‘Of course not, Reverend Mother. Thank you.’
‘You had better put that in a plastic bag before you replace it up your sleeve. I have a bag here. Now that you’ve handled it you had better volunteer your fingerprints to the police. Come back as soon as you can.’
She spoke in a dry, emotionless manner. Only the faint puckering of her mouth betrayed distaste and regrets.
Sister Joan went out and got into the van, slipping the plastic-sheathed trowel under her seat before she started the engine. To her relief no questioning Sister Perpetua came to the door of the kitchen and she gained the open track without seeing anybody.
Mother Dorothy had drawn the correct conclusions regarding Magdalen’s little burst of confidential information. One day she’d tell Bernadette about it no doubt but choose her own time and method. Sister Joan gave a little nod of satisfaction and drove faster, bumping over the turf past the old schoolhouse where there was no sign of Brother Cuthbert.
She was parking the van and slipping the trowel back into her sleeve when Constable Petrie came over to open the door for her.
‘Good afternoon, Sister. If you’re wanting the Detective Sergeant I’ll run and head him off for you,’ he said. ‘He was just going off for an hour.’
‘If you would, please. It’s important.’
Heading for the office she felt a twinge of amusement, wondering if any other nun visited the local police station so often.
‘Sister.’ Detective Sergeant Mill favoured her with a curt nod as he ushered her in. ‘Petrie says it’s important.’
‘New evidence,’ Sister Joan said equally briefly and laid the trowel on the desk.
His expression changed as he looked at it.
‘Sit down, Sister. Excuse my abruptness. I was in a foul mood because we seem to be getting precisely nowhere with this investigation,’ he said. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I found it in the stable hidden under the straw. Mother Dorothy agreed that it was wiser to bring it here rather than have the place crawling with police again.’
‘Very tactfully put, Sister!’ He laughed, visibly relaxing as he sat down at the desk.
‘Sorry! I didn’t mean it quite like that.’
‘I bet you did. I’m afraid that we’ll have to do more crawling very soon in view of this. When did you find it?’
‘Less than an hour ago. I came straight here as soon as I had permission.’
‘The stable was searched for the murder weapon,’ he said. ‘Either one of the lads fell down on the job which is highly unlikely or our killer’s been back to hide the weapon in the stable after the search was called off. We thought it likely that the murderer had taken the weapon away with him.’
‘It’s a trowel belonging to the convent. Sister Martha mentioned having missed it a couple of days ago. I’m afraid that nobody took much notice at the time.’
‘I suppose your prints are all over it by now?’
‘Mine and Bernadette Fawkes’s prints. She was sitting on the hay when she found it.’
‘So everybody knows by now that it was found?’
‘No. Bernadette won’t say anything about it and I took it straight to Reverend Mother. She gave me the plastic bag.’
‘Then we’ll want your prints, Sister, and Bernadette’s too in the near future. I’ve a feeling those are the only prints we’ll find on it,’ he said.
‘But why hide it in the stable?’ she asked. ‘Whoever – used it could have cleaned it and put it back into the garden shed with all the other tools. The shed’s not locked. Why hide it where it’s bound to be discovered?’
‘I don’t know yet. Maybe someone wanted to direct attention towards the convent.’
‘To make people think that one of us killed Sister Elizabeth? But why would anyone do that? It’s crazy!’
‘Not if the object was to deflect attention away from the intended victim,’ he said.
‘Yes, I see. Nobody in the convent had met Magdalen until recently so there wouldn’t have been any reason for killing her, but there might have been a reason for killing Sister Elizabeth. Not that there ever was! Detective Sergeant Mill, do you think that Magdalen Cole is still in danger?’
‘It’s certainly likely,’ he said. ‘I’ve talked over the phone to her parish priest who doesn’t seem to know her very well; he vaguely recalls her asking him for a reference. She rents a bedsitting room in London, has been there about six months, drawing dole money and getting her rent paid by Social Security. Described as quiet, shy, no close friends. Nothing known yet of her family. In the past she’s done some secretarial work up north so we’re checking on that. We haven’t come across a lover yet.’
‘So you’ll be coming round to question us all more fully.’
‘Now the funeral is over then we’ll be stepping up investigations,’ he confirmed. ‘I’ll get this to the path. boys and you can leave us your fingerprints. We’ll get Miss Fawkes’s dabs later.’
‘And you think the killer wore gloves?’
‘Almost bound to have done. There isn’t much blood as you can see. Sister Elizabeth died of multiple fractures of the frontal lobes. The bones were driven inward so there wouldn’t have been much blood. Have you had any visitors to the convent in the last couple of days?’
‘I’ve seen Sylvia Dacre,’ Sister Joan remembered. ‘Early this afternoon I went out to pick some vegetables. She was by the postulancy, said she’d been walking and strayed on to convent ground. We chatted for a few minutes and I showed her a short cut.’
‘She didn’t go near the stable?’
Sister Joan shook her head. ‘She was coming from the opposite direction,’ she said. ‘There’s one other thing, Detective Sergeant Mill, I told you that something went past me down the library stairs and that it reminded me of a huge bat? Luther from the Romany camp told his cousin, Padraic, that he’d seen a big black bat rushing across the moor above the ground. No, I know that couldn’t be so, but it does sound rather like my own experience, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. Come and have your prints taken. Then I’ll make up for my earlier bad mood and buy you a coffee. I don’t suppose you’ve had lunch?’
‘I’ve had lunch and, if I’m not too late, I’ll eat supper too.’
‘Coffee then.’ He rose, taking the plastic-wrapped trowel carefully between finger and thumb.
Having her prints taken made her feel faintly guilty of crimes she would never have dreamed of committing. Detective Sergeant Mill had told her once that most law-abiding people felt exactly the same way.
‘Wipe your fingers, Sister.’ He came in, nodding briskly to the constable in charge. ‘If you don’t mind canteen coffee we’ll have it now and then I’ll see you home.’
‘There’s no need,’ she protested, allowing him to lead her up the stairs to the plastic and chrome area where drinks and snacks were served. ‘I drove over in the van and I can drive back perfectly safely. It’s scarcely twilight yet!’
‘And there’s someone out there who’s already killed once. You ought to take better care of yourself, Sister Joan.’
‘I do,’ she argued as he placed the brimming mug before her. ‘It’s just that I won’t let my whole life be ruled by fear. That wasn’t why I entered the religious life.’
‘It was because you broke off your engagement, wasn’t it? You mentioned it sometime.’
‘Not an engagement. Jacob was Jewish and I wouldn’t – couldn’t convert.’
‘A bit drastic rushing into a convent, wasn’t it?’
‘Jacob wasn’t the only reason. I hadn’t been in the postulancy for five minutes before I realized that I was in exactly the right place for me.’
‘And Jacob?’
‘Oh, he’s probably married by now with two or three children,’ she said lightly.
‘How did you meet?’
‘At art college. You must stop encouraging me to chatter about my life before I entered the order, Detective Sergeant Mil
l! It isn’t encouraged.’
‘Never look back,’ he said thoughtfully, stirring his coffee.
‘Something like that, but in your case—’
‘We weren’t talking about me.’
‘Fair’s fair,’ she said, still lightly. ‘Sometimes, when a relationship’s going wrong, then it does make sense to look back and remember the good times.’
‘You’re a romantic, Sister.’
‘Oh, I do hope so!’ she exclaimed, and coloured up as he laughed.
‘I’ll see you to the van,’ he said. ‘I’ll send Petrie up to take Bernadette Fawkes’s prints very discreetly. If there are any others on the trowel that don’t match yours or hers then we’ll have to throw the net wider.’
‘Have you got anyone watching the convent?’ she asked as they went down the stairs into the yard again.’
‘Not since last night. Mother Dorothy is of the opinion that the killer has left the district already. The trouble is that we’re pretty short-handed anyway, and I can’t spare enough men to patrol the grounds and keep an eye on the buildings as well. Has Mother Dorothy kept up the security precautions?’
‘For the moment,’ she told him, ‘but sooner or later Sister Hilaria and Sister Marie will have to return to the postulancy. Sister Teresa too. It’s not long to her final profession.’
‘For the moment will have to do then, Sister. The light’s fading fast. Are you sure you don’t want an escort?’
‘Positive. I’ll be fine.’
‘Drive carefully then. ’Bye, Sister.’
He raised his hand and turned away. Going back to collect whatever he needed from his bleak office, she supposed.
Street lights were flickering on, curtains being drawn, husbands hurrying home. She turned into the main street, slowing as Father Malone came round the corner and waved to her.
‘Sister Joan, nothing wrong, I hope?’ His worried face appeared at the window. She braked hastily and opened the window wider.
‘Nothing’s wrong, Father. I had an errand at the police station, that’s all.’
‘Could you perform a small favour for me on your way back?’ he asked. ‘I’d not want to be making you late for your supper, Sister, but—’
‘Yes, of course, Father. What is it?’
‘Sister Jerome made some pies and I promised to see that Brother Cuthbert got a couple. If you’re going past—’
‘I’ll drop them off for you, Father. I’ll put them on the seat.’
‘I’ll nip home and get them.’ The worried expression had been replaced by a beam as he trotted off.
Sister Joan turned into the road where church and presbytery were situated. Ahead of her she could see Father Malone hurrying towards the front door. Beyond him there was a flicker of movement distorted by the shadows cast by the street lamp at the gate. Someone moved away and walked rapidly to the corner. Sister Joan glimpsed the distinctive black cape and white face as Sylvia Dacre turned her head and then was gone again into the shadows beyond the light.
‘Here we are then!’ Father Malone was coming back to the side of the van. ‘The pies are nice and juicy Sister Jerome said and he’s to bring back the dishes when he’s finished them both up. Drive carefully. There’s quite a nasty mist rising.’
‘I will, Father.’
Closing the window again, checking that the door was firmly shut and as securely locked as the current state of the vehicle permitted, she reversed and drove back to the main road.
It had definitely been Sylvia Dacre there, standing just past the gate, turning to hurry away as Father Malone approached. The woman seemed to turn up at regular intervals like the chorus of a Greek play, to silently point the action.
Turning off the road onto the moorland track she had driven only a few yards when she was engulfed in whiteness. It blotted out the rapidly darkening evening. It blotted out everything. She slammed on the brakes and sat for a moment, peering ahead. For two pins she’d turn back towards the friendly lights of the town but that would have been foolish when she knew the track so well, and when she usually wasn’t nervous at all.
She drew a deep breath, deliberately released her tight grip on the wheel and drove slowly and cautiously, her headlights parting the white mist for no more than a few feet ahead.
A momentary break in the whiteness showed her the schoolhouse, appearing like something out of a fairy-tale before the whiteness closed in again.
‘Brother Cuthbert! Brother Cuthbert?’
Leaving the lights struggling against the mist she climbed down, grasped the two neatly wrapped pies and went up to the closed door.
‘Brother Cuthbert!’ She raised her fist and knocked loudly.
Odd how mist distorted not only the seen but the heard. Her voice echoed queerly into a damp and dripping silence.
Her hand fell to the handle and she opened the door, her eyes slowly accustoming themselves to the more familiar darkness within.
‘Brother Cuthbert?’
Within doors her voice echoed even more hollowly. Anyway it was stupid to go on calling when it was obvious Brother Cuthbert wasn’t there. There was a lamp on the windowsill in what had been the classroom and was now the living-room-cum-bedchamber. She felt her way to it, barking her shin painfully on a chair, her hands reaching for the familiar curving bowl of the lamp and the box of matches that was next to it. An instant later she had a steady flame burning and the darkness was mellowed by warm golden light.
The bed had been neatly made and the fireplace was swept clean, bare of fuel or twigs. He had obviously gone out and delayed his return because of the mist. Normally she would have felt exasperation at his failure to lock the front door but now she was glad of it. She put the two pies on the table and looked round for something on which to leave a note but there was no paper or pen in sight and she disliked the notion of rummaging among his few possessions. In any case Father Malone would ask him if he’d enjoyed the pies when they next met. Now if she only knew whether or not Brother Cuthbert had a torch she could borrow it – but if he did have one then he’d probably taken it with him. The thought of borrowing the lamp instead occurred to her and was instantly dismissed. He’d need that when he got home.
What she could do was stay safely here until he did return but by then supper would be long over and the rest of the community would be worried. She turned down the wick of the lamp until it was no more than a glimmer, set it on the windowsill again, and went out, closing the door behind her and making her way to the blurred circles of light that denoted the van was still there.
Climbing up into the driving seat again, fastening her seatbelt, she rubbed the inside of the windscreen with a cloth but managed only to smear the glass.
‘Oh – hang!’ She wished that it was permitted to say something more colourful, more suited to her exasperation. Perhaps a prayer to St Christopher would help. She sent up a brief prayer and started the engine. Provided she crawled along the track she would reach the main gates and drive of the convent without any trouble.
The engine spluttered into life and died. Biting her lip she tried again and had the same result.
The van had plenty of petrol. She tried to recall when she had last filled up the oil and couldn’t remember.
‘Thank you very much, Saint Christopher!’
Feeling extremely irritable, which was better than being scared, she climbed down again from the seat, closed the door, and set off on foot. She had no more than a couple of miles to walk.
The mist was, if anything, thicker. It clung to her habit and veil, made her want to cough in order to clear her lungs. After a few yards she stopped, telling herself that it was ridiculous to go on without any light to guide her or warn others of her presence. Turning, she groped her way back to the schoolhouse, opened the front door and, with a feeling of immense relief, secured the lamp, turning up the wick.
Brother Cuthbert would have to manage with a candle if he returned this evening. She sent up another short petition to St
Christopher, added one to St Michael for good measure, and went out into the mist. She had switched off the van’s headlights and the van itself was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding whiteness. She skirted it carefully, checked that her feet were on the rough track and began to walk on steadily within the little circle of radiance provided by the lamp.
The mist muffled the little sounds of the moor as the landscape settled down for the night. There wasn’t even the rustle of a mouse in the grass to accompany the steady tread-tread of her sensible low-heeled shoes.
There was a change in the quality of the silence. She stood still for a moment, trying to analyse what it was that made her heart beat faster. It was as if, all around her, the whiteness listened too.
Something whooshed past her, so close that she felt the rush of air. Stumbling back, raising the lamp, she caught a glimpse of the huge bat-like creature that seemed to glide at a little distance above the ground and then the figure was gone, swallowed up.
With an almost objective interest she noticed that the lamp was shaking violently in her hand, sending beams of light darting wildly here and there. She gripped her wrist with her free hand, forced herself to walk on slowly and steadily, her reason and her imagination arguing fiercely as she went.
There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Joan girl.
And more things in your imagination than ever existed in reality. Do try to think logically and stop acting like an hysterical schoogirl.
She tripped over an unexpected stone, teetered for an instant, and uttered an exclamation of dismay as her hand jerked and the flame of the lamp spluttered and died.
‘Oh damn!’ The expletive escaped her before she could hold it back.
This was stupid! She had walked quite a long way already. The open gates of the convent grounds couldn’t be very far ahead. She walked on again, a faint trail of black smoke punctuating the white mist like an exclamation mark from the lamp in her hand. She tried humming but the sound quavered to nothingness in her throat.
Ahead of her long arrows of light broke through the mist and voices called, seeming to come from all around her.
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