ‘That was very sad,’ Anne Dalton whispered, dabbing her eyes as she stepped back from the edge where she had placed her flowers. ‘Such a nice little family. They did think of taking her home, you know, but the expense and the trauma would be too much Mr Sinclair decided, and naturally I promised to keep the grave tidy and look in from time to time.’

  ‘I’d like a word in a moment if I may,’ Sister Joan whispered back, and stepped to lay her own modest posy before she stepped over to the Sinclairs who were talking to Detective Sergeant Mill.

  ‘Sister Joan, come and meet Mr and Mrs Sinclair,’ he invited, turning. ‘As I was saying Sister Joan met your daughter.’

  ‘I had business connected with the firm she worked for,’ Sister Joan said, shaking hands. ‘She was very friendly and helpful. I’m truly sorry about what happened.’

  ‘We brought her up to be friendly and obliging,’ Mr Sinclair said. He sounded bewildered as if in his world friendly, obliging girls didn’t get killed.

  ‘She wanted a bit of independence,’ Mrs Sinclair said. ‘Wanted to try her wings. We encouraged her, didn’t we, John? Maybe if we hadn’t—’

  ‘Now we can’t go blaming ourselves,’ her husband said. ‘We can’t, Melly.’

  ‘Dreadful things happen everywhere,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You have my condolences.’ Which would be useless if the man who had strangled Jane Sinclair wasn’t brought to justice, she thought, turning away, conscious that her presence here had scarcely been registered by the grieving parents.

  ‘It was very good of you to come, Sister,’ Anne Dalton said as Sister Joan rejoined her and they began to walk slowly along the path together. ‘I’m sure they appreciated it. And now a boy’s been killed too, hasn’t he? It makes me very nervous.’

  ‘I was wondering about the phone call that Jane Sinclair received on the morning of her death,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘I didn’t recognize the voice,’ Anne Dalton said. ‘I told the police that. It wasn’t anybody I knew. I couldn’t identify it at all.’

  ‘You’ve probably been asked this already,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but I did wonder if she’d seemed worried before she got the phone call. A couple of days before, perhaps? After she’d looked at the photograph album?’

  ‘Not that I can recall. Oh, thank you for returning it by the way. No, we were just having a cup of tea late on as I told you and then she took it upstairs to have a longer look at it. I was telling her about the Tarquin family. She wanted to know if any of them were left. I told her not one. Funny that, isn’t it? That family was a handsome one judging from the photographs and now they’re all gone and Jane Sinclair too.’

  They were not all gone, Sister Joan thought fiercely. At some point Jane Sinclair had seen somebody, perhaps fleetingly while she strolled in the old cemetery, and recognized the likeness in the old album, and having ascertained that all the Tarquins had died out, had telephoned to arrange a meeting.

  ‘Mrs Dalton, can we give you a lift home?’ Detective Sergeant Mill had joined them.

  ‘That’s very kind.’ Anne Dalton was the sort of woman who blushed when an attractive man spoke to her. ‘Mr and Mrs Sinclair offered but I thought it proper to leave them their privacy. Miss Clare from the Falcon Agency brought her own car and very kindly offered me transport.’

  ‘Come along, Sister.’ Detective Sergeant Mill coughed hintingly.

  ‘You don’t think—’ Sister Joan shook hands with Anne Dalton and fell obediently into step.

  ‘What don’t I think?’

  ‘That Anne Dalton might be in danger? If she knows something without knowing that she knows it—?’

  ‘She gave a very full statement to us,’ he said, ‘but just for your peace of mind, Sister, we are keeping a close protective eye on her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sent him a grateful glance.

  ‘How’s the clearing out going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Slowly but surely. I haven’t come across anything that anybody would want to steal yet. There’s a very pretty amber necklace and some Hester Bateman spoons, and they’ll fetch something but that’s all so far.’

  ‘Jeb could have been sneaking into the chapel in the hope of nicking something from the altar.’

  ‘Oh, surely not!’

  ‘Murder victims aren’t all saints, Sister. He probably siphoned off your petrol anyway.’

  ‘That’s different. Have you picked up any prints from the Tarquin house except those of Jeb Jones?’

  ‘They’re still going through the place with a fine-tooth comb,’ he said. ‘So far nothing.’

  It wasn’t satisfactory but she held her peace. When he dropped her at the convent she managed to avoid asking him again to apply for an exhumation, and was rewarded by a cordial, ‘I’ll get on to the Sheriff as soon as I get back to
the station, Sister, but don’t hold your breath while we’re waiting for an exhumation order. Take care of yourself now.’

  ‘You too. God bless.’ She lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell and went briskly up the shallow steps. It still wanted an hour to the afternoon cup of tea and the talk or discussion group which generally followed it. Time to do some more clearing out, she decided.

  ‘Sister Joan, did the funeral go well?’

  Mother Dorothy emerged from the anteroom.

  ‘Yes, Mother Prioress. There weren’t very many people there so Mr and Mrs Sinclair appreciated your sending me.’

  ‘You’d better get back to the clearing out,’ Mother Dorothy advised. ‘Oh, if you wish you are excused from the discussion group this afternoon. We are going to debate the rights and wrongs of individuality in the religious life – hardly a subject on which you require much enlightenment.’

  ‘No, Mother,’ Sister Joan said, somewhat heartened by the twinkle behind the steel-framed spectacles.

  In the chapel she knelt briefly to pray for the souls of Jane Sinclair and Jeb Jones, and then went up to the library. Sister David was on her way down, pausing to ask anxiously, ‘I hate to trouble you, Sister, but you did mention finding a lock for the cupboard.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Sister. I’ll see to it as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  Sister David went down the stairs with her little scuttling step which made her look more like a rabbit than ever.

  The storerooms were dim even on the brightest day. This afternoon they were less gloomy than usual, probably because she’d shifted some of the boxes away from where they obscured the light. The spaces between were wider now and once she had pushed up the sashes of those windows she could reach the air seemed to be marginally fresher.

  She started on the smaller boxes, salvaging a rather nice cream jug which might be late Victorian and a lamp which was possibly Tiffany though its shade was stained and ragged. One tin box held a variety of small, rusted tools and a couple of old curtain rings together with what looked like a sound bolt and padlock. That would please Sister David. She took the tin downstairs and put it in the shed next to the stable. As soon as time permitted she’d clean off the rust and make the books that Sister David prized so greatly a secure home.