‘Oh, we do get let out now and then,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Constable Brown, looking as if in his view nuns ought to remain within their convent perpetually.
‘How is Constable Petrie?’ she enquired.
‘Rather spotty as a matter of fact, Sister.’ The policeman’s manner became a trifle more yielding. ‘Very kind of you to enquire. He’ll be back on duty fairly soon, and fortunately we’re in a quiet period just now.’
‘No sudden crime wave?’
‘Nothing for the public to bother their heads about,’ he said snubbingly. ‘Someone vandalized the chip shop last night but that happens every month, and some busybody came into the station with a suitcase of old clothes they swore they’d found on the embankment. Why they couldn’t take it to the Lost and Found office at the station I’ll never know. It means a lot of paperwork for us. I’ll not keep you, Sister.’
It wasn’t much use trying to charm Constable Brown, she decided, watching him walk away. Constable Brown divided women into wives who stayed home and cooked, bad women who went out and earned money for turning tricks, old ladies to be helped across roads, and religious women who ought to stay put and pray.
She walked back to the main street and turned into the side road where the antique shop was situated, next to the hairdresser’s which advertised hair extensions. Sister Joan, whose own black hair, curling crisply over her head beneath the veil, had never grown past chin level shook her head mentally at the vagaries of fashion and went on into the shop.
‘Good morning, Sister.’ Michael Peter loomed from the back of the shop. ‘You’re my first customer this morning. I’ve not opened up the back premises yet.’
‘Hopefully I’ll look round your exhibition later,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Actually I’m here to buy something.’
‘For the convent?’
His voice was politely interested but she sensed astonishment behind his eyes.
‘Oh, normally we just couldn’t afford your prices,’ she said. ‘No, a new communion cup is required for the church altar. It’s a surprise for Father Malone, so please don’t say anything. Mother Dorothy thought you might have a silver cup that could be used.’
‘How much were you prepared to spend?’ he asked.
Nothing vague about him now, Sister Joan thought with a mentally lifted eyebrow. His eyes and voice had sharpened, become worldly wise and shrewd.
‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds,’ she said.
‘You’ll scarcely get a real silver cup for that,’ he said. ‘I assume you want one that’s chalice sized?’
‘Yes please. Seven fifty is our top offer and we can’t increase it. In fact Mother Dorothy is expecting something less expensive.’
‘In silver.’
‘In silver.’ She fixed him with her dark-blue eyes.
‘This isn’t a charity shop you know,’ he said coldly. ‘It isn’t a thrift shop either. And I’m not a Catholic, so you can hardly expect me to sell church ornaments.’
‘You’re not French either,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but you’ve a Napoleon writing desk over in the corner there.’
‘As you say.’
He had stepped back and was staring at her. She had the idea that something had just changed. His bony hands had clenched at his sides and he thrust his greying head forward reminding her irresistibly of a snapping turtle. Then, without warning, he gave a rasping chuckle, the wide grin splitting his mouth.
‘Upon my soul, Sister Joan, but you drive a hard bargain! I believe we do have a rather nice chalice – silver, of course. It was in a sale of church property a few years back. I don’t usually purchase such things but this has some very nice chasing around the base – tiny oak leaves and apples. Unusual. You might care to take a look?’
‘Not if I can’t afford it,’ she said cautiously.
‘Nobody has enquired for anything similar since it came in,’ Michael Peter said. ‘I’d be willing to let it go for seven hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘Perhaps I’d better have a look at it first,’ Sister Joan said prudently.
‘I’ll get it for you.’ He moved to a large cupboard and unlocked it. ‘I’m a trifle delayed this morning, I’m afraid. Mrs Rufus didn’t turn up. Most unlike her! I rang her number but there was no reply. She did mention some time ago that she might award herself a day out at Torquay with her friend, but I was probably thinking of something else. This is the cup. I’m not a churchgoer myself and certainly not high church, so you will be best fitted to pronounce on its suitability.’
He lifted down the gleaming chalice and set it on the table.
‘It’s beautiful.’
Sister Joan picked it up and looked at the delicate chasing around the base. It was also, even to her inexperienced eye, worth a lot more than £750.
‘You have its provenance?’ she asked.
‘All duly receipted. I don’t deal in stolen property, Sister.’ His voice was gently chiding.
‘No, of course not,’ Sister Joan said, flushing. ‘This is very generous of you, Mr Peter.’
‘I’ll find a container for it and let you have your sales receipt – also the other bits and pieces proving its provenance. It’s to be a surprise, you say?’
‘For Father Malone. You must know Father Malone. Everybody does.’
‘I know very few people in the town,’ he said. ‘Mother was rather a shy, retiring lady who preferred to keep herself to herself. We never mingled much.’
‘It must’ve been rather lonely for her.’
‘No, not at all. Mrs Rufus came up nearly every day to do the heavy work and then in the evenings she had my company.’
‘I meant for you,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Oh, I can do very nicely without the hum of conversation in my ears,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I must open up the extension. Have you time to look round before you go?’
‘I’ve the whole morning.’
‘Come along then!’
He replaced the chalice, now shrouded in a cardboard box in the cupboard, locked it, put a Closed sign on the front door and led the way up a narrow flight of stairs to the upper floor. Here, prints and paintings ranged around the walls, and larger pieces of furniture were set in groups as if to give the illusion that people actually sat on the chairs and hung up their garments in the massive wardrobes.
‘Victorian,’ Michael Peter said, nodding towards them. ‘Not terribly popular in these days of small rooms but the craftsmanship is generally superb. This way.’ He had drawn a curtain, deactivated an alarm and unlocked a wide door.
‘Of course nothing here is for sale,’ he said. ‘It’s more of a hobby for me than anything else. The idea of arranging my collection and of showing small selected parties over it is a comparatively new notion of mine. Children might be interested in it, don’t you think?’
‘I can’t speak for them,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but I’m certainly fascinated!’
The extension was modern, joined on to the original building and tucked out of sight at the back. Within what was virtually a bare shell the Victorian age had been recreated, the space divided into long passages with small rooms, half walls enabling the visitor to look in at various scenes. Each setting provided a backdrop for a tableau of waxy figures, each one wigged and gowned, each one engaged in some activity into which their limbs were perpetually fixed. In one corner a small maidservant with streamers on her white cap was kneeling before an unlit fire, while her mistress stood behind her, apparently giving instructions. In another, a plump baby sat in a high carriage pram with a more smartly dressed nursemaid pushing the handles while a tall guardsman tried to catch her eye and an older child, wearing a tam o’shanter, was in the act of bowling a hoop as he ran past. Except that he would never move his waxen legs, never had moved them.
Sister Joan suppressed a sudden shiver. These figures were at the same time both too lifelike and not lifelike enough. Behind their bright eyes nothing human lived.
&nbs
p; ‘Excuse me, please. I believe I hear someone at the door.’ Michael Peter bobbed his head at her and retreated the way they had come.
Sister Joan walked on, pausing to look at a pretty bridal scene with the girl in a white crinoline festooned with roses and a poke bonnet shielding her face with its downcast eyes. At her side the groom stood stiffly, and two or three wedding guests raised champagne glasses in a little huddle at the side.
She walked on again, her footsteps silent on the thick underlay that covered the floor. She was in a larger room, with no wall separating her from the scene. Figures in black, two women wearing long black veils and holding lacy black handkerchiefs, were close enough for her to touch. On a long oak table, supine in an open coffin lined with white silk, a girl with long fair ringlets lay, arms crossed and a silken rose between her colourless fingers.
Reluctantly, drawn against her will, Sister Joan walked over and looked down at the recumbent figure. It was a beautifully staged tableau, meant to be touching, but it wasn’t touching. It was macabre and the more so because the girl in the coffin had never lived at all, and the silent mourners had no hearts to feel.
‘From birth to death,’ Michael Peter said at her shoulder.
Sister Joan would’ve leapt out of her skin if she hadn’t frozen with shock. For an instant she was incapable of speech or movement. Then she managed to swallow, to step aside slightly as she replied, ‘It’s most effective. I’m sure the visitors will be impressed.’
‘All the costumes are authentic,’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes, you mentioned it. The figures—?’
‘I bought the entire contents of an old waxworks show. The owners were going bankrupt, so I was able to obtain them very cheaply. They look quite effective, don’t you think?’
‘Very,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I hate to hurry you but a dealer has arrived so I’m going to have to talk to him,’ he said. ‘I brought the chalice and all the relevant receipts and papers. You can leave by the back. Of course, I shall turn that into the official visitors’ entrance when I formally open the exhibition. But you haven’t had sufficient time to appreciate everything! Look, this is a spare key. If you turn it twice in the back door it will deactivate the alarm system in this part of the building and open the door at the same time. I know you’ll be careful and lock up again when you leave. They like to be visited, you know.’
He put the key in her hand along with the large carrier bag in which the cardboard box reposed, gave his odd, skeletal smile and went away.
The phrase hung in her mind. They like to be visited. Was that what Michael Peter did? Night after night when he’d driven Mrs Rufus home did he slip in here, to cherish his heartless, lifeless family? It was an unnerving idea and she went quickly down the back stairs and unlocked the door at the bottom. At least if visitors were going to enter that way they would see the funeral scene first and progress backwards through the imagined lives of people who had never lived.
Outside in the narrow entry she drew a long deep breath of fresh air, and turned to walk back to the main street.
Sister Jerome who ruled her priestly charges like a strict boarding-school matron opened the door to her, her grim face relaxing into what was the nearest she ever came to a smile. The impression she gave the world was the mask she wore to hide a life too filled with past pain and remorse.1 Sister Joan never met her without feeling intense gratitude that her own existence had been so sunny.
‘The fathers are out,’ Sister Jerome said by way of greeting.
‘Yes, I hoped they would be. Has Father Stephens mentioned the gift for Father Malone?’
‘He has indeed,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘Father Stephens may be a man of the cloth but he has the sense to ask my advice. Did you obtain a chalice?’
‘I have it here. I was going to take it back to the convent and keep it there but it occurred to me that it might be better concealed on the spot.’
‘I’ll keep it hidden,’ Sister Jerome said, taking the carrier bag and giving it a look that warned it not to allow its contents to escape. ‘You’ll have a cup of tea, Sister Joan.’
It was a statement, not a question but Sister Joan said meekly, ‘Yes, thank you, Sister.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
She led the way into the spotless kitchen.
‘I bought it at Michael Peter’s antique shop,’ Sister Joan said, taking the seat offered to her.
‘That’s an expensive place, isn’t it?’ Sister Jerome looked at her.
‘Very,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but for some reason Mr Peter agreed to sell a chalice to me for far less than its market price. I can’t think why.’
‘Bowled over by your charm probably,’ Sister Jerome said dryly, getting out mugs.
‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Sister Joan said fervently.
The idea of bowling Michael Peter over with charm or anything else struck her as an intensely unpleasant notion.
‘You don’t like him?’
‘He’s been very polite to me, very helpful,’ Sister Joan said, ‘and he’s clearly very good at his job. But there’s something – no, I can’t say that I like him very much.’
‘I’ve looked in the windows once or twice,’ Sister Jerome said, pouring the tea. ‘Not that I’ve much time to go staring in shop windows. The fathers are like a pair of children when it comes to putting socks in the wash or taking their vitamins. Now and then though I do have a look,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘There are some lovely things there. Too valuable for most people.’
‘I think he trades mainly with dealers. He’s married you know.’
‘Is he? I’ve never seen any wife,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar, Sister. The biscuits are almond ones, freshly made. You’ll not offend me by refusing one.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t going to refuse,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Your almond biscuits are like manna from heaven.’
‘They’re biscuits, not biscuits from any miraculous source,’ Sister Jerome said with a pleased scowl. ‘I’ll give you some to take back to the convent for the rest of the community. So Mr Peter is married! I heard somwhere that he had a full-time housekeeper.’
‘Mrs Rufus. Do you know her?’
‘Never laid eyes on her,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘What’s your interest in her?’
‘She’s gone to Torquay for the day,’ Sister Joan said thoughtfully.
‘They tell me that it’s a very nice place. Bracing.’
‘She didn’t mention it to me.’
‘Oh, you know her then?’ Sister Jerome sipped her tea.
‘Only slightly. I went to Mr Peter’s house to telephone the police after I found that poor man dead in the old chapel.’
‘I heard about that.’
‘It didn’t get into the newspapers, did it?’
‘No, it was Father Malone mentioned it.’ Sister Jerome gave her a severe look. ‘If you want my honest opinion, Sister, this finding dead bodies is a bad habit. Not that I suppose you do it deliberately. Some women attract boyfriends; other women attract money; you attract dead bodies, I daresay.’
‘Thank you,’ Sister Joan said sweetly.
‘I always speak my mind. You know that, Sister. Well, I’d best get this hidden. Do you have the receipt for it?’
‘Everything’s in the carrier bag,’ Sister Joan said, finishing her tea.
‘Good. I like to be careful with things. Nowadays people live in a throw-away world and don’t take care of things they own. Easy come, easy go! Constable Brown was telling me earlier – he pops in for a cup of tea from time to time – that only this morning a large suitcase crammed with very good clothes was handed in at the station. Someone found it on the embankment. Would you believe it?’
‘Yes,’ Sister Joan said, watching the other fill a small tin with the almond crescents.
‘Give my best wishes to the rest of the community.’
Sister Jerome was showing her out. Sister Joan, her head full of discarded c
lothes, gave her an absentminded God bless! and walked on down the street.
At the police station she was relieved to find no sign of Constable Brown. Only a young trainee officer manned the desk, springing smartly to attention as she came in.
‘Yes, Sister! How may I help you?’ He sounded eager for promotion already.
‘I understand a suitcase full of clothes was found on the embankment,’ she said.
‘It was brought in early this morning,’ the constable said. ‘They aren’t nuns’ clothes, Sister.’
‘I wondered if I might have a look at them,’ Sister Joan said. ‘It’s always possible that I might recognize something that someone I know has worn.’
‘I suppose it won’t do any harm. They’re in the back office.’
He lifted the flap of the counter and came round to escort her through to the back premises where the suitcase stood, neatly labelled Lost Property, in a corner.
‘They’re very expensive clothes, Sister.’ He lifted the suitcase, laid it on the side table, and unclasped the lid. ‘Very good taste. My girlfriend would give her eyeteeth for some of these. I’ve said to her, “Now, Brenda, why keep fretting about the way you’re dressed? Me, I like you better with nothing on at a—”’ His voice trailed away and he stared at her in embarrassed horror.
‘Of course you do,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’ll bet she’s smashing. Ah, these are very expensive, aren’t they?’
‘Real silk,’ the constable said, recovering his composure slightly. ‘Look, sable cuffs on this suit. Not that I think it’s right to wear fur, mind, but it does lift a jacket out of the ordinary, doesn’t it?’
‘Certainly it does.’ She watched as he carefully lifted some of the garments for her inspection.
They were size twelve, she estimated, designed for someone a couple of inches taller than herself. Their pastel shades with blue predominating suggested they were more suited to a blonde than a brunette. At the bottom of the suitcase, neatly folded, was underwear, silk slips and French knickers and several pairs of filmy tights that looked unworn.
‘Thank you, Constable. You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.
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