A VOW OF DEVOTION an utterly gripping crime mystery

by Veronica Black

  ‘Are you all right, Sister?’ The infirmarian’s bulky frame hove through the white veil.

  ‘Yes. Yes, perfectly all right.’

  The habit of maintaining calm wrapped her round as she replied. Self-control was a virtue when it was practised every day. Her own novice mistress had told her that.

  ‘We had a telephone call from Father Malone, asking if you’d arrived home safely. The fog is thick even down in the town and he was worried.’

  ‘The engine died, I think it needs oil. There was nothing to do but walk. I took some pies to Brother Cuthbert but he wasn’t there.’

  Other members of the community had reached and surrounded them, veils hanging damply round faces bright with relief. Mother Dorothy in the forefront, holding her own torch.

  ‘Apparently Brother Cuthbert decided to walk down into town to meditate in the church for an hour or two,’ she said briskly. ‘Father Malone met him there and thought he’d better ring us. We came out in twos — not Sister Gabrielle or Sister Mary Concepta, of course. We left them to man the telephone.’

  ‘I left the pies at the schoolhouse,’ Sister Joan explained as they walked back towards the gates in a tight little group. ‘The van wouldn’t start again so I borrowed the lamp and then that ran out of oil too.’

  ‘Like the wise and foolish virgins,’ Sister Hilaria said. ‘I always felt sorry for the foolish ones myself.’

  ‘In which category Sister Joan can certainly place herself,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘It was very careless of you not to check the oil, Sister.’

  ‘I know. I’m very sorry, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Well, we saved some supper for you,’ Sister Perpetua said.

  ‘Thank you, Sister. I’m afraid I’ve put you to a great deal of trouble.’ She spoke meekly, hoping that Mother Dorothy would call her into the parlour so that she could tell her that she had delivered the trowel, but as they came within sight of the main door where Bernadette was framed against the light, anxiously looking out, Mother Dorothy exclaimed.

  ‘Our guests must have come back earlier! You’ll be happy to see that Sister Joan is safe and sound. The van broke down.’

  ‘Is Magdalen with you?’ Bernadette asked.

  ‘Didn’t she come back with you?’ Mother Dorothy asked sharply.

  Bernadette shook her head, her plaits swinging.

  ‘I lost her in the mist. One minute she was beside me and the next she’d gone. She was nervous about going out to search so I assumed she’d just sneak — slipped back inside. I didn’t fancy going on alone so I went back to see if she was around, but Sister Gabrielle says that nobody came back except me.’

  ‘Sister Gabrielle probably didn’t see her,’ Sister David said, carefully wiping the moisture from her spectacles. ‘Shall we go out and look for her or look inside first?’

  ‘We’ll look inside first,’ Mother Dorothy said firmly. ‘She’s probably in chapel or in her room. I’ll ring Father Malone to let him know that you’re back safely, Sister Joan. Your garments look very damp. You’d better come into the kitchen and get warm by the cooker. Will you see to it, Sister Perpetua?’

  ‘Right this minute,’ Sister Perpetua said, taking Sister Joan’s arm and marching her into the corridor as if she feared she might suddenly bolt. ‘I’ll whip up some fresh cheese sauce.’

  ‘What I’d really love is a strong cup of tea,’ Sister Joan said, entering the kitchen and sinking on to a chair with relief.

  ‘You shall have it at once.’ Sister Perpetua bustled to the stove. ‘We were very concerned when the mist came down and you weren’t back from town. Sister Marie wanted to join us in the search even though her ankle is still hurting. I shall be very glad when things return to normal again.’

  ‘Do you think they ever will, Sister?’

  Sister Joan sipped the hot tea and shot a glance towards the other who was busily stirring the contents of a saucepan.

  ‘We’ve had crises before, Sister, but the spiritual life goes on as does the practical work,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘I agree with you though that once fear intrudes into a community it’s very hard to root it out again.’

  ‘When I was walking here something went past me in the mist.’ Sister Joan dropped her voice slightly. ‘Something big and black, not touching the ground.’

  ‘A bat?’ Sister Perpetua drew a small dish of vegetables out of the oven, poured the sauce over, and motioned the younger woman to the table.

  ‘No. It was as big as a human being.’

  ‘Then it probably was a human being,’ Sister Perpetua said prosaically. ‘Black, you said?’

  ‘A cloak and hood, wide sleeves.’

  ‘Young Brother Cuthbert hasn’t taken to levitating, has he?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Sister Joan chuckled at the thought. ‘No, this was — someone in a great hurry, whooshing past.’

  ‘On a bike?’

  ‘Sister Perpetua, you’re a genius!’ Sister Joan put down her spoon and beamed.

  ‘Naturally.’ Sister Perpetua winked and was immediately serious again. ‘The trouble with you is that you always overlook the obvious. Anyone wearing a long cloak and riding a bike in the darkness or in the fog with no lights visible would look as if they were moving above the ground.’

  ‘But none of us rides a bike.’

  ‘And Brother Cuthbert walks everywhere on those enormous feet. Sister, nuns and friars aren’t the only people who wear cloaks.’

  ‘No, but Sylvia Dacre does.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A woman called Sylvia Dacre — she’s with the new-age travellers. She has a small caravan. I met her briefly.’

  ‘The gadabout nun,’ Sister Perpetua said, mildly disapproving. ‘Sister, you must stay close to home until Sister Elizabeth’s murderer is caught. I do feel that — ah, here comes Bernadette! Would you like a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘No thank you, Sister.’ Bernadette, who had just come in, shook her head politely. ‘We haven’t found Magdalen yet.’

  ‘She must have wandered off by herself.’ Sister Perpetua clucked her tongue. ‘Have you looked in the chapel?’

  ‘We’ve looked everywhere in the main building and it’s still too foggy to go out again.’

  ‘Someone ought to go. She can’t be left roaming around in this fog!’ Sister Joan exclaimed. ‘Did she have a torch?’

  Bernadette nodded.

  ‘We had one between us. When she disappeared she must have switched it off because I couldn’t see any light at all. I had to grope my way back to the house.’

  ‘Then she’s probably trying to make herself important,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Yes, I’m aware that’s an uncharitable comment, but that young woman manages to cause a lot of upset in her meek, quiet way. That doesn’t mean that I’m not concerned about her.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me I ought to go and see Reverend Mother.’ Sister Joan crossed herself, murmured a hasty grace over her empty plate, and went back towards the parlour.

  Mother Dorothy was just replacing the telephone receiver as she knocked and entered.

  ‘Dominus vobiscum. What is it, Sister?’

  ‘Et cum spiritu tuo. I wondered if anyone had any idea what has happened to Magdalen. Bernadette says she’s nowhere to be found.’

  ‘I just rang the police,’ Mother Dorothy said crisply.

  ‘But surely we could go and look for her?’

  ‘As we did for you? The mist is even thicker now, and your case was quite different,’ her superior frowned. ‘You were on your way home and since you were so late it was common sense to assume that the van had broken down and you were either still sitting there or had started walking back along the track. I suspect that Magdalen went off deliberately. That makes a difference.’

  ‘But why would she do that? She’s scared of going out alone.’

  ‘I don’t know, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy frowned again, drummed her fingers on the desk, and added, ‘Please keep this to yourself, but someone has bee
n found lying injured on the moor, and I’m very much afraid that it may be Magdalen Cole.’

  Eleven

  They had been driven to the hospital behind a strange police officer who had glued his eyes to the fog-white windscreen and kept them there. Neither Mother Dorothy nor Sister Joan spoke during the brief journey. Each was occupied with her own thoughts.

  Sister Hilaria had been deputed to conduct evening prayers and give the blessing. In less than an hour the grand silence would begin. There would be no opportunity then of discussing events after that until the following morning.

  In the town the street lights cut through the mist. The police car picked up speed slightly as it turned into the curving drive of the hospital whose bulk was lit by squares of light from uncurtained windows.

  ‘It was very good of you to come, Sisters.’

  Constable Petrie greeted them in casualty, his youthful face heavy with responsibility.

  ‘Constable Petrie, is it not?’ Mother Dorothy shook hands briskly. ‘What makes you think that the injured woman is Magdalen Cole?’

  ‘She has a letter addressed to Magdalen Cole in her pocket, addressed to the convent,’ Constable Petrie informed her. ‘Unstamped and not yet opened. Of course I haven’t met the lady myself. Detective Sergeant Mill went out of town until tomorrow on personal business so I thought it best to contact the convent directly. If you’ll come this way — I’m afraid she’s still unconscious.’

  The side ward was gleaming white with a shaded pink bulb to soften the effect. Through the slightly opened window white mist curled. The patient, her head bandaged, a large dressing obscuring her cheek, lay on her back, a nurse seated at the side.

  ‘It’s Sylvia Dacre,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Not Magdalen.’

  ‘You know her, Sister?’ Constable Petrie looked at her.

  ‘She came with the new-age travellers. She has a caravan. I met her briefly.’

  ‘Then why would she have a letter addressed to Magdalen Cole?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Did she or Magdalen mention having known each other?’ Mother Dorothy asked.

  Sister Joan shook her head.

  ‘Did Luther see anyone else?’ she asked in her turn. ‘Anyone who might have attacked Sylvia Dacre?’

  ‘She wasn’t attacked, Sister.’ The Constable drew them outside into the corridor. ‘She crashed her bike in the mist and came off it in a pile of gravel.’

  ‘And she was wearing a long black cape with a hood?’

  ‘Which saved her from even worse injury. How did you know?’

  ‘Luther said he’d seen a bat flying just above the ground. The long cloak would have hidden the wheels.’

  ‘How badly hurt is she?’ Mother Dorothy asked.

  ‘Would you like a word with the doctor? It’s down here, Reverend Mother.’ A tall nursing sister had loomed up, stiffly starched and efficient.

  ‘Wait for me here, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy followed the sister to a door marked ‘Dr Chasen’.

  ‘Did Sylvia Dacre have nothing else on her apart from the letter?’ Sister Joan asked.

  ‘Only the letter. I took charge of it thinking it had been addressed to her, but it looks as if she was writing to Miss Cole herself, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Would you like me to take it for her?’ Sister Joan’s blue eyes were ingenuous.

  ‘That would be very kind of you, Sister. The poor lady will want it delivered, I daresay, but if Miss Cole is missing—’

  ‘She became separated from the others when they came out to look for me. She’s a sensible young woman, likely to find herself a shelter and sit tight until morning.’

  ‘In that case—’ He dug in his pocket and produced the letter, now slightly crumpled at the edges. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to sign for it.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She signed her name neatly on the page he took from his notebook. ‘I’ll see that Magdalen gets it as soon as I see her.’

  The envelope felt thick and bulky in her deep pocket. She turned as Mother Dorothy emerged from the doctor’s office.

  ‘A nasty concussion with a possible hairline fracture of the skull and numerous bruises and abrasions,’ she reported. ‘Thank God for it might have been worse. Are you ready to go, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘The car’s waiting for you, Sisters.’ Constable Petrie led the way out. ‘About the young lady who went missing — we are pretty short-handed at the moment, but I’ll get some men out on the moor immediately. As you say she may well have found a place where she can shelter until the mist clears.’

  ‘One of the sisters will come down in the morning to see how the patient is doing,’ Mother Dorothy told him. ‘Oh, but we’ve no transport! I forgot.’

  ‘The van broke down,’ Sister Joan said meekly. ‘I left it outside the schoolhouse.’

  ‘I’ll have one of the lads see to it and drive it over to you in the morning,’ Constable Petrie said.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Mother Dorothy said, glancing at her watch. ‘Would you be good enough to tell the driver who’s taking us home now that in five minutes the grand silence begins so we will be unable to thank him properly or bid him good night? The grand silence is only broken in emergencies.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Sisters.’ He nodded respectfully, ushering them through the mist to the waiting car.

  ‘When I saw Sylvia Dacre she was on foot,’ Sister Joan said when they were turning into the main road again. ‘I suppose she only used a bike when—’

  ‘In nomine patris et filius et spiritus sanctus.’ Mother Dorothy uttered the blessing as she signed the cross upon the air.

  ‘Amen,’ Sister Joan murmured.

  The grand silence had begun. There was now no chance to discuss the letter that was in her keeping, no chance to speculate with Mother Dorothy upon the link between Magdalen Cole and Sylvia Dacre. She sat quietly, thoughts circling in her head.

  Sister Hilaria stood at the main door with Sister David at her side, both of them peering anxiously. Mother Dorothy shook her head in answer to their questioning looks and turned towards the chapel wing, Sister Joan at her heels. A few minutes’ silent prayer would mitigate the loss of the evening devotions.

  In the chapel the candles still burned. Sister Joan went to her usual place and knelt, waiting for calm but inside the seething questions jostled for position. The recent sequence of events unrolled in her mind. The two guests had arrived. The new-age travellers had arrived. Sister Marie had been attacked while wearing Magdalen’s white headscarf; no, not actually attacked but grabbed from behind. She had injured herself in trying to get away down the steps. Then Sister Elizabeth had been killed, while she slept in the room that Magdalen had been occupying. Magdalen had left the inner door to the chapel wing open and neatly transferred the blame to Bernadette. Sylvia Dacre had sometimes ridden a bike presumably when she wanted to get somewhere quickly. Roses. Roses had turned up in unexpected places. Expensive hothouse roses. Roses for love. People who loved didn’t usually kill — but there was nothing usual about these particular circumstances.

  Mother Dorothy rose, genuflected, touched her lightly on the shoulder as she went out. The fleeting pat said that it was time to lock up, to extinguish lights, to carry out the normal routine of an acting lay sister.

  Sister Joan waited until the door of the chapel had closed with a soft click. She blessed herself, thankful to find that the apprehension filling her was now joined by a feeling of determined energy, and rose. Going up the winding stairs into the library and the storerooms beyond, she was still fitting the recent sequence of events into chronological order in her mind. Sylvia Dacre had been here and gone swiftly up these stairs on the night she herself had come up to the library. That bat-like shape rushing past her in the darkness had been Sylvia Dacre in her distinctive black cape. She hadn’t wanted to be seen though there was no reason why a member of the public couldn’t have come in from outside to pray in the chapel. And she had lef
t two roses — one in the library, the other dropped on the step. Dropped deliberately or merely because she was in flight?

  The upper storey was quiet and still. Sister Joan came down into the chapel again. The outer door was unlocked. She opened it and looked out into the mist, no longer a dense white blanket but swirling into tatters. Overhead stars struggled to be seen.

  Extinguishing all the lights save for the sanctuary lamp she locked the inner door and went across to the parlour to check that the windows were securely fastened. Then she went upstairs to make similar checks on the dining-room and recreation rooms, trod softly down the upper corridor past the closed doors of the quiet cells, turned the main light to its dimmest point and came downstairs again.

  The kitchen was still warm, the back door bolted, shutters drawn down at the window. Alice’s empty basket struck a sad note. She would be glad when the dog was back from her training course. Through the wall she could hear Sister Mary Concepta’s gentle snores. It had been a long day for the old ladies. Even Sister Gabrielle must be asleep. She moved to the door of the lay cell where Sister Elizabeth had slept and opened it. The bed had been stripped. Faintly pencilled circles indicated where finger prints had been found, but she suspected they would all prove to be innocent. This killer was far too cautious to leave prints.

  She was still wearing her outdoor cloak. She went into the kitchen and took a torch out of one of the drawers. It was time for her to deliver the letter, and she had a shrewd suspicion where the intended recipient would be.

  Outside she switched on the torch to half power and held it behind her palm lest a stray gleam be seen by any wakeful soul within the main house. The grounds all about her seemed to have entered into the grand silence. Trees and bushes stood mute and dripping and the ground underfoot yielded with no more than the faintest of squishing sounds.

  She went through the gate into the burial plot and stood for a moment by the flower-strewn mound of earth. Sister Elizabeth had been a good girl. A good, quiet girl who would have been a valued member of the community. She should have been allowed to live out her peaceful, unremarkable existence. Whoever had killed her was wicked.