Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Had Sister Gertrude any grounds to be concerned? Why did she threaten to tell me?’

  Silence greeted this. Sister Brigid once again caught her trembling lower lip between her teeth, glanced at Sister Joan, but Sister Joan stared stonily ahead.

  ‘And neither of you deny the extreme language that you used to Sister Gertrude, is that true?’

  There was no answer. But something had changed. This time it was Sister Joan who looked at her friend, looked tentatively and almost as though seeking permission. And this time it was Sister Brigid who gave a half shake of the head and then looked straight ahead of her.

  ‘I would think that your vow of obedience must now come to your mind,’ remarked the Reverend Mother. ‘I have asked you why such extreme language was used by both of you to Sister Gertrude. I have asked why this occurred. And now I am waiting for an answer. You do realize that you are putting your future in this convent in jeopardy?’

  Both stood there, stiff as martyrs and neither answered. That surprised her, but now she had played the most formidable card in her hand and she was left with no other threat.

  The Reverend Mother began to lose patience. She would have a word with Mary MacSwiney, she decided. If necessary she would suggest to Sister Mary Immaculate and some other of the teaching nuns that they, too, should attend these evening classes in the Irish language. That would scotch all occasions for scandal, she thought. However, in the meantime, she had other matters to occupy her attention.

  ‘Perhaps you two should go away now and think about this matter and then come back when you are happy to tell me about it,’ she said evenly and turned her attention to her correspondence.

  It was only when the door closed behind them that she lifted her head and stared at the opposite wall.

  Alcohol poisoning? How on earth could a novice in her convent be suffering from alcohol poisoning? She just couldn’t understand it. She would have to curb her impatience until Dr Scher had time to examine the dead girl.

  EIGHT

  St Thomas Aquinas

  Praeterea, sicut potential se habet ad bonum et malum, ita et habitus, et sicut potential no semper agit, ita nec habitus. Existentibus igitur poetentiis, superfluum fuit habitum esse.

  (Moreover, as power possesses both good and evil, so also does habit. And just as power does not always achieve, nor does habit. Given, therefore, the existence of power, habits become superfluous.)

  Dr Scher arrived at the convent early the next morning. The Reverend Mother had been listening absent-mindedly to Sister Mary Immaculate’s views on the importance of strict formation of good habits at an early stage in a novice’s career in the convent. Apparently, Sister Catherine, with her mind on higher things, continually forgot to change her outdoor shoes for indoor slippers on coming back from chapel. And as the pious Sister Catherine spent every spare moment that she possessed praying earnestly in the convent chapel, situated across the garden from the convent itself, then the opportunities for trekking mud back indoors and on the highly-polished floor were manifold. Or so Sister Mary Immaculate had decided. Surprising how much she disliked the girl whom, privately the Reverend Mother considered to be a junior version of the Mistress of Novices.

  ‘I think that we need to shame her, make her think, make her more considerate to others,’ said Sister Mary Immaculate. ‘I propose lining up all the children by the door and sending her over to the chapel and have them watch while she changes into her slippers when she comes back. If she has to do that ten times, it should impress the importance of obedience upon her.’

  And humiliate the girl and drive her into a state of hysterics, probably, thought the Reverend Mother, reflecting on the thought that neither she herself, nor Sister Mary Immaculate, nor any of the professed nuns, ever changed into slippers after a visit to the chapel or to the gardens. There was a perfectly well-gravelled, well-raked path kept in good order by the gardener. What, after all, was the function of the doormat? Who on earth dreamed up that stupid rule about slippers for novices? And why hadn’t she done something about repealing it? She made a mental note to review the rules for novices and to formulate her thoughts on what they needed to learn and to experience in order to assist them to determine whether they had a vocation for a life as a nun. After all, the acquisition of good habits often led to a dull and pedestrian mind. Much better for novices to meet each day with fresh minds and new resolves.

  It was at that moment she heard Dr Scher’s cheerful voice telling Sister Bernadette that it rained in Manchester almost as much as it did in Cork. She turned back to the Mistress of Novices with renewed energy.

  ‘No, better still, tell her that she must only visit the chapel when all of the community go,’ said the Reverend Mother firmly. ‘And then you will be present to remind her if necessary.’ This would perform the dual role of frustrating Sister Mary Immaculate’s humiliating punishment and of cutting down on Sister Catherine’s excessive visits to the convent chapel. Without waiting for an answer she went straight out into the hallway, holding out both hands to Dr Scher.

  ‘Welcome home,’ she said. He was, she thought, pleased, though slightly overwhelmed by her effusiveness. She was so relieved to see him, though, that she did not care. Now she would know the truth. A tiny prayer flashed through her mind that this chalice should pass from her and that the doctor would find that the unfortunate Sister Gertrude had died of some disease which had not shown up in her medical examination, only a month or so previously. Let no scandal touch my convent, she prayed, as she led the way back to her room. Let no talk of alcohol or young men or wrongdoings mar the work that we do here. Please God, give no opportunity for an episcopal visitation.

  ‘Come in, Dr Scher,’ she said, ignoring Sister Mary Immaculate’s sulky face and leading him into her room and towards a chair by the fire. To her relief she had heard him refuse Sister Bernadette’s offers of hospitality. She waited for the door to close and braced herself. Now she could hear the worst without further delay.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking a chair opposite to him.

  ‘She died of poison, alcohol-based,’ he said bluntly.

  She said nothing. He would go on, she knew. He had never yet left her in ignorance or glossed over the truth. She could hardly believe it though. Where, on earth, had the girl obtained alcohol? And yet Dr Scher would not have spoken unless he was sure. And if he was sure, he would, she thought, be correct in his assertion. She had absolute trust in him. She bowed her head and tucked her hands inside her sleeves and waited for the rest of the communication.

  ‘Tell me what she was like the last time when you saw her,’ he said.

  The Reverend Mother struggled for a moment with the feelings of despair. And then she raised her head bravely. Somehow, no matter how often she had told herself that the young doctor might be mistaken, there was something within her that told her the man probably knew what he was talking about. ‘She appeared ill that evening at supper,’ she said steadily. ‘She was dizzy when she got up from the table. She stumbled; knocked over her chair; her speech was slurred; she was nauseous. She vomited when she was brought upstairs. And again during the night, apparently.’ She stopped then, feeling an absurd sense of protectiveness towards the dead girl and any secret that she may have had. But only with complete knowledge could Dr Scher be enabled to form a correct verdict. ‘I have since found out,’ she said, endeavouring to make her voice as calm and as dispassionate as she could, ‘that the novice who sleeps in the bed next to her in the novices’ dormitory had observed her get out of bed, open the window and vomit out through it. Doubtless,’ said the Reverend Mother dispassionately, ‘the very thick ivy on the wall concealed the vomit and her fellow novices did not inform on her. It may have happened before.’ Surely, she thought despairingly, no one dies of alcohol poisoning unless they are of a habit of imbibing the stuff. But where could Sister Gertrude have found a source? She, like the other nuns, had no personal money, only what might be doled out to her for a special purc
hase, or for a fare for a taxi or the tram.

  ‘And she would have eaten the same food as the others.’ Dr Scher was frowning to himself, puzzling over the problem.

  ‘Exactly the same, and the novices are ordered to hand over any gifts of food or such from relatives to the sister in charge of the novices; that is Sister Mary Immaculate. The usual practice is that such gifts are divided among the whole community.’

  ‘So there would be no way that she could get hold of, or be fed, a substantial amount of alcohol. Would have to be spirits, I think, judging by the fatal effects. Something concentrated. Some sort of whiskey or brandy. You don’t keep anything like that in the convent? Nothing to administer to fainting nuns after long services, anything like that? Something to sip after a hard day. Any little secret supply that she might have got hold of. You have no little secret hoard hidden here in your room.’

  ‘No,’ said the Reverend Mother curtly. Her mind went guiltily to the secret drawer where she kept a box of illicit sweets used sparingly to reward excellent work or to console badly traumatized children. Still, even if Sister Gertrude had gorged the entire contents, it would have been unlikely to have killed her. And sweets did not contain alcohol.

  ‘Any possibility that she could have got out of the convent secretly, smuggled in some spirits?’ His mind was running on the same lines as the doctor from the north and she sent a mental apology to the young man for doubting him.

  ‘Three of my novices attended a class, attended twice weekly classes for Irish language lessons in the early evening. They took place at St Ita’s school on Wellington Road, run by the two MacSwiney sisters, owners of St Ita’s. I suppose that it would be about a half an hour walk there and they would, of course, have passed public houses and bars on the way. But they would not have money, just a small sum for emergencies. They were supposed to take a taxi if it rained, but they usually returned that money as they seldom bothered. None of them seemed to mind the walk and they enjoyed the classes.’ She stopped but then forced herself to go on. There was some mystery here and all facts to do with the dead girl had to be relevant. ‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘I was the one who encouraged Sister Gertrude to join, almost put pressure on her. She didn’t have much interest in the Irish language; mathematics, accounts, all that sort of thing, these were her interests and I think that she had little to learn in that field. However, she was about four years older than the other two and I meant her to be, to a certain extent, a chaperone, a responsible person who would make sure that these two young novices were discreet and sensible, but who was yet not too old to spoil their evening out with other young people.’

  ‘But now you are worried about those Gaelic language classes, is that right?’ Dr Scher was watching her closely.

  ‘Something was wrong,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘I was informed by another novice, well, between ourselves, it was Sister Catherine; you remember her, the nervous hysterical one.’ She thought that with Dr Scher she could be honest. He had dealt with Sister Catherine and could assess her story for what it was worth. ‘Apparently, according to Sister Catherine, who was probably eavesdropping, Sister Gertrude threatened to tell me about something, and Sister Joan, forthright young lady that she is, told her that she would kill her if she did so, and Sister Brigid, you know the one with the big, innocent brown eyes, Sister Brigid said that she would help her.’

  ‘Goodness, what very holy novices you have here, Reverend Mother. Blackmailing each other, if you please. Now don’t frown at me. It’s quite funny, really.’ He looked amused, but the Reverend Mother, ignoring him, continued to frown thoughtfully.

  ‘But you see,’ she said, ‘Sister Gertrude, the one that I would have sworn was mature and sensible, she’s the one who, according to you, had taken enough alcohol to kill her. And yet I could have sworn that my judgement of her was correct and that she was the last person to sneak a bottle of whiskey or gin into the convent and to drink its entire contents …’

  He looked at her for a moment and then he nodded.

  ‘Well, let’s turn matters inside out. Let’s say that you are right. Let’s say that we are both right, but remember that I am a man of science. When I say that someone died of alcohol poisoning, I do not necessarily mean that they have swallowed a couple of bottles of Paddy Whiskey, though that is the easiest solution. Some of those chemicals that they use in mixtures for cleaning windows or polishing brass, silver, furniture, anything, really – Windolene, Brasso – a lot of that sort of stuff that my housekeeper uses, or even paint solvent, for instance, all of these have alcohol bases and all of these could cause the same symptoms.’

  ‘So what you are saying is that Sister Gertrude could have died from drinking some chemical, but surely—’

  ‘Has been known. So drinking whiskey or brandy is probably by choice, probably done for pleasure, to enhance a moment or to forget your troubles. But it’s a different matter when it comes to window cleaner or anyone of those other things that I have mentioned. Then you are on to accident, suicide or murder.’

  The Reverend Mother thought about that. ‘Sister Gertrude would not have been involved in any cleaning or painting within the convent. The lay sisters do the cleaning, the gardener would do any odd painting jobs, and once every five years we have the painters in to do the windows and the doors. In any case she was the last person to do something so incautious as to swallow some cleaning liquid. So an accident would be unlikely, almost impossible. Suicide, I would feel, knowing the girl very well, better than I know other novices since she worked in here, in this room, on the accounts with me – well, I would deem suicide to be extremely unlikely, impossible, in fact, if anything is really impossible.’

  ‘And murder?’ queried Dr Scher.

  The Reverend Mother paused and thought about this. ‘There are those words reported by Sister Catherine,’ she said as calmly and as dispassionately as she could. Recalled there in the room, they sounded even more ridiculous than when voiced by the hysterical Sister Catherine.

  ‘You don’t seriously think that one of your other novices could have murdered her for fear that she might report some silly breaking of the rules?’ he said, looking almost amused. ‘Two nice girls, Sister Joan and Sister Brigid. Can’t see them doing something like that? And how would they feed the stuff to her?’

  ‘Tell me about these chemicals,’ said the Reverend Mother, ignoring his questions. ‘What would they taste like?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But you do get ethylene glycol in window cleaners and that’s a form of alcohol. It’s a sort of syrup, thins out paint, and liquefies solids. They use it in lots of factories. I don’t suppose that it does any harm, though, unless you drank half a bottle of it. I seem to remember reading that it tastes quite sweet, but that is something that I can find out. Yes, now that I think about it, there was the case of a child, child of a painter, drinking some. We had to pump his stomach, poor little fellow. Yes, it would be sweet and so could easily be disguised in a drink, well sugared tea or something like that.’

  The Reverend Mother thought about this. ‘I think,’ she said decisively, ‘that you need a cup of tea.’ Without waiting for an answer, she reached across and pulled the bell rope.

  ‘Oh, Sister Bernadette, I’m sure that our visitor would like a cup of tea,’ she said when the nun came in beaming.

  ‘I’ve the kettle just on the boil,’ said Sister Bernadette with the air of one who had been expecting this summons. She bestowed a smile on Dr Scher that promised more than a bare cup of tea.

  ‘Dr Scher has been admiring your windows,’ said the Reverend Mother and was pleased to hear that there was no note of embarrassment in her voice. ‘He wondered how you keep them so clean. I said that you probably buy a bottle of something, some sort of cleaner or polish.’

  ‘Never would bother my head,’ said Sister Bernadette emphatically. ‘Why waste money on something expensive when the Cork Examiner will do the job just as well. Just run the paper
under the tap and then polish the window, Reverend Mother; that’s how I clean windows. I teach all the young sisters how to do it the same way, just crumple the newspaper and wet it. And a little vinegar in warm water for some of the outside ones if the smuts and the soot gets on to them.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said the Reverend Mother light-heartedly when the lay sister had gone hurrying back to the kitchen. ‘Well, I must say that the Cork Examiner is well worth the three pence that we pay for it. It gets read from cover to cover by everyone in the convent and then the old copies are used to light fires and to clean windows.’

  ‘You are relieved that there are no dangerous cleaners lurking around your convent kitchen, aren’t you? You sound relieved. You think that this murder has nothing to do with your community. Is that right?’

  The Reverend Mother thought about this comment. Was she relieved? Perhaps. Nevertheless a life had been lost, a young woman, who had enjoyed her existence; had loved her work; that young woman was now lying dead in the mortuary. A girl who had been under her care. Almost an unbearable thought. She turned back to the question of chemical poisoning.

  ‘Well, now that I come to think of it, I don’t think that Sister Bernadette buys much other than soap and vinegar for the cleaning,’ she said. ‘I never remember seeing any strange names like Windolene or Brasso or anything like that. Though I must say that I hardly notice the kitchen accounts, just take it for granted that we need what she writes down. But I will check, now that you’ve told me that some of these cleaners can be lethal.’ All the time that she was talking, though, she kept running the three faces of the novices through her mind. Who amongst them could have hated Sister Gertrude enough to kill her?

  Or was this crime nothing whatsoever to do with convent life, but had its seed in the previous existence of that strong-willed, self-possessed Sister Gertrude who had led another life previously as Patsy Donovan, the darling of her father and a valued employee of Ford’s Factory. Her mind went back to the trim kitchen which she had visited in Turners Cross. Cupboards, well-polished, well cared for, drawers and shelves. Crockery in some, food in others, but then there was one, over under the window. One door not quite closed. Garish tins, ranged on a shelf, just glimpsed inside and a basket with dusters and cloths. Would that newly married Betty Kelly, sister of the late Patsy Donovan, wife of a man with a very good job, have used the modern polishes, rather than be content with newspaper and vinegar? Probably. A modern young housewife. Of the generation that slightly despised the mores of their mothers and their aunts. Even the young girls that she taught, though not well-off like Betty, had this instinctive rebellion against their elders. There would have been no shortage of money in that household. Certainly not since the death of the father and probably not even before it. Sister Bernadette seemed to think that Denis was in charge of the paint department. Ford Factory paid very well. Even an ordinary factory hand was earning five pounds a week at that time. Excellent wages for men who were used to part-time and irregular casual work. A man like Denis would be comfortably well off.