‘I’ll have someone ride her back. Get things moving, Stephens.’
Outside he slid behind the wheel and gave her a keen glance as she strapped herself into the passenger seat.
‘Feeling better now?’ His tone had the solicitousness of an old friend.
‘In myself yes. About that girl’s death no. It seemed so – blasphemous somehow. The white dress and the fading leaves.’
She bit her lip.
‘Nobody gets used to it.’ His voice had changed, becoming rough with what she guessed was suppressed anger.
‘The desk sergeant seems fairly unshockable,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I don’t suppose he’s any relation to the curate, is he? Same name.’
‘Don’t think so. Is the curate the stolid, unflappable type?’
She thought fleetingly of Father Stephens with his involved sermons and beautifully polished shoes, and answered discreetly, ‘Oh, he’s a very worthy young man. A great help to Father Malone.’
But not the man to break the news of a horrible death to worried parents. His mellifluous phrases would have no comfort set beside Father Malone’s simpler vocabulary.
The desk sergeant had been efficient. Two other police cars snaked behind them on the moorland track, their headlamps raking dark peat and bracken that made strange shapes against the wind-swept sky.
The schoolhouse was a darker square against the dark. Detective Sergeant Mill drew to a halt and gave her another glance.
‘You don’t mind coming in with me, going over what you did when you arrived? Sergeant Barratt, over here. Sister Joan, this is Sergeant David Mark Barratt, our latest acquisition from Birmingham.’
There was a faintly ironic edge to his voice as he rolled out the full name. An ambitious police officer who had arrived with the intention of patronizing the rural constabulary, Sister Joan summed up at first glance, shaking hands with the tall, smartly manicured and brushed officer.
‘I met your wife, Daisy, this afternoon,’ she said. ‘She was kind enough to give me a lift to the convent.’
‘I’d only just reached home when the call came in so she hadn’t had the chance to tell me about it yet,’ Sergeant Barratt said. ‘What happened here?’
‘Looks as if Valerie Pendon’s turned up,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. His face and voice were carefully neutral; the process of hiding his feelings under a mask of officialdom had already begun. ‘Now, Sister, take us through it. You rode here …?’
‘I dismounted and left Lilith to graze. She’s very good and never wanders. Then I realized that I didn’t have the key to the school, but I tried the door and it was unlocked.’
‘Not forced?’
‘Not as far as I can recall noticing, but then the door is occasionally unlocked. I’ve been guilty of forgetting it myself. It’s so remote here and there’s nothing of monetary value inside. Anyway I pushed it open and went in.’
Repeating her action, poised on the threshold she paused, then said, ‘There’s no electric light here. We have a primus stove to provide heat in the cold weather and brew soup for the children.’
‘We can rig arc lights,’ Detective Sergeant Mill began.
‘I took the liberty of ordering that done, sir.’ Sergeant Barratt nodded towards a small group of policemen occupied with trailing cables.
‘Did you now?’ His superior officer spoke somewhat dryly. ‘I’m glad to see you aren’t afraid of using your own initiative, Barratt. Right, get the lights on and in here. Sister Joan, would you like to lead the way? I have a fairly powerful torch.’
She didn’t want to lead the way anywhere save straight back to the convent. She didn’t want to be the one who opened the cupboard again.
‘Of course, Detective Sergeant Mill.’ She walked into the narrow passage, the beam of the torch lighting the way ahead.
‘You turned straight into the classroom?’ he said behind her.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Do exactly what you did before then,’ he encouraged.
She walked steadily into the classroom and seated herself behind the large desk from which she had been wont to survey her pupils.
‘You just sat there?’ Sergeant Barratt’s tone was puzzled.
‘Regretting the fact that the school is now closed,’ she explained. ‘Then I noticed the shelves from the cupboard were propped up against the blackboard. I got up and opened the cupboard.’
Her hand was on the knob and her stomach was churning.
‘What was usually kept in the cupboard?’ Sergeant Barratt asked.
‘Exercise books, rolls of sketching paper, pencils – general supplies.’
‘Open the cupboard, if you please, Sister.’ Detective Sergeant Mill was polite but firm.
She opened it, compressing her brows as she looked down at the huddled figure. In the light of the arc lamps which were abruptly illuminated it had a ghastly, theatrical quality. Juliet in the tomb, the Mistletoe bride.
‘Did you touch her?’ Detective Sergeant Mill asked.
‘I went down on one knee and lifted her head. That was when I saw the red line round it. Must I …?’
‘No need to do it again,’ he said.
‘Surely you knew you ought not to have touched a dead body?’ Sergeant Barratt said. He made it sound as if she had committed some social gaffe.
‘I acted instinctively.’ She drew herself to her full height which wasn’t very tall and gave him the look designed to quell ‘bold’ children. ‘I didn’t know she was dead. Not consciously, that is. If I was thinking anything at all it was that she might have been hiding in the cupboard and been taken ill or something. I didn’t touch anything else. I closed the cupboard door and then I remounted Lilith and rode straight into town.’
‘The convent is nearer,’ Sergeant Barratt said.
‘You mean why didn’t I telephone from there? By the time I’d explained things to Mother Prioress and received permission to use the telephone more time would have been lost. You sound,’ she added acidly, ‘as if you think I might have killed the poor girl and put her in the cupboard myself!’
‘I wasn’t implying anything, Sister.’ He sounded offended.
‘And Sister Joan has a perfect alibi,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said in a voice intended to diffuse hostility. ‘You had just arrived from six weeks in Scotland when I saw you this afternoon, hadn’t you?’
‘Sorry, I’m still upset, I’m afraid. Can we go outside?’ She kept her eyes turned resolutely from the cupboard.
‘Yes, of course, Sister.’ He took her arm in a soothing fashion. ‘Ah, here’s the doctor – and Father Malone. We shall need your fingerprints but perhaps you can come down to the station tomorrow morning? It’ll only be for purposes of elimination. Didn’t one of the other sisters assist you sometimes?’
‘Sister David would faint with horror at the thought of being summoned to provide her fingerprints,’ Sister Joan said, with a twinge of humour, ‘but of course she’ll come. Will you want a list of the pupils too?’
‘Can I get them from the register?’
‘I don’t know if it’s still in the desk or whether it was taken back to the convent or not.’
The purely practical snatch of conversation had steadied her nerves.
‘I’ll see about it,’ he said, releasing her arm and giving it a little pat. ‘I’ll be grateful if you’ll wait around for a few minutes. Sergeant, can you see the lights are correctly angled for the photographer?’
His impersonal, courteous tone told her that he wasn’t overkeen on his new colleague.
‘Sergeant Mill, is it?’ Father Malone, an immense muffler around his neck, trotted over to where they stood. ‘Sister Joan, good evening. Is it true that you found the poor child? This is a terrible thing if it’s so.’
‘We shall need formal identification, Father Malone,’ Detective Sergeant Mill told him, shaking hands briefly. ‘That will have to come from one of the parents, but if you can confirm – she was a Catholic.’
&
nbsp; ‘And a very sweet girl,’ the priest said, nodding his grey head vigorously. ‘The Pendons are regular churchgoers which is more than can be said for many these days, more’s the pity. She’ll be requiring prayers for her soul.’
‘When the doctor and photographer have finished.’
‘Will you require me, Father?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘No absolute need. This must be a sad homecoming for you, Sister.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘The poor, poor child.’
Valerie Pendon had been sixteen, Sister Joan reflected. At sixteen most modern girls knew more about life than Father Malone himself. On the other hand the girl must have been naïve to steal away in the middle of the night in the belief she was going to be married. Presumably she had stolen away. Nothing had been said about any signs of struggle in that empty bedroom.
‘A terrible thing,’ Father Malone said helplessly, coming out of the schoolhouse again. In the lights from the arcs and the headlamps of the surrounding cars he looked small and impotent. ‘How could anyone do such a thing to a young girl? I shall have to break the news to the parents as quickly as possible. First we must get you back to the convent as swiftly as possible, Sister.’
He made it sound rather as if she’d escaped from the place, Sister Joan thought. It would have been interesting to drive back with Detective Sergeant Mill who might have something more to tell her, but he was obviously needed here, if only to combat his junior’s officious manner.
‘That’s very kind of you, Father,’ she responded gratefully. ‘Mother Dorothy gave me leave to ride Lilith over and take a last look at my old classroom before the building is used for some other purpose. When I found – well, I rode down at once to report it.’
‘You informed Mother Prioress?’
‘I telephoned her from the police station and then Detective Sergeant Mill drove me up here, so Lilith is still in town.’
‘And yourself just back from a Holy retreat,’ he said sympathizingly.
‘Yes.’ Settling herself into the priest’s woefully elderly car she felt as if the lochs and hills of Scotland, the retreat high in the cliff face where a person had time to be alone with God, growing further away in her mind, like a picture seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
Father Malone drove fast and not altogether skilfully, uttering small cries of self-recrimination as his wheels bounced against clumps of turf. He said nothing, and she was grateful for the silence. To have been forced to hear platitudes at this moment would have been unbearable.
‘I can walk from here,’ she offered when they reached the gates.
‘Better be safe than sorry, Sister,’ he returned, turning into the drive with a squeal of brakes.
Surely he didn’t fear for her own safety? She cast him a startled glance, but they were already at the front steps.
‘Thank you, Father. Good night.’ She unbuckled her seat belt and alighted, aware from the look on his face that his mind had already moved ahead, to the ordinary house where two parents waited for the news that would shatter their lives.
‘You had better come in, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy had appeared on the step, her habit fluttering in the wind. ‘May I say that it was exceedingly peaceful here while you were away?’
‘You heard what has happened?’ Sister Joan came up the steps.
‘That very polite desk sergeant from the police station had the kindness to telephone me and inform me of the circumstances that had delayed you. Sister, have you been drinking?’
Mother Dorothy was sniffing the air, a look of consternation on her face.
‘They gave me some brandy and I haven’t eaten all day,’ Sister Joan said, torn between a desire to burst into tears and an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle.
‘You need a good hot meal and some strong coffee,’ Mother Dorothy said, becoming all concerned bustle. ‘Supper is over but Sister Perpetua will give you something in the kitchen. Go along there now. Blessing is in half an hour.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’ Sister Joan knelt briefly and continued on her way across the hall.
‘Plaice and chips, Sister,’ Sister Perpetua said brightly as she entered. ‘I kept it hot for you. Coffee?’
‘Isn’t tea better for shock?’ Sister Joan ventured.
‘Coffee is better for alcohol on the breath. Really, Sister.’ The infirmarian clucked her tongue and gave her usual bark of laughter, her face immediately sobering as she added, ‘But very sensible to take a drop. What a dreadful shock you must have had. I was with Mother Dorothy when the call came from the police. Of course we’ve said nothing to any of the others. If it turns out to be that poor girl then Mother Dorothy will make a brief announcement.’
‘I’m afraid it is true.’ Sister Joan was tucking into the meal. ‘Father Malone recognized the girl as one of his parishioners.’
‘And only sixteen.’ Sister Perpetua poured an extra cup of coffee for herself and sat down at the other side of the table. ‘Poor misguided child. I’m assuming she was – unlawfully killed.’
‘Strangled with some kind of cord, I think, and bundled into the school cupboard.’ There was a definite relief in talking. ‘She was wearing a white wedding dress and there was a wreath of leaves on her head.’
‘Then that is truly wicked.’ Sister Perpetua’s high-coloured cheeks had paled and every freckle on her weather-beaten skin stood out. ‘She had taken up with some boy or other, I suppose, and he lured her to the schoolhouse with promises of marriage. Wicked.’
‘I suppose it might have been like that,’ Sister Joan said doubtfully, ‘but why would she have left home in the middle of the night wearing a wedding dress? If she thought she was going to elope she’d surely have dressed in street clothes first.’
‘Perhaps she did.’
‘But her parents said only the nightgown she was wearing and her slippers and dressing-gown had gone.’
‘She might have purchased something they didn’t know about.’
‘I suppose.’ Sister Joan sipped her coffee, weariness stealing over her.
‘Well thank the Good Lord that the solving of it isn’t in our hands,’ Sister Perpetua said fervently. ‘The police will deal with it.’
‘Sister David and I have to go down to the police station tomorrow morning to have our fingerprints taken – for elimination purposes,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Both of us at various times worked at the school.’
‘Such an unpleasant business,’ Sister Perpetua said, the frown on her face deepening. ‘And so unfortunate that you should return from your retreat to have to face it. Do let us talk of something more congenial. Oh, I moved your things into the lay cell. Sister Teresa is still in her cell upstairs but since she is to assist you during this period of her training she can be moved into the adjoining cell, if you wish.’
‘Whatever Mother Prioress deems fit. Thank you for moving my things. I’m afraid we all take advantage of your kindness and hard work.’
‘Nonsense. If we can’t help out wherever and whenever we’re needed then it’s a poor look-out for our souls,’ the other said briskly. ‘Now that you’ll be sleeping down here you will keep an ear open if one of our old ladies requires anything? Sister Mary Concepta sleeps like a top but Sister Gabrielle – well, you know Sister Gabrielle.’
‘An eighty-four-year-old insomniac,’ Sister Joan said with a grin. ‘I’m surprised she isn’t here right now.’
‘We held vigil last night to pray for your safe return,’ Sister Perpetua told her. ‘Sister Gabrielle insisted on joining in and so she’s flat out tonight. Was that the bell?’
The shrill clanging, calling the community to the blessing, rang through the house. Sister Joan put down her half-drunk coffee, and crossed herself in unison with her companion.
The community with the exception of the two oldest nuns who were sleeping filed silently into the chapel. This was the part of the daily ritual that Sister Joan most relished. After the day’s work all the strands
were drawn together as they knelt in their accustomed places, the rosaries at their belts sliding through their fingers as they recited the Litany. Sister Joan knelt with the rest, keeping careful custody of her eyes. She had, in any case, no need to study her companions since their faces were as familiar to her as her own – more familiar since the convent had no mirrors.
Sister Perpetua knelt stiffly, with no more than the faintest intake of breath to betray the rheumatic pain that plagued her knees. Next to her Sister Martha looked as if a breath of wind would blow her away. Sister Joan always felt astonishment when she saw Sister Martha lugging huge bags of compost around the vegetable garden. At the farther side Sister Katherine moved her hands as if she were still spinning the cotton from which she fashioned the exquisite lace that brought in regular profits for the order.
In the row behind Sister David was gabbling softly, always a syllable ahead of everybody else. With her rabbit features and her granny specs she reminded Sister Joan of a Disney creation. A nice, kind, timid, over-zealous little creation, she amended. Empty seats separated her from Sister Teresa, who having completed her two years in the postulancy, was now with the rest of the community to work out her third year of training before the two years of virtual silence that would bring the five-year training to an end. Sister Joan had little knowledge of Sister Teresa who had only just moved from the status of postulant, a change signified by the white veil she wore over her blue habit.
There was a slight rustling as Sister Hilaria glided in, a few minutes late and, as usual, sublimely unconscious of the fact. Behind her the two postulants in their white bonnets settled themselves meekly. Elizabeth and Marie, Sister Joan remembered. She had caught fleeting glimpses of them – both young girls who had turned their backs on discos and boy-friends and secular life in order to immure themselves for the rest of their lives. She herself hadn’t entered the religious life until she was thirty – a latish vocation by most standards, but she had brought some experience and a little worldly wisdom with her. Sisters Elizabeth and Marie were scarcely more than schoolgirls, not much older than the girl who huddled in the school cupboard with a red line round her neck and a fading wreath on her head.
Vow of Obedience Page 3