‘No, Sister, I didn’t.’ He frowned as if he were rearranging his thoughts, then said, ‘Dolly McKensie identified her husband.’
‘It was Alasdair McKensie then?’ She crossed herself, murmuring a brief prayer for the reposal of souls. ‘I am sorry but in one way I suppose it must be a relief to her to get confirmation.’
‘She’ll be able to draw her widow’s pension without going through the court,’ he said dryly.
‘Yes.’
‘The pathologist is still continuing with his investigations,’ he said. ‘There are some puzzling features about the corpse. It is in an unusually good state of preservation for a body that has been apparently dead for six years. The initial findings which cannot be confirmed bear out the theory that the body was put into the loch quite recently. The damage to the face is recent. The rest of the body is remarkably well preserved, almost as if it had been embalmed though I understand that isn’t the case. One does occasionally come across such medical aberrations, of course, but not after long immersion in water. I have a hunch it was hidden on land for a long time.’
‘I see.’ She spoke slowly, her eyes raised to his face.
‘I’ve heard reports of a crypt,’ he said. ‘A place where the atmosphere is such that bodies are gradually mummified instead of decaying in the usual way. Have you heard of such a crypt, Sister?’
‘Yes, I have. I understand that in the old days the abbots of the community were placed in the crypt as a mark of honour.’
‘Been down in this crypt, Sister?’
‘Yes, I have. It is seldom visited these days since all the members of the community are now buried in the enclosure cemetery when they die.’
‘Have you anything else to tell me, Sister?’ His shadow flared, gigantic on the wall.
‘Not yet, Inspector.’ She clenched her hands in her lap to still their trembling.
‘I’m not wishful to intrude into the community unless I have good reason,’ the inspector said. ‘We don’t know yet how he died. On the other hand if the circumstances warrant it then I’ll have no hesitation. Is the crypt open to the general public?’
‘It isn’t locked, but the general public don’t wander around on the island,’ she said. ‘There is a mass offered on Sundays which the lay congregation attend, but they go to the church and come away again after the service.’
‘But it would be possible to row over to the island and go into the church?’
‘Quite possible,’ she said promptly. ‘There are no bolts and bars save in the enclosed part of the community – they are on the inside, of course, but the church is almost certainly kept unlocked all the time and the crypt isn’t locked either.’
‘A bit risky that in this day and age.’
‘Not really, Inspector. It would have to be a pretty determined vandal to go to the trouble of rowing across to the island in order to break into a church or a crypt where, as far as I know, nothing valuable is kept.’
‘As you say, Sister. Most churches have to be locked up now unless there’s a service on. It’s a sad reflection on modern life.’
‘As far as I know nothing was ever stolen from the church,’ she said.
‘I was thinking that somebody might have taken something from the crypt,’ he said. ‘Taken something that they’d put there in the first place. How does that theory strike you?’
‘As a rational one. Inspector, if you want to ask me a direct question –’
‘Not until we find out how Alasdair McKensie met his death. It might only be a matter of concealment of a body – a grave matter to be sure but not as bad as – well we’ll have to see how it goes, shan’t we?’
‘Yes.’ She looked down at her entwined fingers and said diffidently, ‘I won’t withhold any information if it’s pertinent but you must understand there are other loyalties too. Men don’t enter monasteries because they crave police investigations.’
‘That’s why I’m not rushing over to ask any questions yet,’ he said. ‘The local people have always been a mite suspicious of monks – smacks of old-time popery and the like. If we go blundering in we could upset the balance that’s been achieved already. However if there has been a crime committed then nobody is above the law.’
‘That’s – considerate of you, Inspector.’
‘We’re not as flat-footed as folk appear to think,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d best be off home. My wife’ll never believe I’ve been cliff climbing.’
‘Hardly a cliff,’ she demurred.
‘Steep enough for me.’ He had risen, still looking at her with an expression that was almost avuncular. As Sister Joan also rose he said, ‘I’ve been making a few enquiries. You’re not entirely new to police matters, are you? Played quite a useful role in a couple already.’
‘Not by my choice,’ she said, flushing. ‘Nothing ever got into the papers.’
‘That’s true, but when I rang the station nearest your convent to check up that you really are who you say you are I was informed that you had twice been of some considerable help in that area.’
‘You checked up on me?’ For a moment she was disconcerted. Then her sense of humour bubbled up. ‘It was good of you not to telephone the convent itself. My prioress would be less than happy to learn that I was mixed up in anything else. I really don’t try to make a habit of this.’
‘I thought it wiser not to bother your prioress. I am conscious that nuns don’t usually seek publicity. You were a great help to my Cornish colleagues seemingly.’
Though his words were not a question his expression was. Sister Joan spoke cautiously. ‘That’s true. However I do know my duty as a citizen, Inspector. I also reserve the right to make up my mind alone about some things. I hope you understand that.’
‘I understand but don’t entirely approve. For the time being I’ll not press you.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. You’ll take care going down the steps? I have a torch if you want to borrow it.’
‘I have one myself but the mist is clearing and I have twenty-twenty night vision. About the inquest –’ He paused on his way to the door.
‘I will be there if I’m needed.’
‘Probably only your statement will be required. If there are any questions – I can ask the Coroner if he has any particular problems and then you can slant your statement to incorporate them.’
‘That would indeed be kind.’ She felt a small surge of gratitude. ‘The order prefers that we don’t get ourselves into the newspapers.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. You won’t catch cold here? I’d not like to think of my daughter being stuck in this place.’
‘She probably hasn’t had my training,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I appreciate your concern but I’m fine.’
‘Right then, Sister. Good night to you.’ He went out, closing the door. There was silence for a moment as he obviously got his bearing and then the soft scraping of a boot against stone.
She sat down again, feeling the silence close round her again. Silence and isolation repeated over and over spelt loneliness. If there had been a telephone in the retreat she would have rung her convent, just for the comfort of hearing a familiar voice. It wasn’t any use. Despite her resolve it was impossible to settle down to her devotions. She went to the back of the cave and struggled into the oilskins, found her torch and put out the candles. Perhaps now wasn’t the most tactful time but she had the excuse of collecting her coat and scarf when she called on Dolly McKensie.
A brisk wind was whirling away the last ribbons of mist. Overhead the first stars were venturing. She held the torch steadily and made her way down the steps and the slope that ended in the rough shingle of the loch side. The damp air on her face was refreshing and she quickened her step as she turned into the gully and made for the bridge.
There were lights in the houses along the village street. Families would be gathered together now about their television sets, or discussing the finding of the body in the loch. She wondered if any neighbour had called in t
o express sympathy with Dolly McKensie over the sad finish to her long waiting, but she doubted it. They might wish to call but from what she had gleaned Dolly McKensie had never made any particular efforts to assimilate herself into the life of the locals. She served them in the store, watched jealously and proudly over her son, and kept herself to herself. She had only talked to Sister Joan because she knew the latter’s stay was temporary.
When she rang the bell there was a pause and then a window was opened over her head.
‘You’ve not forgotten your key surely?’ a voice questioned fretfully.
‘It’s Sister Joan. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ She tilted back her head to answer and saw the frizzy outline of Dolly’s hair framed in the casement.
‘I’ll open the door from up here. Just give it a push and come up the stairs.’
The head withdrew and the window was closed. A faint buzzing announced the freeing of the lock and she pushed the door wider, closed it behind her, and mounted the feebly lit stairs to where the other woman was opening the flat door.
‘Nasty night for you to be out, Sister,’ she commented, leading the way into the comfortable living-room with the overstuffed chairs. On the table was the inevitable pot of tea.
‘It isn’t too bad at all now,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I came to ask if my coat and scarf were dried out and to return the oilskins. It was very good of Rory to lend them.’
‘Oh, they’re not Rory’s. Alasdair used to wear them. If I’d had any sense I’d have realized he wasn’t coming back and thrown them out ages ago. They were the only things of his that I kept. Would you like a cup of tea, Sister? It’s only just brewed.’
‘Half a cup would be very welcome, thank you. Shall I put these in the bathroom?’ She was stripping off the oilskins, feeling a sudden inexplicable unwillingness to go on wearing them.
‘I’ll put them away. Help yourself to some tea, Sister – your own coat is good and dry now; I’ll bring it out to you.’
She bustled out and Sister Joan obediently poured herself some tea. The room felt warm and airless and she fought down a desire to fling open the window and stick her head out into the cool evening.
‘Here we are, Sister. I’ll join you in another one myself.’ Dolly had returned, Sister Joan’s coat and scarf over her arm.
‘I heard that you had identified Mr McKensie,’ the latter said diffidently.
‘Yes, it was him all right even if the face had been battered against those old trees. I guessed that it would be him the minute I heard someone had been found.’
‘I’m very sorry. I know it’s been a long time but to find out for sure must be –’
‘He was never much use as a husband when he was around,’ Dolly said with a little flare of resentment. ‘Never here when he was here, if you know what I mean.’
‘Nevertheless, I wondered if you needed any help about funeral arrangements, but I suppose that will be seen to?’
‘The priest over in Aberdeen will conduct the service,’ Dolly said. ‘He and I hadn’t any family to speak of, so it’ll be quiet. Have you seen that inspector?’
‘Earlier. It was he who told me there’d been a positive identification.’
‘Rory offered to take a look to spare me,’ Dolly said. ‘I didn’t need anyone to spare me. Rory wasn’t fifteen when his dad went off, so it was more fitting for me to take a look. It was Alasdair all right.’ Her tone had roughened slightly and she darted a resentful look.
‘You were able to recognize him at once?’ Sister Joan finished her tea.
‘You mean after the face was bashed about during the storm? I was married to him, so of course I knew him. They said the body was very well preserved. I reckon it was caught in an undertow somewhere the water couldn’t get. Funny things do happen sometimes. You haven’t seen Rory, I suppose?’
‘No. Not today anyway.’
Dolly McKensie’s suggestion concerning the preservation of the body was manifestly absurd. Apparently nobody had pressed her on the point.
‘And at least I’ll be able to get my pension,’ Dolly said contentedly.
‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do…?’ Suddenly she longed to leave.
‘You’ve been very kind, Sister,’ Dolly McKensie said abruptly. ‘Makes a nice change for me to have company. Rory doesn’t want to spend all his time cooped up with me. Young men don’t.’
‘I suppose it’s very quiet round here for a youngster.’
‘I’m thinking of selling up and going to Glasgow,’ Dolly said. ‘Once I get my pension I’ll feel more free – I’ll have my rights. And Rory still hankers after Morag Sinclair. I know that even though he never talks about her these days. It would be better for him to get right away and find a nice girl of his own age, someone without bad blood.’
‘You can’t possibly mean that,’ Sister Joan began.
‘Yes I do.’ The other’s face looked pinched and stubborn. ‘Catherine Sinclair was having an affair with my husband. If there was murder done then she did it and then killed herself. I’ll not have my son involved with the same family.’
There was no sense in trying to argue with such prejudice. And Morag Sinclair apparently agreed with her though for different reasons. Only Rory was trapped in the middle. In the long run his going to Glasgow might be a good thing.
‘I have to go. Thank you for the tea.’
She was glad to be out of the flat, walking down the hill through the cool dark. Dolly McKensie was an embittered woman, unconcerned about her dead husband except where her precious pension was concerned. Sister Joan had the uncomfortable suspicion that she had seized upon her suspicions in order to justify her opposition to the relationship between her son and Catherine Sinclair’s daughter. If Morag hadn’t brought it to an end then Dolly would have found some way of doing so.
She crossed the road and the bridge and descended into the gully, switching on her torch briefly and then switching it off again. The moon had emerged and the stars had increased; the torchlight merely separated her from the shining of the natural world around her. Walking on to the shore, her feet now accustomed to the direction that had been unfamiliar to her only a short time before she felt as if she had melded into the dark landscape.
When someone called her name she thought at first it was her imagination. Then someone loped towards her, raising his voice as he approached.
‘Don’t be scared, Sister. It’s only me.’
‘Rory, good evening. Were you coming to see me?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he said.
People talked to her all the time, she thought resignedly, and then waved her out of their lives as if the confidences they had imparted had had no effect upon her at all.
‘Shall we walk along the shore for a little while?’ she said. They walked in silence for a few yards. When he began talking he did so abruptly, as if the words had built up inside him and had to be expelled rapidly like pellets.
‘I’ve decided to leave Loch Morag. Now that my father’s been found there isn’t any reason to go on living here. I’m nearly twenty-one, not a child. It’s time I stopped dreaming about someone who doesn’t care tuppence for me and made a future for myself. I can’t spend the rest of my life doing odd jobs and helping my mother in the store.’
‘Perhaps your mother will leave too,’ Sister Joan suggested.
‘Now that she can be sure my father’s really dead? Yes, she might, but I can’t hang around and wait. If I make something of my life then I can stand on equal terms with anyone.’
By anyone she supposed he meant Morag Sinclair. It would be so easy to say – but Morag still cares about you. She’s only avoiding you because she doesn’t want to marry the son of a man who betrayed her father with an affair with her mother. It wasn’t her place to say anything, however, and they crunched on over the tiny pebbles.
‘I won’t just leave without saying anything,’ he said after a moment. ‘That would fret my mother. No, I’ll see her s
ettled and her pension paid – find someone to help out in the shop, before I leave. Then I’ll go south. I’ll likely train for something, hotel work has always interested me. Morag – we thought once of opening an hotel here – extending the manse. Anyway I won’t just slope off and leave my responsibilities behind.’
‘I hope your mother appreciates that she has a good son,’ Sister Joan said, unable to keep a certain dryness out of her tone.
‘I hope she does leave,’ he said. ‘She never made any friends here. She always liked the city best. Sometimes I think that she and my father weren’t suited at all. He was scarcely ever home, you know. I used to wish he’d stay home more often so we could do things together but we never did.’
‘After six years – it must still be hard to learn that he’s dead.’
‘I wanted to see the body,’ Rory said. ‘My mother was very much against it so I didn’t insist. She said it was better for me to remember him alive, but the truth is that we saw so little of him that it’s quite difficult to call his face to mind. We’re going to bury him in Aberdeen – a Catholic funeral. The priest there is a decent fellow. Not that I believe in any of it.’
His last sentence was spoken defiantly, with a sidelong glance.
‘If I were you,’ said Sister Joan, refusing to rise to the bait, ‘I wouldn’t rush into anything. Talk to your mother about your plans. She may have some of her own to discuss. I certainly wish you both luck.’
‘You can pray for us if you like,’ he said with the air of one conferring a great favour.
‘Thank you, I will,’ she responded promptly.
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ He had stopped and was staring out across the loch. ‘That my father should end up finally in the water, I mean. He never liked the loch. At least he and my mother had that in common. They both preferred the city, but I daresay it suited him to have his wife here so that he could come and go at his leisure. The inspector mentioned that his body was very well preserved. That seems very strange, don’t you think? After six years. Unless he’s died more recently. I’ve thought of that too. If someone killed him – the problem is that we really don’t know much about his life when he wasn’t here. We don’t know who his friends or his enemies were.’
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