Magdalen was sorting out cutlery, her scarfed head bent. The look on her face was closed up, remote. Sister Joan wondered how it would be if that face ever flashed into life.
‘She and Sister Mary Concepta are very old, aren’t they?’ she said.
‘Both in their eighties but very valuable in the community,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Are they?’ Magdalen’s eyebrows had risen slightly.
‘They are both experienced,’ Sister Joan explained. ‘Sister Gabrielle gives the best advice you could hope to have if you have a problem, and Sister Mary Concepta is a marvellous example of someone who doesn’t allow physical pain to sour her nature. And looking after them gives us all a chance to exercise charity. We’ll be the poorer when they go.’
‘I’m sure.’ Magdalen had picked up the box of washing powder and was staring at the rose.
There was nothing in her face to hint at any feelings she might have had and, after a moment, she said, her tone one of mild interest, ‘Surely it’s early for roses?’
‘Very early for hothouse varieties,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I found that one.’
‘The petals are drooping,’ Magdalen said and went over to the sink to run hot water into it. ‘Shall I wash up tonight, Sister?’
So much for hoping she would be startled into a confidence! Sister Joan picked up the drying-cloth and applied herself silently to her chores.
The last practical tasks of the evening always fell to the lay sister who was the last to retire and the first to rise. Alice had to be let out for her final scurry round, Lilith in her stall to be provided with feed in case she fancied a midnight snack, doors and windows to be checked and where necessary locked, the lights that were left burning to be turned low. Coming into the chapel wing she hesitated before the door leading to the outside. She had resolved to bolt it but there was no access to the main building and to close the chapel door against an intruder who left red roses seemed undue caution, quite apart from being contrary to Mother Dorothy’s wishes.
She left the outer door unbolted, bolted the inner door, and went into the cell leading off the kitchen with a far from tranquil mind. What she needed to do was talk to somebody about the recent sequence of events. If she talked to Mother Dorothy or any of the sisters she might well prejudice Magdalen’s chances of entry into the order. Postulants who were pursued by lovesick young men were liable to be a nuisance. If she talked to Detective Sergeant Mill he might take action about the flick knife.
Her last conscious thought as she slid into a dreamless sleep was that she ought to be awake and worrying.
Morning brought nothing out of the ordinary at all. Looking round the chapel when she had unbolted the inner door she was relieved to see that no extra flowers had joined those already in the vases. Everything was as it had been, and with a suddenly light heart she went blithely up the main staircase, ringing the little bell, and informing the community that Christ was risen.
By the time Father Malone had arrived to offer Mass the early morning sun was climbing higher up the cloudless sky. Long rays of sunlight pierced the rose window above the crucifix behind the altar and patterned Father Malone’s green surplice with dancing motes of gold. On such a day it was easy to think well of the human race.
Raising her head briefly she felt eyes on her, considering, critical eyes. The short hairs at the back of her neck prickled slightly. Someone was watching her but it was impossible to tell who. Magdalen sat further along the row. Sister Joan risked a quick sideways glance and bit her lip. Magdalen’s seat was empty. She must have come in a few minutes late and was now kneeling behind from where that cold intense stare originated. Sister Joan frowned, trying to concentrate on the familiar ritual but the words were sliding away from her even as the sunlight retreated and a faint pattering of rain could be heard on the roof.
As the angel of the Presence was dismissed the sound of Brother Cuthbert’s lute stole into the darkening chapel. She hadn’t noticed him there but Brother Cuthbert, she recalled, had a way of blending into the surroundings of a religious ceremony as if he were part of the fabric of the worship. There was a little stir of pleasure in the community and the sense of being watched and weighed was gone. By the time the last note fell softly on the air the shower of rain had ceased and the sun had come out again.
Father Malone went into the sacristy: Brother Cuthbert slung his lute across his broad back and went out, face shielded by his cowl; Mother Dorothy led the way back into the main hall, but stayed by the door, watching the others file in. As Sister Joan reached her she detained her briefly.
‘Run after Brother Cuthbert and ask him if he would like to join Father Malone and the rest of us at breakfast, will you?’ she murmured. ‘I think he was too shy to stay behind.’
Sister Joan doubted it. Brother Cuthbert wasn’t so conscious of himself as to be shy, but the errand was a welcome one. She had a sudden need to run, to shake off the unnerving sensation that had overcome her in the chapel.
Brother Cuthbert was tall with long legs and an apparently inexhaustible supply of breath. By the time she reached the front gate he was already a small figure on the moor ahead.
‘Brother Cuthbert! Brother Cuthbert!’ Sister Joan sped after him.
‘Who—?’ The young monk had turned at her shout, as she panted up. ‘Sister Joan! nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘Reverend Mother asks if you’d like to take breakfast with us.’ Sister Joan put her hand to her side where a stitch threatened.
‘Was I expected to stay?’ he asked. ‘I’m very sorry, Sister. I had no idea.’
‘It’s entirely up to you, Brother Cuthbert!’ Sister Joan let out a breath in a whoop. ‘Heavens! Are you in training for a marathon or something?’
‘It’s a bad habit of mine to rush about everywhere. Father Prior is always telling me about it. That’s very kind of your prioress but if I’m going to be a hermit then I feel I ought to start as soon as possible,’ he said earnestly. ‘The supplies at the schoolhouse will last me for a very long time. You have a beautiful chapel, Sister. I know one can pray anywhere but it’s always nicer to have a lovely place to do it in.’
‘The moor’s not looking so bad this morning,’ she said.
‘You’re absolutely right, Sister.’ Brother Cuthbert beamed at her. ‘The moor looks grand after the rain. One could pray here easily. Now, will you please give Mother Dorothy my regrets and apologies?’
‘Yes, of course. She’ll quite understand. Brother Cuthbert, did you give anyone a lift down here in your van?’
She sounded as casual as she could as she tacked on the question.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did.’ Brother Cuthbert looked surprised. ‘Not all the way down but there was a young man I picked up just this side of London. He was hoping to meet up with a friend at Falmouth.’
‘What was he like?’
‘I got the impression his friend was a red Indian or something. His name was Julian. Julian — I don’t think he gave me a surname. I mean the one I gave a lift, not the friend. He didn’t talk much. Why?’
‘Did he mention that his friend was called White Wind?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Yes, he did. That was what made me think of red Indians. I suppose they’re called Native Americans now though.’
‘This one,’ Sister Joan said dryly, ‘is of the British variety. Thank you, Brother Cuthbert.’
‘I’ll probably see you around, Sister.’ He raised his hand, gave a cheerful wave, and strode off again, whistling.
So now she had a lead. Turning and walking back at a more sedate pace, she wondered what good it did her. Obviously Magdalen had a boyfriend who’d followed her and brought with him three expensive, hothouse roses. He’d have done better to have given her the roses openly and been frank about his feelings instead of sneaking around, leaving other people to find them.
She was late for breakfast. Father Malone drove past her as she entered the main gates, slowing for long enough to call, ‘Nice
young man, Sister! And doesn’t he play beautifully! An illustrated talk with music might be arranged later on.’
He was passed in a screech of tyres. Father Malone alternated between driving like a nervous old lady and imagining he was competing in a Grand Prix. Sister Joan sent up a hasty prayer on his behalf and went up the drive in time to see Sister Hilaria coming round from the back, a covered dish in her hands.
‘Good morning, Sister Joan!’ She paused, looking at her burden. ‘Would you have any idea where I’m off to with this.’
‘Is it Sister Teresa’s breakfast?’ Sister Joan guessed.
‘Of course it is! I went to the kitchen to collect it for her. Not very long before she joins us again as a fully professed Sister of the Daughters of Compassion! Such lovely music this morning. A talent like that is quite rare. It quite dispersed the very strange atmosphere.’
‘Strange, Sister?’
There was never any point in hurrying Sister Hilaria when she was talking. She always lost the thread of her discourse and became confused.
‘Out of place,’ she said now, frowning slightly. ‘Didn’t you feel it, Sister? It was as if something foreign, something — awkward had stolen into the harmony. The music sent it away again.’
‘Yes, Sister, I know exactly what you mean,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I must take this to Sister Teresa. Good morning, Sister.’
The tall, heavily built novice mistress plodded off.
Something foreign, awkward, out of place. Sister Joan nodded a trifle grimly. Sister Hilaria had put her finger on the central problem without realizing it. She might forget where she was going occasionally or absentmindedly imagine it was afternoon before she’d eaten her lunch but she had an unerring instinct about other, less practical matters. If Sister Hilaria sensed discord then a discord existed.
When she went into the kitchen she found Sister Perpetua doing the dishes while Alice sat, hopefully waiting for scraps.
‘Brother Cuthbert was invited to breakfast,’ Sister Joan said, hurrying in. ‘I was sent after him, but he preferred to go on to the school. He wants to be a real hermit while he’s here, he says.’
‘Nice music,’ said Sister Perpetua, tossing her a drying-up cloth. ‘Nice young man too, I think. Genuine. I like genuine types — oh, Magdalen went up with Sister Katharine to help with Sister Teresa’s dress. She does make herself useful, I must admit.’
‘But you don’t like her?’ Sister Joan shot the older woman a look.
‘There’s nothing to dislike. Sister Hilaria put her finger on something last evening. She came over to see me about something or other and said, “Ah, you’re alone!” without noticing that Magdalen was here. I know! Sister Hilaria is apt to be vague but her eyesight’s perfectly sound. It was as if Magdalen had simply faded out of consciousness. Very odd.’
‘Aren’t nuns supposed to avoid singularity?’
‘Not to the extent of becoming invisible,’ Sister Perpetua said, splashing water into the sink. ‘Now the Bernadette child is a lively spark. Good sense of humour and no nonsense about being holy. Anyway the two of them haven’t been here five minutes so we shall have to see. Pass me that coffee pot, Sister. If I know you it’ll not have been cleaned out properly in a month.’
Which was Sister Perpetua’s way of saying she didn’t want to gossip. Sister Joan, taking her cue, got on with the chores, then put Alice on her lead and took her out to the tennis courts to do some training.
The session progressed slowly, probably because she and the dog couldn’t take it too seriously. Alice had learned to come on command but she usually came anyway if she was anywhere in the vicinity in the confident expectation of a welcome and possibly a biscuit. The problem was trying to impress on her that being friendly to the whole world wasn’t the mark of a trained guard dog.
‘Stay! Stay, Alice!’ She backed off slowly, willing the dog to remain in her alert sitting position.
‘Are you training her?’
Magdalen’s soft enquiry came from the top of the moss-grown steps where she stood, peering down, her eyes silvered by the sun.
‘I was.’ Sister Joan spoke curtly as Alice leapt up the steps, all wagging tail and licking tongue.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ Magdalen came down the steps. ‘Sister Katharine and Bernadette are sorting out the linen so I came out for a walk. I don’t think one should make a nuisance of oneself, do you?’
‘I’m sure Bernadette wasn’t making a nuisance of herself,’ Sister Joan said.
‘No, of course not, Sister.’
‘And guests really aren’t forced to help out with anything.’
‘I want to be more than a guest. I want to be a Daughter of Compassion.’ Magdalen spoke in a level tone which was curiously more impressive than if she had sounded emotional. Only her hands, clenched into fists, hinted at intensity.
‘You haven’t been here long enough to make such a big decision,’ Sister Joan said as gently as she could. ‘You’re still very young.’
‘I’m twenty-seven,’ Magdalen said.
‘But I thought—’
‘Everybody thinks I’m about twenty so I don’t bother to contradict them. Does it make it difficult — my being older? Or easier?’
‘Easier probably.’ Sister Joan was trying to readjust her thinking. Twenty-seven was young still but Magdalen’s face was smooth as a teenager’s without even the beginnings of laughter lines at eyes and mouth. She looked — untouched was the word that came into her mind. She wondered suddenly if Magdalen could possibly still be a virgin.
‘So you see I am mature in my outlook,’ the other said. ‘I’ve thought for a long time about this step. You need postulants, don’t you?’
‘The right ones, yes. But we’re not a big community. Our foundress advised that no more than fifteen nuns should comprise one convent.’
‘Then you have room for three more,’ Magdalen said calmly. ‘That’s the postulancy, isn’t it?’
‘When the Tarquins owned the estate it was the Dower House,’ said Sister Joan, relieved to have a few facts to expound. ‘The postulants sleep there and have a light breakfast there, also their own periods of recreation and study. They come to the main house for lunch and supper and to the chapel for services. They aren’t supposed to talk to the professed sisters without special permission but that rule isn’t too strictly kept.’
As if on cue Sister Elizabeth emerged from the front door of the postulancy, with Sister Marie at her side. They were carrying the tray and dishes that had been taken across for Sister Teresa earlier, in addition to a large wicker basket full of nuts.
‘Sisters, have you met Magdalen Cole?’ Sister Joan halted their progress. ‘She hopes to join us.’
Sister Elizabeth smiled, ducking her head. Sister Marie promptly held out her hand, saying cordially, ‘I noticed you in chapel and, of course, Reverend Mother did announce that two guests were coming.’
‘I am trying to fit myself to the life of the community,’ Magdalen said. She seemed to have drawn back a little.
‘Well, if you do join us,’ Sister Marie said with a grin, ‘you’ll have to wear these hideous pink smocks and huge bonnets while you’re training. Mother Dorothy thinks they’re cheerful! As soon as Sister Teresa is professed then Sister Elizabeth and I go into blue habits for a couple of years. I’m Sister Marie, by the way.’
‘Sister.’ Magdalen spoke coolly.
‘Were you coming over to the postulancy, Sister Joan?’ Sister Marie asked. ‘We can show Magdalen round if you like. Mother Dorothy won’t mind.’
‘And Sister Hilaria will want to chat to her anyway. I’ll send Bernadette over later,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’ll take the dishes back to the kitchen for you.’
Perhaps the uninhibited Marie would be able to get closer to her. Carrying the dishes she whistled to Alice who, for a wonder, obeyed and walked to heel all the way back to the kitchen. It was empty save for Sister Katharine who was taking a cu
p of water at the sink.
‘Did Magdalen find you, Sister?’ Her delicate face was anxious. ‘Bernadette was helping me with the laundry and there wasn’t sufficient work for two, so I suggested she go for a walk. I hope she didn’t think I was being unwelcoming or anything.’
‘Magdalen Cole is determined to get in here even if we barred her way with machine guns,’ Sister Joan said dryly. ‘Where’s Bernadette?’
‘Talking to the old ladies. She’s very amusing,’ Sister Katharine said, adding hastily, ‘Magdalen seems very devoted to the idea of the religious life.’
Sister Katharine who would have been torn in pieces before she said anything nasty about another person sounded slightly constrained.
‘Devotion to an ideal is a bit different from living out the actual thing as you and I both know,’ Sister Joan remarked.
‘Well, it’s a big step to take, and she’s still very young,’ Sister Katharine said.
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Really? She looks almost like a schoolgirl,’ Sister Katharine said in surprise.
‘Untouched,’ Sister Joan said thoughtfully.
She wished that she could tell Sister Katharine about the flick knife and the rape alarm, the feeling of being watched in the chapel, the three red roses — but Sister Katharine was too unworldly to give any advice.
And I, she thought as the other went out again, am quite definitely worldly. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a bad thing or a good thing.
‘Sister Joan, are you doing anything in particular or merely idling your time away?’ Sister Perpetua enquired, coming in.
‘Idling my time away,’ Sister Joan said promptly.
‘You’re to take Alice down to the police station.’
‘Why? What has she done?’ Sister Joan flushed with indignation. ‘Mother Dorothy said that she could stay and she’s getting on with her training very well.’
‘Detective Sergeant Mill telephoned and offered to take Alice on a two-week course to give her the basic training she needs as a guard dog,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘He will pay for it himself which is most generous, and will be of immense benefit to Alice. You’re to take her down and hand her over — or are you going to argue?’
A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 8