‘The younger one. She had an unusual name. Crystal? Yes, Crystal. I had quite an argument with her as a matter of fact. She was one of those rather tiresome young women who consider that animal rights take precedence over human ones. Rushed off on various demonstrations I believe. I say it was an argument but I cut her short pretty sharply – excuse me, Sister.’
He rose and went across to another white-coated man who had just entered and was looking about him. There was a brief consultation before Mr Evans returned to the table.
‘It appears that I’m needed,’ he said. ‘No, not for your fellow nun. Finish your coffee and then tell Sister that you have my leave to look in on her. Nice meeting you. No, don’t get up.’
He shook hands briefly and went out with the other doctor. Sister Joan drank the rest of her cappuccino and indulged herself by licking the last of the froth on the spoon.
Going out into the corridor again she looked round for some sign that would direct her to Intensive Care. She’d visited the hospital before and managed to find her way around but this was a different wing of the complex of buildings.
‘May I help you, Sister?’ A young nurse had paused to speak to her.
‘I’m trying to find my way to the Intensive Care Unit,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I was told that Sister Mary Concepta who was admitted earlier would be taken there.’
‘I don’t know the sister,’ the nurse said, ‘but if you turn left and then take the lift to the next floor you’ll see the sign directing you there.’
‘Thank you.’
Walking on she felt a curious sense of disorientation as if her mission here were being elbowed out of the way by other thoughts, other half-remembered sentences that were springing into her mind.
‘Sister Mary Concepta is sleeping and is as comfortable as may be expected.’ A frosty faced nurse detained her at the door of the Intensive Care ward.
‘Then it’s not possible for me to see her? Shall I come back later or wait?’
‘In a couple of hours.’ The frosty face had melted into a prim little smile. ‘She will probably be awake then and feeling more the thing.’
‘Thank you.’ Sister Joan retraced her footsteps to the van.
There was little sense in driving back to the convent and then returning. Mass was due to start at the parish church anyway. She walked briskly through the main gates and down the hill.
Father Stephens was celebrating the mass this morning which meant that Father Malone would be rushing off to the hospital the moment he heard about Sister Mary Concepta. She slipped into a rear pew and knelt, receiving a faint, enquiring smile from Sister Jerome who always slipped in after the priest had arrived on the altar as if she had been guarding the door in case he tried to run away.
The trouble with me, Sister Joan thought, fixing her mind firmly on the opening prayers is that I cannot live in a state of spiritual recollection. Stray thoughts jump in and out of my head like puppies in a dog basket. The evils of vivisection. Asking the way somewhere. Constable Brown. She lifted her rosary and held it tightly willing herself to concentrate.
‘Good morning, Sister Joan. Is anything wrong at the convent?’ Sister Jerome detained her as Father Stephens, having dismissed the Angel of the Presence, swept into the sacristy.
‘Sister Mary Concepta was taken into hospital early this morning. It isn’t as serious as we feared but I shall go back to the hospital later when she’s awake.’
‘Come and have some breakfast. I shall have some with you in the kitchen.’
The presbytery kitchen smelt of frying bacon and bread and resounded to the soft plopping of poached eggs.
‘I’ll just serve Father Stephens and then we can have ours,’ Sister Jerome said, vanishing into the dining-room.
A few minutes later Sister Joan was eating her slice of dry brown bread, drinking a second coffee and peeling an apple in concert with her companion who observed, ‘After so many years on a light vegetarian diet I find it quite distasteful to have to cook animal flesh. As for eating it!’
I could murder a nice crisp rasher of bacon, Sister Joan thought, smiling a reply.
‘I hope Sister Mary Concepta will soon be recovered.’ Sister Jerome looked worried.
‘She’s a tough old lady,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She and Sister Gabrielle are engaged in a contest to see which one can outlast the other. Doesn’t it strike you as funny that we go on and on about the joys of the life beyond the grave and then do every mortal thing in our power to delay getting there?’
‘It doesn’t strike me as funny at all,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘Death isn’t a subject for levity, Sister Joan. I was hearing only yesterday at the grocer’s shop of a most sad coincidence. The woman who was found dead in the cemetery—’
‘Mrs Rufus.’
‘She met her death on the anniversary of her husband’s death,’ Sister Jerome said.
Sister Joan sat bolt upright, a piece of apple suspended halfway to her mouth.
‘Are you sure, Sister?’ she asked.
‘I’m not in the habit of repeating unconfirmed gossip,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘At least two ladies, as well as the grocer, commented on the fact.’
‘Sister Jerome, may I use the telephone?’
‘Yes, of course, Sister. It’s in Father Malone’s study. You know the way.’
‘Thank you, Sister.’
Sister Joan went through into the hall and thence into the shabby, familiar study with its shelves of books and piles of parish magazines and the framed snapshots of Father Malone on his pilgrimage tour to Lourdes, Santiago and Rome which he had taken and frequently talked about to his parishioners.
‘Mother Dorothy? Will you tell Sister Perpetua and the rest of the community that Sister Mary Concepta’s condition isn’t as serious as we feared? They want to keep her in for a few days to be on the safe side, and I’m going back later this morning to see her when she wakes up, but the news is very encouraging.’
‘Thanks be to God! I’ll tell the others immediately. Have you had anything to eat, Sister Joan?’
‘I’m having some at the presbytery, Mother Dorothy.’
‘Give our love to Sister Jerome.’
‘Yes, of course. God bless.’ Sister Joan replaced the receiver and immediately dialled the police station. ‘Sister Joan here. Is Detective Sergeant Mill there?’
‘He’s not in yet,’ Constable Brown’s voice informed her without apology.
‘Constable Brown, when the young woman came to the police station to make enquiries you told her that Detective Sergeant Mill was away, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘She came in and asked to speak to the officer in charge?’
‘Yes. I told her that Detective Sergeant Mill wasn’t in the building and offered my own assistance.’
‘To answer her enquiries?’
‘Yes. I don’t quite see—’
‘What enquiries did she make, Constable?’
‘She asked the way to the convent,’ Constable Brown said.
‘That was all?’
‘She asked the way to the convent and Constable Petrie who came in at that moment took her to the door and indicated the general direction she ought to take.’
‘And you didn’t record her question in the record book?’
‘No, Sister. We don’t record every trivial little enquiry in the book or we’d never be done writing up our notes.’
‘She didn’t report that her sister was missing?’
‘No.’
‘Constable, please bear with me.’
‘Yes, Sister?’ He sounded wearily patient.
‘This young woman asked for directions to the convent? Did you tell Detective Sergeant Mill exactly what she wanted?’
‘Detective Sergeant Mill never asked me exactly what was said,’ Constable Brown said. ‘I assumed that Constable Petrie had told him. Detective Sergeant Mill merely informed me that I ought to have noted the incident in the record book.’
�
�And you didn’t say to him that she’d only asked for directions?’
‘No, Sister. I assumed he was aware of the tenor of the conversation already.’
‘And you never thought of saying that it seemed rather unnecessary to have to record the fact that someone had come in to ask for directions?’
‘It isn’t my place to argue with the Detective Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, Constable Brown.’
And God bless Policeman Plod, Sister Joan thought in exasperation, putting down the telephone.
Coming out of the study she met Father Stephens who greeted her in his usual rather gracious fashion.
‘Sister Jerome tells me that Sister Mary Concepta is in the hospital. I trust she isn’t too ill?’
‘Not as ill as we feared, Father.’
‘We must be thankful for that, though at Sister Mary Concepta’s age death must seem much less daunting than it does to us.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Sister Joan said kindly, thinking of the two old ladies who most certainly were not prepared to go gentle into the good night.
‘Thank you for the breakfast, Sister Jerome.’ She went through into the kitchen.
‘You’re very welcome, Sister Joan. I expect we shall be kept informed of her progress?’
‘Yes, of course, Sister. God bless.’
She went out, sidestepping Father Stephens who said as he put on his coat, ‘The communion cup is excellent, Sister Joan. Father Malone will adore it when it’s presented to him. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Father.’
She escaped down the front path and turned in the direction of the hospital, though she doubted if Sister Mary Concepta would’ve woken up yet.
Things were slotting together in her mind now. There had been the misunderstanding between Detective Sergeant Mill and Constable Brown with the latter believing he had been given a light reprimand for not recording a request for directions while the former hadn’t questioned what she herself had repeated after she’d spoken to Caroline. No, not Caroline but Crystal. Or was it so?
She had reached the narrow street known as Tor Alley. It was, she thought, inevitable that her footsteps should have led her here and now paused as if some invisible barrier stretched across the road preventing her from carrying straight on.
Perhaps the police were conducting a second search of the antique shop. She turned into the cobbled street and walked slowly past the hairdresser’s establishment to the plate-glass windows with their carefully arranged treasures. A Closed notice hung inside the door and the window blinds were partly drawn down. Either Michael Peter had been arrested or was paying belated respects to the recently deceased Mrs Rufus. Harsh-voiced, sentimental Mrs Rufus who had merely happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sister Joan walked on, rounding the corner of the building, entering the long narrow passage that ran down the side of the building to the extension at the back where the waxwork exhibition was housed.
The key that Michael Peter had given her was still in her pocket. She took it out as she reached the door and inserted it carefully into the lock, remembering to turn it twice and thus deactivate the alarm.
The staircase up which Michael Peter had hoped the feet of schoolchildren keen on acquiring knowledge of the past would tramp was dim and silent. It was quiet as if all the figures on the upper floor held their breaths.
Sister Joan began to climb the staircase, treading lightly, though her breath came short in her throat.
Upstairs she switched on the lights, bracing herself for the waxworks. There they were, in their tableaux, heads fixed at an angle that would never alter, eyes lowered, garments perfectly in character but motionless.
She walked swiftly past the funeral scene, the family outing – then struck by an unpleasant thought turned back briefly and looked more attentively at the first group of figures. She stepped over to the coffin and looked down at the fair-haired girl who lay with hands folded around a silken rose, eyes closed. The figure lay supine, and when she touched the cheek of the figure she felt a little shock of relief when her fingers touched cold wax.
She walked on slowly, catching her teeth in her lips with relief when she reached the first group of figures and opened the door beyond which the upper floor with its massive pieces of furniture stretched to the stairs that led down into the main shop.
This was foolish! She had come here because she had some notion that Crystal might be found here. Michael Peter adored his wife, adored her even though by now he must be regarding her as capable of murder. His dear old mother had probably drummed the notions of stiff upper lip and a gentleman’s honour into him, so that whatever his wife or his wife’s sister might have done would be regarded by him as something to be kept closely within the bounds of the family. That was why he’d gone to such lengths to pretend that Crystal hadn’t left him, that she hadn’t sneaked back and stolen from him. And that was why he hadn’t mentioned in his statement that he’d lent Sister Joan a key to his premises that would enable her to get in and out unobserved. He wanted the murderer caught but he didn’t want to be the one to point the finger.
She came down the stairs into the shop proper and looked round. If the police had been back to search the premises a second time they had been tactful about it. To her eyes she could see nothing different from the way it had all looked before.
It had been a mistake to come, she decided, one of those impulsive decisions best not acted upon. What on earth had she expected to find? The marble ashlar smeared with blood occupying pride of place among the various items for sale?
She walked to the front door and tried her key in the lock, but it failed to turn. Evidently it fitted only the back premises. That meant she would have to return the way she had come, a prospect that was decidedly unpleasing!
Better get it over with! With the disquieting feeling that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time she went back up the stairs and across the dimly lit room with its lurking dressers and Victorian wardrobes.
She went through into the extension, walking rapidly past the vapid-faced figures that set fires, bowled hoops, wheeled prams, flirted with military bucks at a ball and never moved onwards, past the funeral party with the open coffin and the little group of mourners.
Not all the mourners had been wearing black. The thought screamed into her mind as she reached the top of the staircase. There had been an extra white-clad figure that stood stiffly on the edge of the group.
She turned back, stepping noiselessly along the thick carpet and looked again at the white-gowned figure with the curly golden hair. Under the electric light the other figures, frozen into perpetual stillness, stared back at her. The white-clad one looked awkward and out of place like a guest wearing the wrong clothes at a party. Sister Joan stepped closer, put out her hand and gave the figure a little push. It swayed slightly, its eyes still closed. Not real then! Someone was playing games again.
Swinging about on her heel she looked at the coffin where the fair-haired figure lay, hands clasped about the stem of the silken rose. Her voice was pitched a shade higher as she said, ‘You can get up now, Crystal!’
FOURTEEN
‘You know then?’ The fair-haired figure sat up, eyes wide and trusting. ‘You know that I’m hiding from Caroline?’
‘It was Caroline who married Michael Peter?’
‘Pretending to be me.’ The other sat up and began to climb down to the floor. ‘I’ve been so frightened, Sister, not knowing what to do or where to go. She is very cunning, you know, very clever. Look what she did to me!’
She drew her hair aside to display a cut and swollen ear, with a handkerchief tied clumsily around it.
‘That looks sore,’ Sister Joan said.
‘It bled and bled. Ears do, you know. It soaked the sweater and the skirt so naturally she had to take them off. Fortunately there was the long brown coat which hides a multitude of sins. This dress suits me better because it’s white. White for purity.’
>
‘Caroline wears brown,’ Sister Joan said.
‘She’s a brown kind of person. Don’t you think that she’s a brown kind of person?’
‘I don’t know very much about Caroline at all,’ Sister Joan said.
‘She was always jealous of me. That was the trouble from the beginning,’ the other said with a little sigh. ‘I was always the pretty one, the one who was outgoing and lively and had plenty of friends – would have had plenty of friends if Caroline hadn’t always followed me around, embarrassed me by being gauche and sullen. I tried not to mind, honestly. I was her kid sister and she was looking out for me, but that wasn’t really the truth. The truth was that she couldn’t ever make any friends of her own. There was something in her that made people back away. That’s a terrible thing to say about a sister but it’s true. It’s something I’ve finally had to admit.’
‘She was the one who stayed at home?’
‘She had a part-time job, temping – her shorthand and typing were really quite competent, and then after Mum died Dad was really ill. Bad heart! Caroline stayed at home and was the dutiful daughter. I used to feel sorry for her, really I did. I had my own flat and lots of boyfriends and I used to get jobs as hostess at big conferences and trade fairs. I was always in demand.’
‘What did Caroline do?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘She pretended to be me. Of course Dad didn’t realize it at the time. Caroline got a job as hostess and met Michael Peter. He was middle-aged and lonely and not attractive to women so it was easy enough. She told him her name was Crystal and she married him under that name. Of course she couldn’t very well ask Dad to the wedding! That would have given the whole game away. But once she got down here she started to worry in case I decided to turn up and then Michael Peter’d’ve known. She had to think of something so she went away to think. She went to see Dad, and then it occurred to her! She’d bring Dad down here and talk to him, try to make him understand why she had acted the way that she did. They walked over the moor together and went into the little chapel and she tried to explain to him but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen, Sister! He became very agitated and then he clutched at his chest and said a tight band was choking him and died. She didn’t know what on earth to do because if Dad was identified then it would all come out so she took everything she could find off him and crept back into the house and hid them in the centre of a toilet roll. If they were ever found then Michael Peter might’ve been blamed for causing Dad’s death.’
Vow of Adoration/Vow of Devotion/Vow of Fidelity Page 18