A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  The announcement that two guests would be arriving later and were to be duly made welcome was made and greeted with small exclamations of pleasure. The prospect of two new postulants was exciting.

  ‘They hope to stay with us for a couple of weeks,’ Mother Dorothy was saying, ‘so they will have plenty of time to see how we live here. We must make them feel at home without disguising from them that the religious life is not a life of luxury or selfish pleasure. They will sleep in Sister Joan’s and Sister Teresa’s old cells and join us for meals and recreation and whichever services and spiritual studies they choose. That will be all. Let us give thanks for our food now.’

  ‘Gazpacho,’ said Sister Gabriella audibly and looked primly at her plate.

  Washing up afterwards, giving Alice a biscuit to make up for having deserted her in the forenoon, Sister Joan found herself trying to imagine what the visitors would look like. The fact that Mother Dorothy had requested that she meet them indicated that she would also be expected to act as guide. Sister Joan, who couldn’t have existed for five minutes in a silent order, smiled in anticipation.

  At four o’clock she finished washing the windows and went out to polish the car. Polishing the old convent car was like putting a thick coat of make-up on an ageing face. Another six months and they’d have to trade the old jalopy in for something more likely to stop and start at the proper times and not lose bits of its anatomy when it went over a bump in the road. An estate car would be nice, she thought. A Mercedes and a holiday in the Bahamas would also be nice and equally out of reach.

  ‘Are you ready, Sister?’ Mother Dorothy had come out. ‘Be sure to bring them straight back here.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Reverend Mother.’

  Did the Prioress imagine she was going to take them nightclubbing? Sister Joan suppressed a giggle and got into the driving seat.

  She must have been mistaken about there being a change in the weather. The sky was a clear bright blue with curls of fleecy white cloud drifting across it and the breeze was mild. The moor looked beautiful in late spring. She would have liked to stop the car and get out and walk around on the springing grass and pick some of the wild flowers that starred it, but if she stopped there was no absolute guarantee that the car would start again without help, so she drove on sedately.

  Reaching the station, she parked neatly, bought herself a platform ticket and stationed herself near the exit. There were a few people waiting to meet the train. Others carried luggage and were obviously waiting to board it. Sister Joan felt, as she always felt, a sense of anticipation. As a child she had always looked forward eagerly to train journeys and never felt when she had travelled by car that she had fully participated in an adventure.

  The train was approaching. She snapped to attention, a smile ready for the guests. A fairly large number of passengers were alighting, mostly families ready for an early holiday. Some of the children carried buckets and spades and shrimping gear, though the beaches were a good hour’s drive off and hardly suitable for digging sand castles. They streamed past, chattering and laughing.

  A young woman with a round face and a long braid of dark hair over one shoulder had paused at a little distance, setting down a suitcase and eyeing Sister Joan for a moment before she stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  ‘Would you be waiting for me, Sister?’ Her voice was warm and friendly with a slight Yorkshire burr.

  ‘Bernadette Fawkes?’ Sister Joan shook hands.

  ‘Father Mulhaney saw me off this morning. Gosh, but that was a rush!’ She laughed in an unaffected way. ‘One minute I’m in Leeds and the next I’m in Cornwall. One of the reasons I thought of coming to your convent was because I’ve never been to this part of the country before, so even if I decide not to be a nun at least I’ll have had a bit of a holiday. You’re awfully young to be a prioress.’

  ‘Good heavens! I’m not the prioress,’ Sister Joan said, amused. ‘I’m Sister Joan, acting as lay sister at present because we haven’t got a regular one. Mother Dorothy asked me to meet you.’

  ‘Do you take turns being lay sister?’ Bernadette enquired.

  ‘No, not usually. A sister decides at her profession if she wishes to be a lay sister or a member of the semi-enclosed community. When it’s necessary a sister who is semi-enclosed can take on lay duties for a period but not the other way round.’

  ‘Sounds a bit snobbish to me,’ Bernadette said frankly. ‘Like first class and second class, you know.’

  ‘Then I explained it badly. Lay sisters do the more practical work that brings them into more contact with the outside, that’s all. They’re fully professed in every way but their job’s different. That’s all. Excuse me, but I think I see our other visitor.’

  She broke off as a girl, a scarf over her head, a dark coat covering her slim frame, came towards them, suitcase in hand. Under the scarf her features looked blurred, unformed like the features of a young child. Then she raised her head and fixed huge, doe-shaped eyes of a clear and brilliant grey on Sister Joan’s face.

  ‘Are you—?’ Her voice was soft and clear.

  ‘Sister Joan from the convent, yes. I’ve been deputed as the welcoming committee. You’re Magdalen Cole?’

  ‘Magdalen Cole, yes.’ Sister Joan’s hand was taken and briefly held.

  Pure grey eyes, Sister Joan thought, which was, she had read somewhere, the purest and rarest of eye colours. The long lashes shielding them were dark in contrast to a lock of pale coppery hair as it strayed from the concealing scarf.

  ‘Give me your suitcases,’ Sister Joan said briskly. ‘Oh, sorry! Magdalen Cole, meet Bernadette Fawkes. She’s your fellow guest.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were to be two of us,’ Magdalen Cole said.

  ‘Neither did I. We could’ve had a bit of a chat on the way down,’ Bernadette Fawkes said. ‘You just lead the way, Sister. We can carry our own cases.’

  ‘This way then.’ Sister Joan led them through the low tunnel into the car-park. ‘I’m afraid the car’s on its last legs, poor thing. However it does go! Put your cases in the boot and climb in, won’t you?’

  Both had climbed into the back seat leaving her in solitary splendour behind the wheel.

  ‘You’ll be in time for a cup of tea before we go into chapel,’ she said over her shoulder as she started the engine. ‘The convent’s up on the moor. We turn off onto the track in a moment. Have you been to Cornwall, Miss Cole?’

  The girl shook her head mutely.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Bernadette Fawkes said cheerfully.

  ‘Don’t worry about the old boneshaker.’ Sister Joan had caught a glimpse of Magdalen’s strained expression in the driving mirror. ‘I’m a good driver. These days I usually ride the convent pony into town if I haven’t got a load of stuff to carry back. Her name is Lilith after Adam’s first wife but we can’t be blamed for that — we inherited the name along with the pony.’

  ‘Do the sisters go often into town?’ Magdalen Cole asked.

  ‘Once a month the lay sister — that’s me at the moment — goes in to get supplies of rice, pasta, tea, sugar, coffee. We grow our own fruit and vegetables. That’s Sister Martha’s job and Sister Perpetua, our infirmarian, sells the surplus at market for us. We collect dairy foods from a local farm and the Romanies bring us gifts of fish from time to time.’

  She carefully didn’t add that it was highly likely some of the fish had been poached.

  ‘You don’t eat meat?’ Bernadette Fawkes asked.

  ‘Not at all. Will that be a problem for you? If one’s health demands it then we do make exceptions for medical reasons.’

  ‘I can live without chops,’ Bernadette Fawkes said, laughter in her voice.

  ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ the other said primly. ‘What’s that?’ There was a sudden note of alarm in her voice.

  ‘The old school building. It used to be part of the original Tarquin estate so it now belongs to the convent. The local authorities laid on a bus for the
kids from outlying districts so the place isn’t used now.’

  ‘Then there aren’t any neighbours?’

  ‘None within a mile or so.’ Sister Joan wondered at the anxiety in Magdalen Cole’s soft voice. ‘There’s a housing estate a couple of miles past the convent, and the permanent Romany settlement over the hill but that’s about all. Here we are!’

  They drove slowly through the gates, Alice’s excited yelping reaching them as they turned into the cobbled yard.

  ‘That’s Alice. She’s an Alsatian but very friendly.’ Sister Joan unclipped her seat belt. ‘Leave your luggage in the car for now. Someone will take it up for you. Alice, down! You’re supposed to be a guard dog. We’ll go round to the front door and introduce you to Mother Dorothy.’

  ‘It’s very posh,’ Bernadette Fawkes said as they rounded the corner again.

  ‘The Tarquins were posh and built accordingly,’ Sister Joan said. ‘This is the main hall with the Prioress’s parlour there on the left and the door on the right leading to the chapel wing. The door at the foot of the stairs leads to the infirmary and the kitchen. The lay cells are off the kitchen and the other cells directly above. You’ll soon find your way around.’

  ‘Who were the Tarquins?’ Bernadette Fawkes enquired.

  ‘The local squires. They sold off their property to our order and the family died out. Come and meet Mother Dorothy. We elect a new prioress every five years so Mother Dorothy still has nearly three years of her term of office to go.’

  She went through the antechamber, tapped on the door, opened it in response to Mother Dorothy’s invitation, ushered the visitors within and, at a glance from her superior, went out again. The Prioress would wish to make her own instinctive evaluation without anyone else being present.

  It was ten minutes before the parlour door opened again and Mother Dorothy emerged, a short, spare, middle-aged figure beside the willowy slenderness of the younger girls.

  ‘Take Bernadette and Magdalen to the kitchen for a cup of tea and then show them over the main house before chapel,’ she instructed. ‘They both agree that Christian names will be more informal. Sister Joan will explain our routine to you but you’re not bound to join in anything. And you mustn’t feel you have to confine yourself to the enclosure while you’re here. There are some very pleasant moorland walks.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Mother Prioress.’ Magdalen had bowed her head submissively.

  ‘Mother Dorothy will do. Thank you, Sister.’ The Prioress re-entered her parlour and closed the door firmly.

  ‘She’s a bit of a Tartar that one,’ Bernadette said in an undertone as Sister Joan went ahead into the kitchen passage.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Sister Joan, flashing a grin over her shoulder, ‘she needs to be!’

  ‘There you are!’ Sister Perpetua greeted them with her usual impatience as they went into the big, stone-flagged kitchen. ‘I’ve boiled the kettle twice. Now which of you is which?’

  Sister Joan made the necessary introductions.

  ‘Bernadette and Magdalen.’ Sister Perpetua handed round mugs. ‘Two decent Catholic names for a change. Take off your coats and make yourself comfortable. Sister Martha took up the cases.’

  Bernadette pulled off her windcheater to reveal a dark green sweater which picked up the fleck in her tweed skirt. Magdalen was also wearing green, a shapeless dress of a muddy olive colour, both execrable. Her headscarf was untied with what Sister Joan interpreted as marked reluctance to reveal shining coils of coppery hair with strands escaping from their pins to feather her face. The piled hair looked too heavy for the frail neck.

  ‘Well, I’ve red hair myself,’ Sister Perpetua remarked, pulling at a greying strand. ‘It was never that pretty though.’

  ‘It’s just hair,’ Magdalen said. She sounded as if she resented the compliment.

  The tea was drunk, Sister Perpetua thanked, and Sister Joan stood up, sounding in her own ears slightly over-hearty as she said, ‘It’ll be a quick tour. We have chapel in fifteen minutes. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping. This way.’

  She led the way into the main hall again and up the staircase, pointing out the exquisite carving on the balustrade and feeling rather like a tour guide at a stately home. Bernadette was looking about her with unabashed awe. Magdalen made little noises of approbation but her face never woke into animation, her voice remained blurred and soft. Either she had no personality at all or she was concealing it behind a bland mask.

  ‘We have seven cells over the Prioress’s parlour and the kitchen wing,’ Sister Joan said, reminding herself that first impressions didn’t always count. ‘Sisters Martha, David, Perpetua and Katharine along this side and this is where you’ll be sleeping, next to Mother Dorothy’s cell. This is Sister Teresa’s cell but she’s in seclusion over at the postulancy until her final profession and this one used to be mine, but since I became acting lay sister I sleep in one of the two cells leading off the kitchen.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ Magdalen said, obediently entering Sister Teresa’s cell. ‘Nice’ seemed an odd word to use about the rectangle of whitewashed walls, the small white-curtained window, the single bed with its dark blanket, the shelf on which books could be ranged but which now held a glass vase with flowers in it, the hooks at the back of the door where garments could be hung, the two-drawer locker for more intimate garments, the basin and wash jug on the bare wooden floor.

  ‘If you’d like to unpack,’ she said aloud, ‘and then come down to chapel? I’ll wait for you in the main hall.’

  Leaving them to it she went downstairs again as Sister Perpetua approached.

  ‘They seem like pleasant girls.’ The infirmarian paused to exchange a few words.

  ‘Yes. Yes, they do.’

  ‘Mind you, they’ll both be on their best behaviour,’ Sister Perpetua was continuing. ‘The red-haired one, Magdalen, seems very shy.’

  Shy. Sister Joan considered the word. Shy sounded wrong. Reserved. Inhibited. Those were the words she would have chosen herself.

  ‘I’d better go and give Mother Dorothy a hand. She’s been telephoning most of the afternoon,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Trying to find a few legal ways of making some money. It seems a pity that we have to pay bills, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Especially when they get bigger all the time,’ Sister Joan agreed.

  Shortage of funds was a perennial problem. The rule allowed nuns to work outside the enclosure if it was necessary but it was difficult even for lay people to find work these days. Produce from the gardens was sold cheaply in the market place and Sister Katharine did well with her lace and needlework. Sister David worked on translations and was compiling a series of short books for children on the saints, dealing with them in alphabetical order, but no publisher had yet been found.

  Mother Dorothy came out of the parlour.

  ‘Nothing to do, Sister Joan?’ Her eyebrows had risen slightly.

  ‘The guests are getting ready for chapel, Reverend Mother.’ Sister Joan automatically straightened up, reflecting not for the first time that Mother Dorothy had that effect on most people.

  ‘I’m sure I can count on you to show them round and make them welcome.’ Mother Dorothy’s tone had mellowed slightly. ‘It is never easy for lay people when they come into such a different environment.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Sister Joan’s mind flew back to the first time she had entered the mother house in London and breathed in for the first time the scent of beeswax, incense and soap that had been the prevailing perfume in every convent she had entered since.

  ‘Yes, very pleasant girls,’ Mother Dorothy repeated. She seemed to be following her own private train of thought since she added a moment later in a voice that didn’t seem to be directed at anyone in particular, ‘Something doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Mother?’ Sister Joan looked at her.

  ‘Nothing, Sister. You had better go and hurry them up.’

  Mother Dorothy went back in
to the parlour and closed the door.

  It wasn’t like the Prioress to be obtuse. Sister Joan frowned after her for a moment, then turned as the two visitors came down the stairs. Magdalen had resumed her dark headscarf. Bernadette had made a token effort by tying a handkerchief over her head, beneath which her long braid of dark hair swung like a rope.

  ‘You said we had no neighbours,’ Magdalen said.

  ‘We haven’t — not near ones anyway.’

  ‘Through the small window in the bathroom. I caught sight of another house.’

  ‘Another—? oh, that’s the postulancy,’ Sister Joan said, trying not to notice that the girl’s hands were clenched into fists. ‘It used to be the old dower house so it serves very well for the postulants. Sister Hilaria is novice mistress and we have two postulants — Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth who are ready now to join the novitiate. They have lunch and supper over here and come to chapel and spiritual instruction but they sleep over in the postulancy and have their own studies and recreation there. We had better go into chapel if you’re ready. There’s cheese salad tonight and I believe Sister Perpetua has made one of her steamed jam puddings.’

  In the chapel she ushered them to a couple of spare seats and went to her own place. It was not a benediction proper but a simple service of prayer and song conducted by the Prioress. Wednesdays and Saturdays were the days on which either Father Malone or Father Stephens came up to conduct the full service. She wondered what they would make of the two visitors. Would they too feel that something didn’t fit?

  Chapel was followed by supper, the most eagerly awaited meal of the day since it was the most substantial. The community filed out, Sister Joan lingering to wait for the guests.

  ‘We have supper now and then recreation,’ she said. ‘We chat and play draughts and Scrabble and knit or sew. It’s a lively period.’

  ‘Do we have to go to it?’ Magdalen asked.

  ‘No, of course not. You can go up to the library over the chapel and borrow a book if you like. Sister David is our librarian and she likes us to sign the book there when we take anything out — there’s quite a wide selection. Or you can help me with the dishes if you’re feeling self-sacrificing.’