by Sarah Rayne
‘It’s just a mad idea I had,’ said Theo. ‘Probably nothing in it, but if you can check that would be great. Listen, I’m calling at St Luke’s later this morning though – I want to trace something I read in their centenary book. Just a bit of research, purely for my own use. That won’t confuse your enquiries, will it?’
‘Shouldn’t do. We probably won’t get there until this afternoon,’ said Leigh.
‘OK. I’ll make sure to be out of the way by then.’
‘I’ll call you later to let you know if we trace the key,’ said Leigh.
Theo rang off, then remembered he had promised to phone Lesley with some explanations. It was slightly disconcerting to find her phone on voicemail, so he tried the gallery, who said she wouldn’t be in today.
‘She’s not ill, is she? I’m her cousin – I was with her yesterday.’
‘No, she’s just taking a couple of days’ holiday owing to her. She phoned in earlier. Can I give her a message when she gets back?’
‘No, I’ll probably catch up with her later today,’ said Theo, and rang off, unsure whether to be puzzled or worried. But as he set about tidying up after the locksmith’s session, it occurred to him that Lesley might be taking Charmery’s portrait to a rival house for appraisal and did not want her present boss to know.
He checked all round the house, found no signs of disturbance, locked every door in sight, and set off to walk to St Luke’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Catherine was writing up some patient notes in the clinic wing when the message came that Mr Kendal had called and wondered if she could spare him half an hour. Her heart lurched with treacherous excitement, but she finished the paragraph she was writing as calmly as she could, then went along to the main hall where he was waiting.
He was standing in front of a pair of sketches of St Luke’s which Catherine had always admired, but he turned at once and said, ‘Hello. If I’ve come when you’re in the middle of something, tell me at once.’
‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ said Catherine. ‘Are you all right after your attack? We were horrified to hear about it.’ She did not say that when the Bursar told them, she had wanted to rush to Fenn House at once.
‘Never better,’ he said.
‘Have they caught the man?’
‘No, but they’re working on it,’ said Theo. ‘I was reading your centenary book last night. It’s very interesting, by the way, very well written.’
‘Tell the Bursar that, would you? She agonized over it for weeks. And even then she was convinced it was rubbish.’
The smile deepened, as if this was something he could relate to.
‘I will tell her,’ he said. ‘The thing is, there’s a reference in it that intrigued me – and I’d like to find out a bit more.’
‘Well, you really want the Bursar for that. Or Sister Miriam, even—’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said at once. ‘I want you.’ And then, before Catherine could think how to reply to this, he went on, ‘There’s a mention of some children being brought to England from Romania in the 1970s. Twelve of them, actually. I’d very much like to know more about that.’
‘It was way before my time,’ began Catherine.
‘I know that. You’re the youngest one here, aren’t you? Sorry, that sounded intrusive, but you mentioned it the first time we met.’
‘You remember that?’ said Catherine involuntarily.
‘I remember our first meeting very clearly,’ he said, and looked at her so intently Catherine felt as if he could see straight into her mind. I’ll look away in a minute, she thought, or he will. We can’t stand here staring at each other like this. And we’re in the main hall, for pity’s sake! Her heart was beating wildly, and she felt as if something was squeezing the breath from her body and she did not trust herself to speak.
‘It’s really just a wild idea I’ve got,’ said Theo. ‘So I don’t want it spread around.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Catherine, thinking he probably had an idea for a new book, but wanted it kept quiet in case it didn’t work out. ‘I remember the Bursar getting a lot of stuff together for the centenary,’ she said. ‘Photographs and old records. You could look through them. I don’t think anyone would mind.’
‘Could I?’
‘They’re stored in the attic,’ she said. ‘I could take you up there now if you’ve got time. I don’t know how easy it will be to find anything, though.’
‘Let’s go and see,’ he said, and looked so pleased and eager that Catherine thought the moment earlier on had just been in her imagination. He was in pursuit of a new idea, and probably still suffering the effects of the bang on the head as well.
As she led him up the two flights of stairs, and along to the narrow little stair leading to the attic, Theo said, ‘Apparently, a nun called Sister Teresa brought the twelve children here in the early 1970s to escape Ceauşescu’s dictatorship.’
‘Yes, it’s one of our bits of folklore. I should think it was all very risky and maybe even illegal.’
‘I daresay the Church wouldn’t necessarily have worried about that,’ said Theo. ‘It’s harboured some odd things in its long history, hasn’t it? Religious conflicts and spies.’
‘It’s switched sides a few times as well,’ said Catherine rather caustically.
‘Would Reverend Mother or the Bursar remember the children coming here?’ said Theo.
‘It’s over thirty years ago. I don’t think either of them were here then,’ said Catherine. ‘But it might be possible to write to the Romanian House – or email them – to ask if they’ve kept any records.’
‘Would you do that? Or could I?’
‘I’d have to ask Reverend Mother if I can give you the address. I shouldn’t think she’d mind, though.’
‘Thank you. Did you ever meet Sister Teresa?’ he said, as they went up the second flight of stairs.
‘She came over for the centenary celebration last year,’ said Catherine. ‘She’s getting on – she must be eighty – but she’s still very spry and bright. The attic’s up here – the stairs are a bit narrow, so be careful.’
The attic was quiet and dim, and as Catherine found the light switch tiny cobwebs stirred in corners.
‘As a storage place,’ said Theo, surveying it, ‘it’s unnaturally tidy.’
‘Is it? I haven’t got much experience of attics. The centenary stuff’s over there, I think. Yes, look, two boxes, labelled Centenary.’
‘These look like the Bursar’s original notes,’ he said, lifting one of the boxes out and setting it on a battered table. ‘Yes, she’s made a folder of odd letters and accounts. Would she mind if I read this, d’you think? Or even borrowed the folder for a day or so?’ Then, seeing her hesitation, said, ‘I’ll ask her myself if that’s easier. I can truthfully say I want to find out what happened to the children.’
Catherine looked at him. ‘Is there a bit more to this than an idea for a plot?’
At first she thought he was not going to answer, but then he said, ‘Yes. There’s quite a lot more to it, and I hope I can tell you soon. But at the moment it’s not my secret to tell.’
‘Is it something to do with your cousin’s death?’
‘It might be. Will you trust me as far as that?’
‘Yes,’ she said at once. ‘Will you trust me to ask the Bursar very discreetly if you can borrow her notes?’
‘I’d trust you with anything, Catherine,’ he said, softly, and quite suddenly the attic had become an intimate cave, and the world beyond it ceased to matter or even exist. He was standing so close to her Catherine could see the flecks of black in his grey eyes. She had the absurd thought that if he touched her she might faint.
But when he did touch her, she did not.
He put a hand up to her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone and then her lips, and it was as if his fingers set up a tiny series of electric sparks across her skin. Almost without realizing what she was doing, Catherine stepped forwar
d, and his arms went round her.
She thought he said, ‘Catherine, this is the maddest thing I’ve ever done,’ but then he was kissing her. It was a soft, deep exploratory kiss, and she had to cling to him to stop herself falling over because the attic was whirling round, and even if this was the maddest thing ever, it was the most marvellous feeling. I’ll have to stop in a minute, she thought, I can’t do this, I can’t. But just another minute…
When at last he released her, there was a faint flush of colour across his cheeks, and his eyes were lit to brilliance.
‘I expect I should be sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not, though. But I didn’t mean to do that. You have the most extraordinary effect on me.’
‘I don’t want you to be sorry,’ said Catherine, surprised to hear that her voice came out with hardly a tremor. ‘Oh, Theo, I wanted you to do that ever since…’
‘Ever since we met?’
‘More or less.’ Ever since I watched you with Charmery all those years ago, she was thinking, and ever since I held your dead son in my arms.
‘What now?’ he said. ‘Do we talk about this, or do I go away politely and leave you to—’
‘Untangle my emotions? Yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘I think I should do that. I think I need to be on my own…’ This time her voice did tremble.
‘All right. I’ll come back to see you in a couple of days,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be at Fenn if you want to talk to me before then.’
‘I know.’
‘Will you have to – to confess or something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will that be embarrassing?’
‘I should think the Church has heard worse than—’
‘Than a confession of a snatched kiss in an attic? Was that what you were going to say?’
‘Was that all it was? Or an experiment to see what it would feel like to kiss a nun? Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Was it what you were thinking?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know it wasn’t that,’ said Theo. ‘You must know how – how strongly you attract me, and… Dammit, I’m even afraid to use the ordinary chat-up lines with you!’ He thrust his fingers angrily through his hair. ‘This is probably the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had – and that’s saying quite a lot,’ he said. ‘This would normally be the point where I’d ask you out, but I suppose I can’t do that. Or can I?’
‘I don’t know.’ For a dreadful moment Catherine thought she might burst into tears, but if she did he would take her in his arms again and then she would not be able to think properly. She made a huge effort and said, ‘I think we’d better go.’
As they went downstairs neither of them spoke, but when they got to the main doors, Catherine managed to recall the main purpose of Theo’s visit, and said, ‘I’ll ask the Bursar about borrowing her notes. And I’ll ask Reverend Mother if you can have the Romanian address.’
‘Thank you.’ In a different voice, he suddenly said, ‘Catherine – will you promise me you’ll be careful until – well, until I solve what’s going on.’
‘Is something going on?’
‘I think so. I’ll tell you about it properly when I can, but until then… Don’t go anywhere on your own, and be aware that – that people aren’t always what they seem.’ For a moment Catherine thought he was going to reach out to touch her face again, but he did not. He merely gave her a half nod and went out into the bleak morning.
As Theo went down the drive he felt as if his emotions had been shredded. I must have been mad, he thought. Or was I actually being very sane? If he had met Catherine in the ordinary way, he would have wanted to take things further; he would have wanted to get to know her better, and he thought he might have discovered he wanted her in his life for a long time. He tried to think how he was going to deal with this but had no idea. Then he tried to imagine how Catherine would deal with it, and had even less idea. He remembered Charmery and, with a stab of wry bitterness, wondered why he seemed unable to fall for someone who was straightforwardly available.
One of the nuns was walking up the drive towards him, slightly hunched against the cold morning. At this distance Theo could not see who it was, but as she drew nearer he recognized her, and all thoughts of Catherine fled from his mind. Sister Miriam. Mara Ionescu. He experienced a wild impulse to tell her that he knew about her sad, dramatic early life. To say, I know how you listened to all those fire lit stories, and how you cowered in that appalling well-house and covered your ears as Annaleise screamed her way to her death. I know how you resisted the gaolers in Jilava and why you eventually gave in and made that confession. Did you make another confession, though, Mara? thought Theo, as the thin figure came nearer. Did you creep into Fenn House that night and use the laptop to type a confession of another murder? What’s really going on behind that impassive face?
She was near enough to speak by this time, and she glanced at him in a disinterested way, as if he was no more than a chance visitor to the convent.
‘Good morning, Mr Kendal.’
‘Good morning,’ said Theo. ‘It’s a sharp morning, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Are you recovered from your attack?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
They walked on in their different directions, and Theo wondered would a killer really ask that in such an ordinary voice? Michael had said Sister Teresa believed Mara would find peace and safety at St Luke’s. But had she?
From the start, Mara had found the peace and safety of St Luke’s immensely reassuring. She could still remember how pleased Sister Teresa had been all those years ago when she decided to become a novice. She wrote to Mara to say it was the best outcome of all, and she was sure Mara had a real vocation. There would be many years of quiet contentment, of prayer and study and fulfilling work – in time Mara might become involved in the nursing work at St Luke’s.
In the event, Mara did not take much part in the medical side of the convent. ‘No vocation for that kind of work,’ she said after taking her final vows, and the older nuns agreed. She was by nature a contemplative, they said, an academic. She found contact with others difficult. But everyone had something different to offer. There would be a niche for her and it would present itself in God’s good time.
The niche seemed to become apparent quite naturally and gradually. Mara – now Sister Miriam – found herself looking after the convent’s library, collating information about its past, liaising with the University of East Anglia when post-graduate students wanted to stay at the convent to write a thesis on the county’s famous sons and daughters: the reformers Edith Cavel and Elizabeth Fry, or George Borrow. She began to write a monograph on the medieval mystic, Julian of Norwich. It was deeply satisfying to find that by now she could write smoothly and clearly in English, as if it was her native tongue. The nuns were pleased with her work, and interested in the monograph. A worthwhile study of a remarkable woman, they said, and were happy that this rather withdrawn sister was forging a quiet path of her own. They did not pry into Sister Miriam’s past, but clearly there had been deep unhappiness and suffering. If she should want to talk about it at any time, they would listen and try to help. But Sister Miriam did not talk. She went unobtrusively about her work, devout and obedient, a trouble to no one.
When Mikhail finished his medical training and was a qualified doctor, Mara was immensely proud. It was wrong to be proud on one’s own account – she had learned that at Debreczen, and later in the English novitiate – but it was perfectly all right on behalf of another. Mikhail was now a British citizen, known as Michael Innes. Dr Innes. There was pride in saying that, as well.
The memory of Zoia never quite left Mara. She sometimes dreamed about her. Zoia would have been filled with such anger when Mara escaped her – would she let her go so easily? Would she try to find out where Mara was and follow her? Mara seldom went beyond St Luke’s confines, but on the rare occasions she did, she was careful to keep her head down and not look into the faces of
passers-by.
It was Sister Teresa – dear, good Sister Teresa – who managed to put her mind at rest. The nuns liked seeing their fellow-sisters from the other houses, and they especially liked seeing Sister Teresa who came to England every few years. Sister Teresa told Mara that she could feel herself safe. ‘Ceauşescu’s reign is becoming a very troubled one indeed,’ she said. ‘They’re saying his days are numbered, and Zoia Calciu will be fighting for her own survival. She won’t have time to bother about one prisoner who got away from her. So be safe and content and do your work here.’
When, in December 1989, the news reports came of the revolution – of the riots and then the scrambled trial of Nicolae and Elena Ceauşescu – Mara read the newspaper articles, scanning the faces of the crowds in the photographs. Had Zoia been there? Had she seen the disgrace and downfall of that evil pair? If so, what had she felt? But the faces were blurred grey smudges.
After that the years wheeled by, quiet and untroubled, busy and fulfilling. Some of the older nuns died, and new ones came to Melbray. There was a new Reverend Mother and a couple of years later, a new Bursar. They knew little of Mara’s early days, and there was safety in that, too. Life had fallen into a pattern that was orderly and safe and predictable. It should have gone on indefinitely; Mara was daring to hope it would. She began to believe nothing from the past could touch her in this English backwater. No hag-fingered memories could come bonily prodding into this safety, and expose the black mortal sin she had committed.
‘Admit you’re a murderess… confront the sin, unmask it and be penitent…’ That was what they had said in Jilava. Well, she had done all that, and although they had not kept their promise about letting her go, in the end she had got out. She had been in England long enough to feel safe now. It was more than twenty years since Matthew and Michael came into Jilava Gaol and got her out.
And then two things happened.
The first was that her beloved Mikhail came to live and work in Melbray as the GP for Melbray itself and several of the surrounding villages. It was what Mara had hoped and prayed for. She had watched and listened for this very opportunity, writing to Mikhail at once when she heard the existing GP was to retire. Mikhail found a house a few miles away, but Mara did not mind that distance; all she cared was that he was near to her. He often came to the convent’s clinic to treat the patients: he had developed a particular interest in bone damage and injuries. She did not always see him on those days, but she knew he was in the same building and that, too, was a deep delight.