Death of a Novice

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Why should the Irish Republican Army be interested in killing Sister Gertrude?’

  ‘Perhaps to stop her interfering,’ said Eileen uncertainly. ‘You know what I told you, about the Mary MacSwiney business. The two young nuns were being sent off, supposed to be collecting for the Foreign Missions, but really delivering letters. I got wind of it and sent a message to Tom Hurley, but I think that Sister Gertrude had tackled them also. My friend Malachy said he heard them arguing.’ She saw the Reverend Mother nod and guessed that there might have been some arguing or quarrelling at the convent as well.

  ‘And you thought that perhaps Raymond Roche might have been entrusted with the task of removing Sister Gertrude,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘And so you went to talk to a spy. I would not have wanted you to put yourself in any danger, Eileen. It might have been better just to talk to the police. I’m sure that Inspector Cashman would treat everything you said as confidential. The police, the Garda Siochána are here to protect us, you know.’

  Eileen suppressed a smile as she thought of the part that she had made Patrick play. It had helped, she was sure. Rory had respected her as someone who had a finger in two very different pies. She would not, she thought, explain all this to the Reverend Mother.

  ‘Well there are all sorts of ins and outs, Reverend Mother,’ she said vaguely. ‘But after I had talked with this fella,’ she continued, ‘I had the feeling that he was pretty sure that Raymond Roche would not have had anything to do with it. I couldn’t be certain, Reverend Mother, but that’s just the feeling that I picked up. And that if he did do it, I wouldn’t say that it was official. I mean that he wasn’t authorized in any way.’

  ‘Would he have murdered a nun for his own reasons?’ asked the Reverend Mother, thinking what a strange world that they were living in when a young nun’s death could be ordered, like a request for a chicken.

  ‘It’s possible.’ Eileen considered the matter. ‘But I don’t see why. It doesn’t make sense. The only reason why Raymond would do something dangerous like killing a nun would be if he were very well paid for it. Drug addicts are like that, Reverend Mother. They would do anything for money. He’d have nothing to get out of it unless he had been ordered to do it. Unless, of course, that something was going on between them and she became a bit of a nuisance.’ That idea, she thought, would not be a welcome one to the Reverend Mother, but she considered it for a moment and then shook her head.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so, Eileen,’ she said.

  Eileen nodded. The Reverend Mother, she thought, would have a good idea of what was going on in the convent. She had always seemed to know everything, even about what the girls got up to out of school. She could accept her word about Sister Gertrude. And then, with a little curiosity, she said tentatively, ‘What was she like? My friend said she was a bit bossy, a bit full of herself, one to speak her mind, that’s what my friend thought of her.’

  The Reverend Mother seemed to think for a moment. A slight frown, more of concentration than of displeasure crossed her face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly after a minute. ‘I think that could be true. I saw one side of her, but no doubt others, especially those younger, and perhaps those inferior to her, saw another side.’

  ‘My friend said that she was a bit nasty to the young one, Sister Brigid, made her cry one day by saying something in her ear.’ Eileen saw the Reverend Mother wince and decided to go back to the topic for her reason for her visit.

  ‘Raymond’s not too bright, you know. Out of his depth, I’d say.’ She gave a look at the Reverend Mother. ‘He’s supposed to be courting the granddaughter of Mr Murphy, you know. Tom Hurley is pleased about that. He likes power. Would like to have power over someone like Mr Murphy. I was thinking that I should tell Mr Murphy about Raymond, warn him, tell him that he takes drugs, you know, but then I thought that perhaps you would be better at doing that. He might think it’s a bit of a cheek of me and he’s been very kind to me, allowing me to borrow books. I only found that out today,’ she added. She would say no more, she thought. The Reverend Mother had not replied, though she appeared to be thinking hard.

  ‘So, Eileen,’ she said, ‘you think, on the whole, that although Mr Raymond Roche is an unsuitable person for my cousin’s granddaughter to plan to marry, nevertheless, you don’t think that he was the one who killed Sister Gertrude.’

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ said Eileen cautiously, ‘but that’s my feeling, Reverend Mother. For one thing, I don’t see someone like Tom Hurley trusting a drug addict to murder someone at his orders. Tom is very cautious. He would think that someone who takes drugs might well take them on that day, even if he had sworn not to. And then he could make a mess of things.’

  ‘Very true,’ mused the Reverend Mother. ‘Yes, I think if I were Tom Hurley I don’t think that I would trust a difficult and dangerous job to a drug addict.’

  With a flash of inner amusement, Eileen watched the revered and well-esteemed Reverend Mother of her youth making an effort to put herself in the position of a man with a large price on his head, a man who ordered murder and arson without a moment’s compunction. She kept silent though, recognizing that possibilities were going through the mind of the woman opposite to her. Did nuns get used to wearing the wimple that must constrict their foreheads, those long robes that would impede walking and making running almost impossible, did they ever get fed up with living in a convent and seeing the same people all the time and never having fun. Why had someone like Sister Gertrude, with a good job, and good money – Ford’s had the reputation of paying very good wages – why had someone like that entered the convent? Not particularly pious, either, had said Malachy. Had laughed at a joke that one of the lads had made. Something that he wouldn’t have expected her to understand.

  The Reverend Mother, she saw, noted the startled glance that Eileen gave her, but had then turned her mind back to the problem.

  ‘You said “for one thing”. Is there another?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes.’ Eileen thought about it for a moment, thought about how to explain matters. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that Tom Hurley is a very good judge of different temperaments, different degrees of commitment. I know that when we, Eamonn, myself, Aoife and the other lads were in that house south of the city, we were never asked to do anything that would involve a real killing. We were always back-up people, the troops that swept in to do a raid, or things like that, the ones that drove a lorry, made a lot of noise. He wasn’t sure of us, you see. He was watching us, training us up, I suppose. Seeing how far that he could push us. It would be the same thing with Raymond Roche, you know, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘I must say,’ said the Reverend Mother, rather tartly, ‘I would not have thought that Mr Raymond Roche would have been an idealistic patriot.’

  Eileen smiled a little. The Reverend Mother had a gift for summing up a situation in a very succinct manner.

  ‘Raymond is a playboy,’ she said, ‘a man without ideals. Tom Hurley could get him to do things. Amadáns like myself and Eamonn, well we would do things for the love of Ireland and for the hope of gaining Ireland’s freedom from Britain. But, of course, Raymond Roche wasn’t like that. He was a playboy from a rich family who wanted to get the money for drugs and for visits to London. You wouldn’t believe, Reverend Mother,’ said Eileen emphatically, ‘just how much all of that sort of thing costs. And so Raymond got trapped by Tom Hurley. He needed the money that he was being paid for his services. But anyway, when I talked with this man, a spy for Tom Hurley, he seemed to think that Raymond would be used just for the showy stuff. He didn’t see him murdering a nun, and I must say that I don’t see him murdering a nun, either. Always possible, I suppose, but somehow I don’t see him doing it.’

  Eileen sat back, leaning against the unforgiving rigidity of the bench. There was something about the Reverend Mother’s face which disturbed her, a mixture of worry, apprehension and the look of one who is being forced to confront an unpalatable
conclusion.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked after a few moments and the elderly nun bowed her head wearily.

  ‘It’s a problem, Eileen,’ she said quite simply, speaking, Eileen thought, as though they were friends and equals. ‘It’s a terrible problem. You see, if it were not an outsider like Mr Raymond Roche who murdered Sister Gertrude, then it may be something, someone, connected with our convent here.’

  ‘I see,’ said Eileen. Her mind went instantly to the other two young nuns. The thought of the fuss and the scandal that would come of something like that would kill the elderly woman, she thought.

  FOURTEEN

  St Thomas Aquinas

  Ita tamen quod si ex observatione talis voti magnum et manifestum gravamen sentiret … non debet homo tale votum servare.

  (Yet should a man find that without doubt he is seriously burdened by keeping such a vow … that man ought not to keep it.)

  The Reverend Mother stood in front of the ancient willow tree beside the river. She had been thinking about what Eileen said on the evening before, but now she turned her thoughts back to the tree. Over the years, perhaps even over hundreds of years, people had tried to curb its growth; had tried to cut back the exuberance of its branches, had tried to confine it to being just a decorous part of the riverside scenery. It had been chopped of its limbs, but had retaliated by producing sprouts of verdant growth. Small sockets had been formed in the trunk, not injuring the tree in any way as new bark healed the wound with a smooth protective surface, but forming intriguing little hiding places. She remembered trees like that from her childhood, in her father’s house in Blackrock beside the River Lee as it went on its way right out to Cork Harbour. She and Lucy had loved to put little messages to each other in among the burgeoning twigs and branches. Now, almost without thinking, she went straight to the centre of a sprouting mass, found the hole, disguised by pale green twigs, fumbled for a moment among the bushy growths and then felt something hard at the bottom of the hole. She closed her fingertips over it and drew it forth.

  Yes, Sister Bernadette had guessed successfully. A small cube, a box wrapped in a square of waterproofed gabardine, green as its surroundings. She knew what it was before she unfolded the material. Egans of Patrick Street. The lettering was just about distinguishable. No piece of rubbish, then. Egans were a high-class jeweller where the prices would mirror the quality of their goods. The Reverend Mother pressed the tiny knob and the lid jumped back with the ease of almost daily use. It was a brooch. A brooch, indeed, but not some sentimental memory of childhood, or not just solely that, amended the Reverend Mother, telling herself that she had no right to judge. But this brooch was, she thought, very, very valuable indeed. It was a beautiful brooch, a diamond-studded bar, from which hung a couple of coiled straps gleaming with jewels. There was no doubt about the stones. Even in the dim fog-filled air, they shone with an undoubted quality. The price of a house, she thought, and coveted the brooch for all that it could afford for the poverty-stricken children in her care. Resolutely she tucked the box into the capacious pocket of her skirt and turned back towards the convent. The community would now have finished their dinner and she would send a messenger to fetch Sister Catherine to her room.

  The brooch was on the table by the window when the girl came into the room. The room was gloomy and little light came through from outside. Nevertheless Sister Catherine’s eyes went straight to it, as rapidly and as directly as though attracted by a magnet.

  ‘That’s mine,’ she breathed, her pale face flushing to a healthy pink. With embarrassment? No, not embarrassment. With interest, the Reverend Mother decided the expression on the novice’s face was downright anger. She allowed the words to stand for a minute and then said gently: ‘Ours’. It was a standard correction for new members of the community, rather pointless, the Reverend Mother always thought. Surely it was natural for humans to have possessions, even if they were kept to the bare minimum. But, of course, a valuable diamond brooch could never belong to someone who was vowed to poverty and to community living.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she invited, making her voice gentle. Sister Catherine had crossed the room, picked up the brooch and was holding it clasped within the shelter of the palm of her hand.

  ‘It’s mine,’ she repeated. ‘It was given to me by my godmother, at my christening. I’ve had it all of my life.’

  ‘And you don’t want to be parted from it,’ murmured the Reverend Mother. Who was the girl’s godmother? That was a very expensive gift. A useful one, too, if it could be used to convince Sister Catherine that the communal life of a nun did not suit her, then it would be worth every penny of those valuable stones. She waited for an agreement; even a reluctant admission of the impossibility of giving up all of her worldly goods would be a valuable step forward at this stage. Nothing came, though, just a heavy frown, rather ugly on the child-like face.

  ‘It was Sister Gertrude who told you, I suppose. I knew she would.’

  ‘Told me about the brooch?’ The Reverend Mother inserted a note of query into the words.

  ‘I knew that she saw me. She had eyes in the back of her head. Pretending to be talking to her sister!’

  ‘When you were looking at your brooch. The day Sister Gertrude’s sister visited.’ That had to be the day before the girl’s body had been found in the hen shed, the day when, for some reason, Sister Gertrude had swallowed poison. Yes, it had to be that day. Visits from families were only allowed once a month for novices. That was in the rule book. A stupid rule, she often thought that it was. The choice to sacrifice the life of a wife and a mother, to sacrifice personal wealth and possessions such as a diamond brooch, that choice should be made with clear eyes and a careful weighing up of the implications.

  ‘And, I suppose, as soon as the sister had gone; and I saw them sniggering together. She saw me, I know. She was saying to her sister: “Be careful, Betty, there’s Sister Mary Immaculate’s little pet over there and she will go tittle-tattling to the big white chief if we’re not careful.” They were laughing together, the pair of them. Laughing at me. And I suppose as soon as her sister was gone, she went straight to you to tell some lies about me. I heard her in your room. I heard her laughing. And you laughed, too. I heard you!’

  ‘I see,’ said the Reverend Mother. It would, she thought, be useless at this stage to try to explain the joke at which both she and Sister Gertrude had laughed. She didn’t think that Sister Catherine would appreciate the humour of those accountancy terms: efficiency variance, budget variances, overheads variance, reconciliations, and all those arcane words, planned to surprise and to bamboozle the bishop’s secretary which Sister Gertrude rehearsed with such glee.

  ‘Just like her. We all knew that was what she was like. She was the one who went running, running to you, with every little piece of tittle-tattle. You can’t deny it. She was in here all the time, talk, talk, talk to you.’

  ‘She had experience in managing accounts,’ said the Reverend Mother mildly. ‘I find accounts difficult and appreciated the help that she gave, based on her experience in working in the accounts department at Ford’s. Did you know that she had worked there?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’ Sister Catherine’s cheeks were now scarlet. ‘She was the one that accused my uncle, my mother’s only brother, my poor uncle, she was responsible for getting him dismissed. He had a very good job there in Ford’s. Used to be in charge of the sales department. And then that Patsy Donovan had to go poking into his expenses. Making a big fuss. He was just doing what the manager before him did. No harm in it. The Fords are rolling in money. Would never miss a few pounds.’

  Well, well, well, thought the Reverend Mother, so there was a prior connection between the two novices. Nothing surprising in this. Always wheels within wheels in the city of Cork, had said her cousin Lucy on one occasion and she knew Cork inside out. Sister Catherine’s father had seemed an ordinary sort of man, over-protective of his darling, but that was to be expected. The mother had s
poken with what, in Cork, would be deemed a ‘posh’ accent. And the mother’s brother had fiddled his expenses, been found out by the efficient Sister Gertrude or Patsy Donovan, as she was then. When had that come to light? Had there been an argument? Bad feeling? The novices were very strongly discouraged from talking about their past life; something that often came as quite a difficult trial for natives of Cork city, who always liked to trace relationships. Nevertheless, the rule was enforced quite strictly. The novices were told that this was a new life and that all which belonged to the past should be put aside, not talked about, nor, if possible, thought about very much. It was always a good test of how stable their vocation was likely to be.

  ‘Did Sister Gertrude know about your feelings?’ she asked, but was not surprised when Sister Catherine shook her head.

  ‘She wouldn’t be interested. She wasn’t interested in any of us. She was just interested in spending every second that she could in here with you.’

  It was probably true, thought the Reverend Mother. Sister Gertrude was a good four years older than the other three novices, and she had little interest in those around her. A true mathematician, figures rather than people were of importance to her. Any discrepancy in the accounts would be anathema; and the sin rather than the sinner would be of concern. She probably had no personal vendetta against Sister Catherine’s uncle, but if the figures were wrong, then the man would be condemned.

  But did all of this have any relevance to the poison which killed Sister Gertrude? Perhaps now was the moment to ask the question, distract attention from that spectacular brooch for a few minutes.

  ‘By the way, Sister Catherine, I hear that a tin of treacle was found beneath your bed in the dormitory. Could you explain to me what it was doing there?’

  ‘Treacle! I don’t know what it was doing there. Where did it come from?’

  ‘From the kitchen, apparently,’ said the Reverend Mother. ‘And as it was under your bed, I should have thought that you would have noticed it when you swept beneath it?’