A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  ‘You didn’t have to say that you know,’ he said. ‘I’m not the one who goes round attacking people.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who does?’

  He shook his head, the ponytail swinging.

  ‘And your friend — Julian?’

  ‘He’s not a real mate,’ White Wind told her. ‘We just teamed up together, that’s all. Being out of work needs company.’

  ‘And now you’ve both teamed up with Miss Dacre?’

  ‘With Sylvia Dacre, yes.’ He frowned suddenly, staring at the ground.

  ‘She seems to be an interesting person,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘She’s cool. Keeps herself to herself. Doesn’t interfere with us.’

  ‘And when are you moving on?’

  ‘Sounds like, “Lovely to see you! When are you going home?”.’

  ‘I wondered if you’d be allowed to leave the district, that’s all.’

  ‘Because of what’s happened to the nun? We had to give names and addresses and get ourselves checked up on.’

  ‘And where does White Wind live?’

  ‘White Wind lives on his wits, baby.’ He grinned at her. ‘However Steve Conrad lives in ye olde family villa in Wimbledon. Don’t ruin my reputation by spreading it all over the place, will you?’

  ‘I won’t say a word. What about your friend, Julian?’

  ‘We met up at a gig last year and decided to meet up in Falmouth this year and hit the open road together. He was up north when the time came round so he hitched a lift with that brother who’s arrived here.’

  ‘Brother Cuthbert. Yes, he did mention it.’

  ‘You’re asking a lot of questions yourself, Sister.’ His glance was sharp, suspicious. ‘Are you undercover or something?’

  ‘Just a nun with an overdeveloped bump of curiosity,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Was the nun a friend of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘She was one of my sisters,’ she said.

  ‘You fancy a beer, Sister?’

  They had reached the caravan where she had first seen Sylvia Dacre seated on the steps. The last thing she fancied was a beer but she was curious about the occupants of that caravan and he was already pulling open the door and gesturing her within.

  ‘Thanks. A beer would be nice.’ She went up the steps into a surprisingly roomy interior dominated by a large mattress piled with vivid covers and cushions.

  ‘Make yourself at home, Sister! I’ll get a couple of cans.’ He leapt back down the steps and threaded his way between the other vehicles.

  She sat down on a stool which seemed to be the only other piece of furniture in the place, and looked round at the garments hanging in plastic bags against the walls, the wide sill with dishes stacked on it, the bunches of herbs that floated on hooks from the ceiling, the tarnished oil stove. The whole effect had a certain careless charm. Looking at the mattress she wondered how many shared it. Not that it was any of her business.

  ‘Here we are! I’ve got you a straw too.’ White Wind leapt up the steps again.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The beer was warm and left a tingling sourness on the tongue. She sucked a few drops up and slid it down by her side.

  ‘Julian and I sleep under the caravan,’ White Wind said.

  ‘I didn’t ask.’ Sister Joan picked up the can and took another reluctant slurp.

  ‘And there’s nothing between us either. We’re not gay.’

  ‘I didn’t ask that either.’

  ‘Just for you to know, Sister. I like to play the field but Julian’s getting over a broken engagement. The girl just dropped him flat and vanished. Hit him hard.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Sister Joan said, keeping the bland expression on her face as she put down the can again. ‘Look, I really ought to go! They’re expecting me at the convent and — no offence intended, but I really don’t like leaving the van for long. I’ve an awful feeling that the lock isn’t very secure.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back. Don’t bother to finish the beer. It’s pretty awful anyway.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She climbed nimbly down the steps again. ‘Will you give my regards to your friends? I’m sorry to have missed them.’

  ‘Oh, they’re around here somewhere,’ he said carelessly. ‘Watch your step, Sister. Standards of hygiene aren’t too hot here.’

  ‘It shouldn’t worry you if you’re a free spirit,’ she teased, sidestepping an odorous puddle. ‘Thanks again for the beer. It was a nice thought.’

  ‘You’re welcome any time, Sister. Let me know if you need any grass.’ He grinned, waved and loped off.

  ‘Grass!’ Sister Joan echoed his words aloud, gripped by apprehension. She’d put the marijuana that he’d pressed on her into the glove compartment. By now the police would have found it!

  Clicking open the compartment she looked anxiously within. No grass there. Only a fresh red rose, dewy satin petals guarded by sharp curving thorns.

  Nine

  Celebrations were all different but funerals always seemed to be the same, no matter who was being buried. There was a pall of sadness that hung as heavily as fog over the community, a sense of guilt because one was still alive, an aching emptiness at the heart. Yet this funeral had an added ingredient: there was about it the sense of fear. Sister Joan, taking her turn to scatter earth on the grave, felt it strongly. It seemed to her that the other members of the community stood a little closer together, that eyes were lowered not out of respect but out of a shared apprehension. At a little distance outside the wall Detective Sergeant Mill and Constable Petrie stayed discreetly in the background. There were several of the local parishioners there and a sprinkling of Romanies with Padraic prominent among them. No sign on any of the new-age travellers. She had half expected White Wind to be there. It must have been him who had put the rose there — it might have been him, she corrected her thoughts. He had gone off to fetch the beer, which proved nothing but robbed him of an alibi.

  ‘In nomine patris et filius et—’ Father Malone’s voice roused her.

  She genuflected and crossed herself in unison with her sisters. Sister Elizabeth had been buried as quietly as she had lived, only her death had been violent and she had known nothing even of that.

  Magdalen and Bernadette hadn’t come to the funeral. They had been at the service but had stayed behind in the chapel when the rest filed out. She wondered if it was delicacy or revulsion that had kept them away.

  ‘This is a sad day for you, Sister.’ Padraic had stepped forward to shake her hand fervently in token of his sympathy. ‘Not that I ever caught more than a glimpse of Sister Elizabeth, but she was one of yours after all. My good wife would have come with me to pay her respects but she gets nervous in crowds. Has anyone any notion who did it?’

  ‘We think probably an intruder.’ Sister Joan glanced towards Mother Dorothy, received a nod of approval which conveyed leave to continue her conversation, and said, ‘It was very kind of you to come.’

  ‘Least we could do. If you want my opinion, Sister,’ Padraic said, ‘it’ll be one of those travellers as like as not. Nasty types most of them and not a drop of good Romany blood among the lot of them. Unless Luther’s right and it was something else.’

  ‘Something else?’ They had moved away from the burial enclosure and she looked at him sharply.

  ‘You know Luther,’ Padraic said deprecatingly. ‘Harmless as a fly but apt to get peculiar ideas in his head! He likes taking a little walk at night from time to time and—’

  ‘You mean he goes poaching,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘A bit here, a bit there,’ Padraic shrugged. ‘He says there’s a huge bat flies across the moor, just above the ground, swishing through the air.’

  Unwilling she remembered the silent, dark library, the sense of something else holding its breath, the rush of air as the figure went past her and down the stairs.

  ‘Sister Elizabeth was killed by a blow on the head,’ she said severely. ‘You ought not to encourage
Luther’s nonsense!’

  ‘Aye, it’s probably nonsense,’ he agreed. ‘Luther has more than a couple of screws missing though I’d only say it to you, Sister, seeing he’s my cousin.’

  ‘Have you mentioned it to the police?’ she asked.

  Padraic gave her a patient look. ‘The police don’t bother us and we don’t bother them,’ he said. ‘We answered the particular questions they put but nobody asked about bats.’

  ‘And Luther has a vivid imagination. Yes, I do see why you didn’t say anything,’ she said with resignation. ‘Anyway Sister Elizabeth was killed by a human being.’

  ‘Too good a name for anyone who’d harm a woman, nun or no,’ Padraic said. ‘It was likely a maniac.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Sister Joan smiled as she turned back towards the main house, but the smile faded as Padraic walked off.

  Not all killers were maniacs, she reflected. There were those who were simply evil and those who killed for a reason which had some basis in sanity. Someone had followed Magdalen Cole to the convent, someone whom she feared sufficiently to carry a flick knife against, to ask for a rape alarm. Whoever it was had left roses as — as a sign of devotion? Roses were for lovers not killers who crept through the dark to wield a savage blow. And this killer, maniac or not, had seized every chance to get into the convent.

  ‘Good morning, Sister.’

  Detective Sergeant Mill had caught up with her.

  ‘Good morning.’

  She answered primly, half expecting the comment when he said, ‘Was the grass for you or Brother Cuthbert?’

  ‘Someone thrust it on me,’ she hastened to explain. ‘I really didn’t know what to do with it so I shoved it in the glove compartment.’

  ‘Where we found it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know I should have reported it,’ she said contritely.

  ‘We’ve more to worry us than a little heap of hash,’ he said easily.

  ‘You didn’t find anything else in the glove compartment?’

  ‘No. Should we have done?’

  ‘There was a red rose there.’

  ‘When did you find it?’

  ‘After I’d been talking to White Wind — he’s a lad who’s travelling with his mate.’

  ‘You certainly have a wide variety of acquaintances,’ he said, amused. ‘When were you talking to him?’

  ‘The day before yesterday, after I picked up the van from the station yard. I really am not sure why I drove over to where they’re camped — curiosity, a hunch, I don’t know. Anyway he invited me into the caravan and went off to get me a can of beer — warm beer,’ she said, grimacing at the memory. ‘When I got back in the van he asked me if I wanted any more — oh!’

  ‘So it was White Wind who thrust the grass on you in the first place. Don’t look so stricken, Sister. I’m not interested in that.’

  ‘I suddenly remembered that I’d shoved the stuff into the glove compartment. So I opened it and there was the rose. If your men didn’t find one then it must have been put there while I was in the caravan. The lock on the door isn’t secure so almost anybody could have come along and put it there.’

  ‘Including your friend, White Wind.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said reluctantly. ‘He seems like a nice boy though, even if he does use a somewhat exotic name.’

  ‘His name’s Steve Conrad and his father’s a highly respected doctor in Wimbledon,’ Detective Sergeant Mill told her. ‘The boy’s sowing a few very mild wild oats before he settles down to something more productive. Was his mate there?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But his mate — Julian something — he was recently jilted by his fiancée and took it rather hard.’

  ‘It’s astonishing how people will chat away to nuns and clam up when a member of the police force hoves into view! You think our murderer may have been a rejected lover? We’ll check the two boys a little more carefully but this doesn’t have the scent of a crime passionnel. Where were your two guests this morning?’

  ‘They stayed in the chapel. I haven’t had the chance to talk to Magdalen Cole again yet.’

  ‘I was thinking of having a word with her myself,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I’ll wait a while.’

  ‘Hoping she’ll confide in me?’ Sister Joan looked at him sharply. ‘I won’t be your stool pigeon, Detective Sergeant Mill! If she tells me anything in strict confidence I have to respect that.’

  ‘What you have to do is help with enquiries if the opportunity arises,’ he said with equal sharpness. ‘It might help prevent a further murder.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It looks as if we just had our first quarrel,’ he said with a down-curving grin.

  ‘I was being over-scrupulous, that’s all,’ she said. ‘If Magdalen says anything to me that’s pertinent to the case, of course I’ll let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me — and thank you for coming. That was nice of you.’

  ‘Common practice,’ he said. ‘Good day to you, Sister.’

  Going through the front door she veered towards the chapel wing.

  The two girls sat together, both with sombre dresses on and white headscarves. Bernadette rose as Sister Joan came in, tiptoed to her and said in a whisper, ‘Magdalen hates funerals and she was scared to stay here by herself so I stayed with her. I hope nobody thought we were being disrespectful?’

  ‘I’m sure they didn’t,’ Sister Joan said warmly. ‘Go and get yourself a cup of coffee. Sister Perpetua will be in the kitchen.’

  ‘This is a rotten business, isn’t it, Sister?’ Bernadette lingered to say.

  ‘Yes, a really rotten business,’ Sister Joan agreed.

  Magdalen sat in her place still, head bent. Sister Joan genuflected to the altar and sat down beside her.

  ‘Death is often frightening, isn’t it?’ she said in a low, conversational tone. ‘Even to those who have faith it is scary to think of going on into something of which we know absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Were there many people there?’ Magdalen asked tensely.

  ‘Not many. A few of the local people, some Romanies from the camp, a couple of policemen. Not many.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go,’ Magdalen said. ‘I went to my mother’s funeral when I was little and I kept on crying and crying. I couldn’t stop. If I see a funeral, even on television, then it brings it all back, you see.’

  ‘Well, it’s over now.’ Sister Joan patted the girl’s arm and changed the subject. ‘It was kind of Bernadette to stay with you but there wasn’t any reason for you to feel afraid here, you know.’

  ‘No reason?’ Magdalen turned wide grey eyes towards her. They were red rimmed as if she hadn’t slept. ‘No reason, Sister? How can you say that when someone got into the convent and through my carelessness? And today, with people coming and going, anyone might come!’

  ‘Well, it’s not likely,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Magdalen, have you said anything yet to Mother Dorothy about having forgotten to bolt the door when you woke up that night?’

  ‘Have you?’ Magdalen countered.

  ‘No. I think you’d feel better if you did though. She must be wondering who did it.’

  ‘And if she finds out then she might send me away.’

  ‘I don’t think she would. She’s very fair minded. But it might relieve your own conscience.’

  ‘You’re right, Sister.’ Magdalen heaved a sigh and straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll tell her that I was careless and then I was too scared to say anything. Thank you.’

  ‘And there isn’t any use in being frightened all the time,’ Sister Joan pressed. ‘If you are scared of someone in particular then you ought to tell someone about it.’

  She had pressed too hard. Magdalen made an impatient little movement and said, ‘I’m not frightened of anyone in particular. Why should I be? I’m scared of — most women are scared these days with crazies running about!’

  ‘A few, perhaps, but surely—?’

  ‘It
only takes one to make a murder,’ Magdalen said, and rose abruptly. ‘Thank you, Sister. I’ll go and see Mother Dorothy the first chance I get.’

  She sidestepped into the aisle, knelt briefly and hurried out.

  Sister Joan slid to her knees and began a troubled Hail Mary. She was certain that Magdalen was lying, that there was someone who had followed her here, had mistaken first Sister Marie and then, more tragically, Sister Elizabeth for her, and might try again if he knew by now that his victim had been the wrong one.

  At lunchtime Sister Elizabeth’s death notice which had already been sent to the other houses of the order was read out. A dry record of a brief and blameless life its very brevity added to its poignancy. Sister Elizabeth had done no harm, had had no known enemies and now was dead, suddenly, unlawfully.

  ‘We will often remember with pleasure her time among us,’ Mother Dorothy ended. Sister Joan doubted it. Sister Elizabeth had been too colourless, too lacking in personality to be remembered vividly for long.

  ‘I do have one other announcement,’ the Prioress was continuing. ‘On the night that Sister Elizabeth — died, one of us woke up and went into the chapel to pray, forgetting to bolt the inner door on her return. I have been approached concerning this matter and can tell you that it’s been cleared up to my satisfaction, so the subject is closed.’

  It was impossible to see Magdalen’s expression clearly from the end of the table. Sister Joan kept her own gaze lowered to her plate as did the others. Her own downcast lids hid anger. If the stupid girl hadn’t been so careless then Sister Elizabeth might still be alive. She reminded herself that Magdalen was feeling worse about it than anybody else and ought to be pitied but the anger remained.

  It was not customary to go on mourning for a long time. One couldn’t hold back the dead with selfish tears when they had completed their journey. Two Masses, the number of years she had spent in the order, would be offered for her soul and after that she would be included among the souls of the faithful departed in the general prayers, her grave carefully tended by Sister Martha, her spiritual diary read by the Prioress in case it contained words of wisdom to be passed on to those remaining. Sister Joan guessed that it wouldn’t contain anything at all.