‘Sister Perpetua will be over the moon. Thanks, Padraic.’ She clicked her tongue and let Lilith bound ahead.
There was no sign of the car outside the schoolhouse. Sister Joan drew rein and dismounted. She had better start thinking of the place as the hermitage now, she reflected. It was entirely wrong of her, of course, but her spell as teacher there had caused her to regard the building with a somewhat jealous air. It had been a place where for a few hours every day she had been in charge of her own space, free from the insistent sound of the bell that divided her days into segments of prayer and work, free to listen to the chatter of young children whose minds had not yet been shaped and confined in conventional patterns.
From now on the place would be barred, she supposed. Hermits weren’t noted for being good company. On impulse she pushed at the door and found it unlocked. Father Stephens had driven off without securing it properly.
Inside was the square hallway with doors to left and right. The tiled cloakroom with its two chemical toilets had been scrubbed and swept, a basin and jug placed on a trestle table. There were pots and pans hanging where coats had once been draped. Clearly the cloakroom had become the kitchen with adjoining toilets. Presumably hermits weren’t too fussy.
She pushed open the right-hand door which led into the larger room where she had held her classes. The chairs and flat-topped desks had been ranged against one wall, and a camp-bed placed where her own desk had been.
The table where her pupils had sat drawing pictures or eating their sandwiches on wet days had been scrubbed clean and placed near the chair on which she had sat.
Father Stephens had obviously been working hard to make the place welcoming, even to the extent of placing a china jug on the table with a flower in it. A perfect red rose with its petals beginning to uncurl slowly in the warmth of the day.
Sister Joan stared at it for a moment, and then she was backing out on to the moor again, her palms slippery as she seized Lilith’s rein, scrambled to the saddle, and set off at full gallop for the convent grounds.
Four
‘Do you have to ride like Paul Revere or is the town on fire?’ Sister Perpetua enquired as Sister Joan drew rein in the yard.
‘It’s a lovely morning for a gallop,’ Sister Joan said, somewhat weakly.
‘When you’ve finished playing cowboys,’ Sister Perpetua said, ‘Magdalen’s waiting for you to show her round the grounds. Bernadette went off to give Sister Martha a hand with the weeding, but Magdalen said she’d wait until you returned.’
Clearly the request had irritated her. Sister Joan led Lilith into her stall and unsaddled her. Until the pony had been rubbed down and watered Magdalen Cole would have to wait.
‘You’re back, Sister Joan.’ Magdalen’s soft voice had sounded from the yard.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ She went on with her task, giving herself a little time in which to work out what questions to ask the visitor.
When she emerged from the stable Magdalen was standing on the cobbles, the sunlight turning her eyes to silver, a strand of pale coppery hair escaping from beneath her white scarf.
‘Come along then!’ She spoke briskly. ‘We’ll take a walk round the grounds.’
‘Did you get it?’ Magdalen asked the question eagerly as they went beneath the stone arch towards the low wall of the enclosure gardens.
‘Yes. A policeman friend gave me one so you may have your money back.’ She dug in her pocket for alarm and notes.
‘You told the police?’ Magdalen looked anxious.
‘Not about you.’ Sister Joan had paused, still holding the little box. ‘I’ll take the knife, please,’ she said firmly.
‘One needs protection these days,’ Magdalen said uneasily.
‘Not to the extent of carrying illegal weapons. Look, if you’re allowed to walk around with a flick knife then we’ll have to even up things and give one to Bernadette too and that would be ridiculous.’
‘Yes it would,’ Magdalen said. ‘Bernadette doesn’t care about protecting her virtue. To tell you the truth, Sister, I don’t think she’s a virgin.’
‘You can tell by looking, can you?’ For the life of her she couldn’t stop distaste from colouring her voice. ‘The knife, please?’
‘Here.’ Magdalen handed it over reluctantly. ‘May I have the alarm?’
‘Of course, but don’t test it out because it makes a dreadful screaming noise. You strap it to your wrist and press the red spot but you won’t be needing it here.’
‘What about the knife?’
‘That isn’t your concern.’ Sister Joan wondered what on earth she was going to do with it. ‘If you’ve reason to be afraid wouldn’t it be a good idea to tell someone about it? Two heads are better than one, you know.’
‘Oh, I’ll be safe here,’ Magdalen said.
Opening the wicker gate that led into the enclosure garden, Sister Joan thought of the dark figure swirling past her down the stairs, the long pencil of torchlight moving outside the windows of the chapel corridor, the red rose on the step, the red rose in the china jug. Mentioning these things might panic the girl completely so for the moment she’d let it lie. Instead she waved to the two figures toiling at the far end of the vegetable garden and began to point out the various features of the enclosure, the rows of vegetables, the fruit bushes and trees.
‘Sister Martha has the green fingers here,’ she said. ‘We eat most of the produce ourselves and Sister Perpetua takes the rest to market and makes a small profit on it there for us. Are you interested in gardening?’
So far the other had revealed nothing of her likes and dislikes, though she had hinted fairly broadly that she hadn’t much time for her fellow guest. There had been the nasty little spike of malice in her comment.
‘I don’t know anything about gardening,’ Magdalen said.
‘This leads across to the old tennis courts.’ Sister Joan unlatched the further gate and allowed the other to precede her. ‘I’m afraid that the courts haven’t been used for years though we could utilize them in some way. The postulancy is over there. Did you see the novice mistress, Sister Hilaria, with her charges? Both of them enter the novitiate proper after Sister Teresa is professed but they’ll very probably go on sleeping in the postulancy because there aren’t so many cells in the main house. You see we’re given loads of time in which to make absolutely sure that we do have a vocation.’
‘I won’t need any time,’ Madgalen said. ‘I’m going to join the order.’
‘Well, that’s something for you to discuss with Mother Dorothy,’ Sister Joan said, wondering if the other thought that walking into the religious life was as easy as walking in to sign on the dole. ‘We have to be sure that you stood a chance of fitting into our particular community or not. It takes a minimum of four years before one can be professed. How do your family feel about it? — your becoming a nun, I mean.’
‘My parents are dead,’ Madgalen said. ‘I’ve no other relatives.’
‘Surely that’s unusual?’ Sister Joan said in surprise.
‘They were both the only children of only children.’ Magdalen sounded dismissive.
‘So you’ve no aunts, uncles, cousins?’
‘Nobody at all,’ Magdalen said serenely. ‘I’ll be able to provide a dowry though for the convent. I understand one needs a dowry.’
‘Whatever one can afford,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Sometimes in cases of extreme poverty the rule is waived, of course. A vocation certainly doesn’t depend on one’s ability to pay for it. Here comes Alice, hunting rabbits as usual. She hasn’t managed to catch one yet but she lives in hope.’
She whistled and Alice came bounding out of the shrubbery, flinging herself upon them with excited little yaps.
‘The enclosure doesn’t seem to be very securely guarded,’ Magdalen said.
‘A convent is a spiritual centre. There’s such a thing as divine protection too, you know. I wish you would tell me what’s really troubling you.’
She had gone too far too fast. Magdalen turned abruptly, saying, ‘Hadn’t we better get back? You must have chores to do. I’m very willing to help. I don’t mind domestic work at all.’
‘Was that what you did — what you do?’ Sister Joan hurried to catch her up.
‘Not as a job, no. I can cook and clean though. Thank you for the tour of the grounds. They’re larger than I realized. I’ll go and wash my hands.’
There was no point in labouring the matter or trying to force a confidence where no trust existed. Sister Joan fixed her mind on her chores and set the other problems aside. She doubted if anything had been taken from the library or the storeroom but when she had a spare moment she’d slip up and have a quick look round.
The day trundled on peacefully. Magdalen, to give her credit, seemed to have fitted readily into the routine. Slim and silent, she ate her lunch, helped with the washing-up, wound wool for Sister Mary Concepta who was beginning on a scarf, sat meekly on a stool in the parlour while Mother Dorothy led a discussion on the disciplines required in the religious life.
‘Some fit very easily into community life. Others have to be tempered in the flame that they may become shining steel,’ Mother Dorothy was reading.
And some, like me, have to be knocked in shape over and over again, Sister Joan thought, catching her superior’s eye as she rose and quietly slipped from the room.
In the library Sister David was bent over a catalogue of new classical translations. One of Sister David’s greatest pleasures was to pick out the books that she firmly intended to buy for the library when she had enough money. That she never would have sufficient money and that few were as crazy about the ancient tongues as she was had never occurred to her. She looked up as Sister Joan arrived on the landing, pushing her spectacles further up her tip-tilted nose as she breathed, ‘Would you believe it, Sister? St Augustine’s Confessions have been translated into Mandarin. That would be quite an acquisition to the library, don’t you think?’
‘I didn’t know you read Mandarin, Sister David!’ Sister Joan said, startled.
‘Oh, I don’t, but to have the volume here — it would be most interesting, don’t you think?’
‘How much does it cost?’
‘Forty-five pounds,’ Sister David said with regret. ‘It’s printed on silk paper with illuminated capital letters. That makes it quite a bargain at the price. However, as you say — did you come to borrow a book, Sister?’
‘Just to have a poke around in the storeroom.’
Sister David was the least inquisitive person in the world despite her eager nose. Poking about in storerooms amid piles of ancient newspapers and boxes crammed with unidentifiable rubbish would have seemed to her a splendid way of passing the time.
‘They have a new translation of Virgil too,’ she said, her eyes feasting on the catalogue again.
‘If ever I inherit a fortune,’ Sister Joan said, ‘I’ll give you enough money to restock the library.’
‘Oh, that’s very generous of you, Sister.’ Sister David beamed as if dream had become fact. ‘That would be wonderful.’
Sister Joan smiled as she went out again. For some people the thought of the almost impossible gave as much joy as the actual. She wished she were more like that herself.
There were footsteps in the dust on the storeroom floor, but they were smudged and blurred and might even have been her own. She had already spent a year sorting through the stacks of old newspapers here with the intention of eventually compiling a scrapbook on the history of the district, but her spare time was limited and not only did the labour go slowly but she frequently found herself absorbed in some old newspaper account that had nothing to do with the scrapbook.
The intruder had walked here, paced back and forth, perhaps trying to decide what next to do. She breathed a prayer of thankfulness for the fact that he had gone out into the grounds and not turned towards the inner door which she had left unbolted as she crept up the spiral stairs.
‘Did you have a nice poke round, Sister?’ Sister David had laid aside the catalogue and was carefully re-covering an old paperback.
‘And got exceedingly dusty. I’ll rinse my hands before I go down again.’
‘Fine.’ Sister David put her head down and regarded her work critically.
The washroom and toilet were handy for anyone working in the library. Sister Joan snapped on the light, took a step towards the sink, and let out an exclamation of dismay.
‘What’s wrong, Sister? Have you hurt yourself?’ Sister David came flustering in.
‘There’s a red rose in the sink,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Yes, I know. I put it there so it wouldn’t wilt before I put it on the altar,’ Sister David said calmly.
‘You put it there?’
‘It was on the desk in the library. I thought it would look better on the altar but I had some tasks to finish here so I ran some water into the sink and propped it there. You didn’t prick yourself, did you? I didn’t realize there were any thorns on the stem.’
‘They’ve been stripped off.’
‘That’s all right then.’ Placid and incurious, Sister David reached for the glue brush again.
‘I’ll — put it in the vase on the Lady-altar,’ Sister Joan said, going back to pick it up.
It was as perfect a shape, as deep a crimson as the other two. She carried it with care, its tip dripping, down the stairs and thrust it with the first one amid the catkins.
The deep scarlet was almost concealed among the feathery catkins. It was better so, she thought grimly. The intruder had left the roses for someone to find. Most probably Magdalen. Someone wanted Magdalen to find out that he had been here; someone wanted her to be afraid. Perhaps after all she had good reason to carry a knife.
She genuflected to the altar and went back into the hall. The discussion was just winding to a close. Mother Dorothy expected her nuns to attend at least two of her lecture sessions a week, those who were absent from any writing up their own spiritual diaries or meditating in the chapel.
‘Sister Joan, a moment of your time, if you please.’
She had turned back from the door of her parlour as those who had been at the discussion filed out, Magdalen among them.
‘Yes, Reverend Mother?’
‘I know you’ve already been out on Lilith today, so you’d better take the car,’ Mother Dorothy said without preamble. ‘It might be more convenient anyway as you’ll be carrying supplies.’
‘Supplies, Mother?’ Sister Joan thrust roses and midnight intruders out of her head and looked attentive.
‘I intend to give the news to the community at suppertime this evening,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘I have rented out the schoolhouse.’
‘To a hermit. Yes, I saw Father Stephens this morning.’
‘And hermits do need to eat,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Father Malone and Father Stephens will have done their best to make the place habitable and Sister Jerome will have sent up some food, I’m sure, but a little more never hurt. Will you take the supplies down? Sister Perpetua got them ready after I informed her of his impending arrival.’
‘Yes, of course, Mother Dorothy.’
It would be good to have a short drive out on this mild afternoon, she thought, as she went towards the kitchen. When there were problems to be solved then having some practical task helped get things into proportion again.
‘You’ve heard the news then?’ Sister Perpetua was packing a large box. ‘Hermits are a rare breed these days. Well, the rent will be useful, I daresay. I’ll carry it to the car, Sister. You’d most likely drop it and break the eggs.’
The car boot sagged slightly as the box was bestowed within. Sister Joan shot the vehicle an apprehensive look.
‘Don’t say it, Sister.’ Sister Perpetua closed the boot and stood back. ‘Drive slowly for heaven’s sake and don’t worry about supper. I’ll cook it tonight.’
‘I’ll be back in lots of time for supper,’ Sister Joan
protested.
‘Well, I’ll save you some if you’re not. Drive carefully now.’
What she was too kindly to say, Sister Joan thought, getting behind the wheel was that a meal Sister Joan hadn’t cooked would be a welcome treat for the rest of the community. She snapped her seatbelt securely, waved her hand and drove out of the yard.
The car groaned and wheezed alarmingly as she guided it over the rough track. It was time they had a new car but where the money would come from was another question. Perhaps something could be saved out of the money Magdalen had paid for her visit or part of the hermit’s rent could be set aside.
Away on the horizon a line of vehicles straggled over the rise. The new-age travellers had, it seemed, arrived. It was extremely intolerant of her but she hoped they wouldn’t park too near the convent.
There was a vehicle nearer than the far horizon. With misgivings she stared at the small van with its psychedelic markings that stood at the side of the schoolhouse.
‘For heaven’s sake! Squatters!’
Neglecting to lock up the building had been careless though she admitted that if someone had wanted to come in they could easily have broken a window. Switching off the engine she got out of the car and raised her voice tentatively.
‘Hello there! There are supplies here for the — oh!’
Her gasp was one of pure astonishment as the tall, brown-habited figure came around the corner and stood staring at her, mouth curving into a smile of recognition.
‘Brother Cuthbert!’
The young monk with the flaming red hair haloing his tonsure uttered a delighted shout.
‘Sister Joan! What a wonderful surprise! Nobody mentioned—’
‘Nobody mentioned it to me either,’ Sister Joan said, shaking hands cordially. ‘What are you doing here? You’re not the hermit?’
‘Only for a year. Father Prior considered I needed a bit of a break from the monastery,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘I was getting too comfortable there, Sister. Too complacent if you know what I mean. No new challenges to test me. So I asked leave for a year’s absence, somewhere I could be quite alone without any social activity.’
A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 6