‘Luther, wait …’ She half rose, but he had turned and loped out, shutting the door with a little slam.
Sister Joan subsided into the seat again with a muffled exclamation of impatience. Luther knew something important, she was convinced, and with his muddled view of the law preferred to hide rather than speak out. If she went after him now she would only make matters worse. If only Sister Hilaria would remember what had happened. Meanwhile there was no point in hanging round here. She took a last look about the memory filled room and went out again, remounting with the distinct impression that Luther watched from one of the nearby thickets of bracken and bramble.
She completed the ride back without incident and had just led Lilith into the stable when Mother Dorothy came into the yard.
‘You will be happy to hear that Sister Hilaria is making good progress,’ she said briskly.
‘Does she remember what happened to her?’
‘She recalls going to the gate but nothing after that until she woke briefly in the hospital. The doctor assures me that she will recall the entire sequence of events in time, but this cannot be hurried.’
‘And there is still a police officer with her?’
‘A Constable Stephens, Sister. Apparently what she will have to say when she does remember may have a bearing on these other crimes. At least so the police think. For my own part I shall be glad when this whole unpleasant business is over and we can get back to normal.’
‘After the funerals tomorrow may I go to the public library?’ Sister Joan asked abruptly.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll inform Sister David so that she can get out any books she requires. Our own library will have to be brought up to date when finances permit.’
She gave her briskly dismissive little nod, without questioning further. And if she had asked questions, Sister Joan thought, I’m not sure how I would have answered her, save to say that I’m acting on a hunch.
The rest of the day passed in Sabbath calm. That a killer had struck twice, had probably attempted a third time, that the two novices were now in the main house, were items not mentioned. For Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth, forbidden to join in the recreation of the professed members of the community, the day must have seemed long as they sat reading in their allotted cells, and helped Sister Teresa to prepare supper – a meal which was as bland as usual despite her reading of the recipe book. It was as if, by unspoken consent, they drew the sanctuary of the cloister around them, shutting out what was unpleasant and frightening.
For perhaps the first time in her religious life Sister Joan was glad when Sunday came to an end and the grand silence heralded the quiet night.
Funerals were not her favourite way of spending a morning, but at funerals one sometimes glimpsed people with their masks torn away for a single, searing moment. Fastening her seat belt the next morning and glancing at Sister David, she said politely, ‘Did Mother Dorothy tell you we have leave to go to the public library?’
‘Yes indeed, Sister, and I’m very glad of it,’ Sister David returned promptly. ‘I want to look up some references about Saint Augustine which don’t seem to be in our own library. I am writing a series of booklets about the lives of the Saints for children. In alphabetical order, you understand, and one must get the facts right.’
‘For children?’ Sister Joan cast her an interested glance. ‘That’s a change from your usual translations, isn’t it?’
‘Mother Dorothy feels they might sell well,’ Sister David said, ducking her head modestly. ‘Actually it will be quite a little adventure for me to try a new line for a change.’
So little Sister David, all timidity and spectacles, occasionally dreamed of change too. Sister Joan, driving towards town, scolded herself for not giving sufficient credit to her sisters for being more original than they appeared on the surface.
Outside the parish church there were two lines of dark cars, two hearses. The two victims were evidently to share a requiem mass. Slipping unobtrusively into a back pew she prayed briefly, then allowed her eyes to range swiftly over the congregation.
The immediate relatives were at the front; she could see their backs, the dark clothes and armbands of the two fathers, the mothers in veiled hats.
There was a large contingent of schoolchildren in their uniforms, probably from Valerie’s old school, neighbours who greeted one another in carefully hushed voices, and, conspicuous despite their plain clothes, several police officers. She caught Detective Sergeant Mill’s eye and inclined her head slightly. He was escorting Daisy Barratt into one of the pews, his dark head slightly bent. Sergeant Barratt must be on duty elsewhere then.
In front of the altar the two flower-decked coffins lay on trestles. For the two girls, at least, all questions were answered, all fears fled. Bowing her head she resolved silently that if, through her help, their killer could be found and any further deaths prevented then she would not hold back.
Though the mass had been a shared one the mourners formed two separate groups, the respective sets of parents scarcely glancing at one another. It was as if by acknowledging a parallel grief they feared to diminish the terrible reality of their own loss.
‘Sister Joan, are you coming to the cemetery?’ Daisy Barratt approached shyly as the processions formed.
‘Sister David and I, yes. It’s only a short walk. Good afternoon, Detective Sergeant Mill.’
‘Sisters.’ He acknowledged them both gravely.
‘Detective Sergeant Mill was kind enough to escort me,’ Daisy said with a little, flirtatious, upward look. ‘Mark is on duty at the hospital.’
‘The hospital?’ Sister Joan’s voice was sharp.
‘With Sister Hilaria,’ Daisy said. ‘He volunteered.’
‘He is certainly conscientious,’ Sister Joan said. Her mouth felt dry.
‘Oh, we get used to being grass widows,’ Daisy said. ‘Of course I don’t know any of the people here – those poor girls – but Mark felt I ought to come. Oh, we’re moving off now. Nice to have seen you again.’
They moved off en masse in an ungainly procession. The few shops between the church and the cemetery had their blinds drawn down in the old-fashioned way of showing respect. Sister David and Sister Joan brought up the rear, the former with her rosary beads sliding through her prayerful fingers, the latter trying not to think of Sister Hilaria with bandaged head and quiet breathing alone in the side ward with the impeccably correct and efficient Sergeant Barratt.
Each funeral drew in turn to its close. The parents stood, still private in their separate grieving, as the mourners moved from one grave to the next. Nobody from the Romany camp was present which wasn’t surprising since instinctively they shied away from death.
‘Shall we visit Sister Hilaria before we go to the public library?’ she asked, as finally they left the few scattered knots of mourners standing in the bleak wind.
‘Mother Dorothy went yesterday with Father Malone,’ Sister David reminded her.
‘It won’t hurt to pay a quick call. Mother Dorothy dislikes telephoning the hospital too often so she will be glad of news.’
‘I’ll be glad to see Sister Hilaria,’ Sister David said. ‘It leaves a big gap, her being absent from the community.’
‘Yes. Yes, you’re right.’ There was faint surprise in Sister Joan’s voice. Her companion’s remark had been a perceptive one. Sister Hilaria drifted through the days, seldom it seemed speaking to any purpose, yet without her there was something valuable lacking from the community.
‘May I offer you a lift?’ Daisy Barratt, slowing her Mini to a crawl, put her head out of the window.
‘Thank you but we’re going to the hospital,’ Sister Joan began.
‘I can run you there,’ Daisy said eagerly. ‘It will give me the opportunity to ask Mark what he fancies for supper tonight.’
‘It must be difficult when one’s husband is on night duty,’ Sister Joan remarked as both nuns squeezed themselves in. ‘I mean, especially on Saturday nights,
when most couples like to go out together.’
‘Oh, Mark and I are terrible stay-at-homes,’ Daisy said brightly, gripping the wheel tightly as they turned the corner. ‘We like to watch television and then I have my sewing and Mark has his stamps. He’s building up a very nice collection.’
‘So he wasn’t on duty this weekend?’ She had spoken too quickly.
Daisy threw her an agonized glance and said on a high, brittle note, ‘Mark and I spent the weekend together, Sister. He went on duty again this morning.’
‘Oh.’ Sister Joan lapsed into silence as they drove into the hospital car-park where Daisy drew to a halt, exclaiming with a note of triumph, ‘Done it! Since I had it fixed it’s been behaving like a lamb.’
She would have liked to go with only Sister David to the ward but Daisy Barratt was trotting along behind them and there was no way of shaking her off save through the grossest rudeness.
For a moment she fancied that Sister Hilaria lay alone but then the white-coated doctor who had been bending over her straightened up as they looked in and frowned officiously.
‘Visiting hours begin at two,’ he said sternly.
‘We just wondered how Sister was,’ Sister Joan said placatingly.
‘Coming along very nicely as I told your prioress yesterday. Sleeping most of the time but getting nourishment at the right times. We’re very pleased.’
‘Daisy, what are you doing here?’ Sergeant Barratt, coming down the corridor, stopped short, barking the question at his wife.
‘I was just – I wondered what you fancied for supper,’ Daisy said. Her face had paled and her hands clutched at her bag.
‘Anything that can be heated up quickly. I may have to work late. Good morning, Sister. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Oh, we like to keep an eye on things,’ Sister Joan said, meeting his cold stare with a sunny smile of her own. ‘Has Sister Hilaria said anything to you yet?’
‘Only that she had a slight headache. Constable Benson is waiting to relieve me. Daisy, surely you have better things to do than run round trying to find out what I want for supper?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Poor Daisy, clearly flustered and embarrassed, was beetroot red. ‘Yes, I’ve simply heaps to do. Can I drop you anywhere, Sisters?’
‘It’s not far to walk to the library,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Thank you for the lift here. Is this Constable Benson?’ There was relief in her voice as she saw the approaching figure.
‘Three minutes late,’ Sergeant Barratt consulted his watch with another slight frown. ‘Since he’s here I’ll follow you back, Daisy. If I don’t you’ll spend the entire day worrying over what to cook for supper tonight. Sisters.’
He had taken his wife as firmly by the arm as if he were arresting her, his only greeting to Constable Benson a curt nod.
‘Sometimes,’ Sister David confided as they left the hospital, ‘I am more thankful than I can express that I haven’t got an earthly husband to please.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’ Sister Joan favoured the arriving constable’s stolid back with an almost maternal smile. ‘Sergeant Barratt bullies his wife dreadfully I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t expect to be too long in the library. We can walk back to the car and hope that Sister Teresa has saved a little lunch for us afterwards.’
There was always something about the façade of a library that made her heart beat faster. Books – the smell of them, the richness of old bindings, the shininess of new, the delicate illustrations in Victorian children’s books, these things excited her in the way a great painting sometimes took her breath away.
Today however her aesthetic sense was not engaged. She was following a hunch born out of random facts and remarks that might lead nowhere.
Leaving Sister David happily poring over an immense Life of St Augustine she went off to the newspaper reference section.
‘Birmingham?’ The library assistant gave her a helpful, enquiring look. ‘Are you interested in any particular year, Sister?’
Sister Marie had joined the community about eighteen months before. Sister Joan did a quick mental calculation and hazarded, ‘The year before last. I need to look through a popular newspaper that reports murders.’
It was to the assistant’s credit that she never raised an eyebrow but accepted the statement as if nuns came in every day to enquire about murder.
‘A tabloid’d be your best source then, Sister,’ she said. ‘I’ll get one set up for you for the year. All you have to do is turn the dial and the pages flick past.’
It turned out to be a little more complicated than that since it took time to set up the apparatus. Eventually she found herself seated before a screen on which the newspaper columns were neatly reproduced.
She was looking for a headline, something connected with the murder of a young girl, something that made sense of the complaints that had been made about Luther Lee, the unfinished comment of Sister Marie about the situation being the same as she had known up north. Up north could mean Birmingham or somewhere in that area. It was, she admitted, flicking the dial swiftly as her eye ran along and rejected the columns of newsprint, the longest of long shots.
In Birmingham and the surrounding districts people fell under buses, were mugged, shot their wives, eloped with their best friends’ husbands, gave birth to babies in taxis, had visions of the Holy Virgin, threw toilet rolls on to soccer pitches and presented bouquets to minor royalties opening supermarkets.
Had visions of the Holy Virgin? She flicked the dial back and found the item.
Two schoolchildren whose names have not been released have reported having seen a vision of ‘a lady’ whom both have identified as the Virgin Mary. The apparition appeared to them in the grounds of a local school through which they were taking a short cut on their way home at teatime.
‘She was dressed like a nun,’ one of the children has testified, ‘but her hair was long and golden and we knew she wasn’t real. She came out of some trees and made a big sign of the cross before us. She said God was calling us. We were scared and ran away but when we looked back she’d gone.’ The school which stands on the site of an Augustinian priory has no record of haunting. The headmistress has made it clear to our reporter that she regards the incident as a silly prank invented by the two girls, aged twelve and fourteen. Both, we understand, are Catholics, but the parish priest whom we consulted, informed us that he had absolutely no comment to make.
The item had no follow-up as far as she could see. Whatever their reasons for telling the story the schoolgirls had had no publicity to flatter their egos.
She flipped the dial more slowly, grateful for the ability she had acquired during her years in art college for speedreading so that the kernels of information could be extracted from the surrounding verbiage.
Child Visionary found dead.
She had almost turned past the item before it registered on her mind. She adjusted the dial and read the item with painful concentration.
Fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, Carol Preston from Perry Barr, was judged to have died accidentally at the inquest held on her on Thursday. Carol Preston was found by her father, hanging by a wire noose from a tree in the grounds of her school by two teachers. One of these, Miss Frances James, testified that Carol was a well-behaved and cheerful pupil who was doing well in her studies and had never shown any signs of strain or unhappiness. It was revealed during the course of the inquest that Carol was one of the two girls who, last year, reported having seen an apparition of the Virgin Mary in the grounds of her school, a story which was speedily quashed by the school authorities and not, as far as is known, persisted in by the alleged visionaries. Miss James, however, testified that Carol had remained deeply religious and convinced of the truth of her experience.
John Preston, father of Carol, testified that Carol, a keen science student, had talked recently of ways in which it was possible to ‘get high’ without resorting to glue sniffing or drugs. She had cited the case she h
ad read of an American schoolboy who had accidentally died while experimenting with the ‘half-hanging’ believed to induce psychedelic experiences. Mr Preston, giving his evidence, stated that he had warned his daughter of the dangers of such experiments.
A rider was added to the verdict, warning against such practices, and sympathy expressed with the family of the dead girl.
She read the item over again, her flesh cringing from the stark image the newspaper account conjured up. Carol Preston, accidentally dead. Accidentally? No other person seemed to have been involved. The name of her companion who, with her, had taken that first fateful short cut hadn’t been revealed. She had expected something but not this. There were many questions still to be asked but her instincts told her she was on the right track though, as yet, she couldn’t see the end of the road.
‘Was there anything else you were wanting, Sister?’ The library assistant had returned and was standing respectfully by her side.
‘Would you have a list of mental hospitals in the Birmingham area?’ If the request was a strange one the other gave no sign of noticing.
‘They’ll be in the Yellow Pages of that particular directory. Shall I fetch it for you?’
‘And a paper and pencil if you’d be so kind?’
Luther had been a voluntary patient around the time the girl had died. Were voluntary patients allowed to come and go as they pleased? That, and another idea that had leapt into her mind, needed checking.
The relevant directory brought, she hastily copied down the names and the numbers of mental hospitals in the area. Then, on impulse, she turned to the schools section and made swift notes on the Catholic secondary schools in the area. By the time she had finished her watch warned her it was past lunchtime.
Sister David, still happily wrestling with Saint Augustine, had clearly not missed her or noticed the passage of time.
‘Did you find what you wanted, Sister?’ She dragged her gaze reluctantly from the hefty volume. ‘This is a splendid work. I could read it all day.’
Vow of Obedience Page 17