‘Very tenuous ones,’ he objected.
‘Barbara Ford went to New Zealand and Johnny’s adoptive parents came from there and went back there when they’d given up hope of finding Johnny. Henry Clare was an engineer and Dodie married an engineer, and she lives in Maidstone where Johnny’s remains were found.’
‘New Zealand is a very large country,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. ‘There are thousands of engineers working in the country, and we don’t even know if Dodie and her husband were living in Maidstone at the time the remains of Johnny Clare were found there. You’re trying to make an omelette without any eggs, Sister.’
‘It does sound a bit thin,’ she admitted.
‘On the other hand instinct does count for something. I’ll check into the Johnny Clare case first thing tomorrow. If nobody was ever arrested it’ll still be on open file. Have you worked out what the written numbers at the side mean?’
‘I haven’t looked at them again. May I jot them down?’
‘Of course. D’ye need a pencil?’
‘I have one attached to my little notebook.’
‘Do you also carry a knife that takes stones out of horses’ hooves?’ he enquired dryly.
‘I’ll provide myself with one,’ she promised lightly. ‘May I have the numbers please?’
‘The first one is ten, dot, eight, dot seventy-five.’
‘The tenth of August, 1975?’
‘Did anything happen on that date you remember? You’d still have been in college.’
‘On vacation. No, I don’t recall anything special happening during that vacation.’
‘Did you all keep in touch during the vacations?’
‘I didn’t. I went up home to my family,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I don’t know about the others.’
‘The next number is eleven, dot, nine, eighty-four. Wasn’t that the date the Clare child disappeared?’
‘I’m not sure. It was reported a couple of days later in the newspaper.’
‘I’m beginning to recall more details of the case. I was in police college myself at the time, doing my finals.’
Odd, she thought, writing the numbers down to think that he’d been training for his career when she had been training for what she’d hoped would be hers. Well, he’d been more faithful to his ambition than she’d been.
‘The next date is sixteen, dot, seven, ninety.’
‘The date Johnny Clare’s remains were found? Yes, there must be a link! What are the other dates?’
‘If they are dates they’re not in chronological order. Fifteen, dot, four, seventy-nine. Three, dot, six, seventy-eight. And then five, dot, four, ninety-three.’
‘Is that it?’
‘One last one. Fourteen, dot, five, ninety-two.’
‘I’ll think about them.’ Closing her notebook she slipped it into her pocket.
‘Don’t think too hard, Sister,’ Detective Sergeant Mill advised. ‘Use your instincts.’
‘Then you do think the numbers are dates and the dates all mean something?’
‘I consider it likely. Sister Joan, you will take care, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. I haven’t forgotten the other photograph that was sent to me.’
‘A threat or a warning?’
‘Or a little hook to guarantee that I’d become involved,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I have to go.’
‘What exciting activities are planned for today?’
He had risen and come round the desk to open the office door for her.
‘Nothing in particular. We thought it would be nice for the guests to wander about a bit, soak up the atmosphere.’
‘You might find out what time the reunion broke up.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The police mind always ran on alibis. Patricia Mayne had been killed at about midnight. She wondered when the group had separated and gone home.
‘If you have anything else to tell me it would be better if you came down to the station instead of using the convent telephone,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
He clearly believed there was some danger for her. She hoped he was wrong as she mounted Lilith and rode back along the High Street to where the road turned off towards the unpaved moorland track.
It was one of those crisp autumn mornings so often written about, so seldom seen. The few trees on the moor were shedding their leaves in cascades of scarlet, brown and gold and the bright red of holly berries already sparkled amid the faded heather.
She could see no trace of any search for a child which could only mean that Finn Boswell was safe at home, probably with the results of a night’s poaching.
Fiona was sitting on the low wall at the side of the convent grounds, swinging her long legs and looking slightly disconsolate.
‘Good morning.’ Sister Joan slid from Lilith’s broad back and smiled at her.
‘Is it?’ Fiona sounded indifferent.
‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘Oh, I slept well enough,’ Fiona said. ‘Have they found that little boy yet?’
‘Apparently. The search seems to have been called off and the police weren’t called.’
Fiona’s face lit up and she jumped down from the wall like a girl.
‘That’s super!’ Her voice was bright with relief. ‘So many unpleasant things have happened recently, and then one always worries about a missing child. There was a really dreadful case about ten years ago – I was just starting as assistant art mistress at Cheyne High School.’
‘In Chelsea.’
‘That’s right! Did you read about the case?’
‘I was abroad at the time,’ Sister Joan said.
She and Jacob had gone to Denmark where the cold, grey skies with their subtle hints of blue and lilac and gold that shaded to silver, had sent Jacob into what, for him, were transports of appreciation.
‘You can keep your hot blues of Provence,’ he had enthused. ‘Anyone who can capture these on canvas is entitled to be called an artist.’
It had been a long, wonderful summer, despite or perhaps because they had both known that it had to end. Jacob had wanted a Jewish mother for his children. She had felt unable to convert. It had been as sad and as simple as that. And the knowledge that they must soon part, her own yearning when she heard a church bell ring or knelt at the communion rail, the feeling that something was calling her away, had only made their last weeks together more precious.
‘He was only nine years old,’ Fiona was saying. ‘Johnny Clare. I remembered him because he was really awfully good at drawing, one of the best in the school. I used to enjoy teaching him. He just disappeared one day. It was dreadful. We had police coming to the school, of course, to ask questions. He was an adopted child and the police thought that perhaps his real mother had taken him, but she couldn’t be traced. After a few years the Clares gave up hope and went back to New Zealand. They’d come from there originally. And then several years later I read in the paper that they’d found him – his remains they called them – buried in a field somewhere.’
‘Yes. I heard about it,’ Sister Joan said.
‘So I’m awfully pleased to hear the little gypsy boy’s safe!’ Fiona said happily. ‘Is this your own pony? Are you allowed to have pets?’
‘Not officially, but Lilith was here when the order took over the estate and Alice is being trained to be a guard dog though so far she’s a fairly slow learner.’
‘This is a lovely place, isn’t it?’ Fiona looked round with a sweetly wistful expression. ‘Not that I’d want to live here! How do you manage without any sex?’
‘We sublimate it,’ Sister Joan said, her lips quirking. ‘Speaking of which – it isn’t any of my business but did you really sleep with Bryan?’
‘Once or twice.’ Fiona looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I slept with most people once or twice. I used to hope that I’d fall in love with one of them but I never did.’
‘While you were in college or afterwards?’
�
��Both.’ Fiona gave her a questioning look. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘Not out of idle curiosity,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Have you heard anyone else speak of Johnny Clare’s murder?’
‘No, why should they?’ Fiona said, puzzled.
‘I thought it might have a bearing.’
‘On Serge’s death, do you mean?’ Fiona stopped and considered gravely, then shook her blonde head. ‘I didn’t know Serge was dead, you know. I was terribly shocked when Barbara came back from the telephone and told us, and now it turns out that she and Paul knew all about it already and never said a word. I can’t think why, but then I don’t understand any of them any longer. I’ve been wondering if it was wise to agree to come along to the retreat. At the reunion there were none of them as I remembered them.’
‘Not even me?’
They had reached the yard and Sister Joan led Lilith into the stable and began to unsaddle her.
‘You haven’t really changed,’ Fiona said, leaning against the stable door and regarding her speculatively. ‘You were always lively and ready for a joke. I heard you went off to live with someone, so I was surprised to find out you were a nun. What happened?’
‘I used to think it was the barrier of religion,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but now I do think that it ended because something better came along.’
‘If you say so. It wouldn’t suit me personally,’ Fiona said with a grimace.
‘You went to the States.’
‘Oh, I enjoyed myself there!’ Fiona said. ‘I did some modelling and a bit of acting, and I had one hell of a good time! And I had the sense to get out before I got bogged down in trekking from one casting agent to the next, making guest appearances on third-rate chat shows, all the usual nausea! I came back and started teaching art.’
‘You always had good sense,’ Sister Joan said, giving Lilith a final pat.
‘I’m not clever and I never was a very talented artist,’ Fiona said, ‘but I’m a survivor.’
‘Unlike Sally, Bryan and Serge.’
‘That is so weird!’ Fiona exclaimed with a little shiver. ‘There were ten of us in that photograph and over the last couple of years three of us have died in very odd ways! Don’t you think it’s peculiar?’
‘What do the others think?’ Sister Joan evaded as they retraced their footsteps across the cobbled yard towards the enclosure garden.
‘I haven’t asked them,’ Fiona said. ‘You know I was rather looking forward to seeing everybody again, and I was quite pleased when I got the photograph. But it hasn’t been the way I thought it would be. Barbara’s become terribly brittle and businesslike, and Paul—’ She stopped, biting her scarlet lip.
‘What about Paul?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘Oh, nothing!’ Fiona switched the subject hastily. ‘It’s not fair to talk about people behind their backs, is it? Anyway after you left the evening sort of soured. Dodie and Paul were bitching at each other and the play wasn’t awfully good, and then Barbara was called to the telephone just after we’d started supper and it was you telling her that Serge was dead.’
‘Before the play surely?’
‘We decided to go on to the play anyway and it wasn’t very good, though to be fair I was so upset to hear about Serge that I wouldn’t have enjoyed anything even if it was brilliant,’ Fiona said. ‘After the play we all went home.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Time?’ Fiona looked blank. ‘I never know what time it is! About ten-thirty, I think. We had a quick coffee in the bar and agreed to come down here for the retreat and Serena offered to give me a lift. She offered one to Dodie too but Dodie was angling for a lift from Derek, and then Paul came in and said he’d come with them because he has a driving ban – but he drove down to the village last night, didn’t he?’
Sister Joan nodded. She was wondering if Fiona was as guileless as she appeared.
‘Anyway,’ Fiona said, ‘I still feel that it was a mistake for us all to meet up again. Isn’t there a saying that you can’t step into the same river twice?’
‘Not unless you run very fast along the bank,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Fiona, have you any idea who sent the photograph?’
‘Not a clue. Does it matter?’
‘Whoever sent it wanted us all together down here,’ Sister Joan said. ‘And whoever that was must have kept track of us all for a long time.’
‘And then we all start getting killed off.’ Fiona looked uneasy. ‘Except that the others died before we got the photograph. Joan – sorry, Sister Joan! did Derek say if Sally’s name was on the envelope addressed to him?’
‘He didn’t mention it, but her death had been reported anyway.’
‘I wonder if Bryan got one – I mean I wonder if one was sent to him after he died.’
‘If someone’s been keeping tabs on us then they’d know Bryan had died too.’
‘I suppose.’ Fiona reached to pluck a spray of wisteria from the enclosure wall. ‘Look, Barbara and Paul say they already knew that Serge was dead, yet they let you go to his flat because they reckoned you’d be curious and get involved – get involved in what? What are you supposed to be finding out?’
‘Who killed Johnny Clare?’ Sister Joan said.
Fiona’s pretty face was a study in perplexity. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’ she demanded. ‘Nobody knew that poor child except me. You’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with his death, are you? Oh, surely you can’t believe that I’d hurt a child?’
‘No, of course not,’ Sister Joan said warmly. ‘But somebody killed him.’
‘But that was ten years ago,’ Fiona said. ‘I just happened to mention it because of the gypsy child being missing.’
‘Serge kept newspaper records of the case,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Serge wouldn’t have done such a thing!’ Fiona’s cheeks had flushed and her voice rose indignantly. ‘I happen to know that Serge was absolutely normal sexually! Absolutely normal! I do think you’re clutching at straws, Joan! For heaven’s sake we were all friends!’
‘Fellow students. And you did say that we’d changed.’
‘That’s true.’ Fiona’s temper subsided. ‘But Serge wouldn’t have hurt anybody. I slept with him several times. He liked girls. And so did Paul!’
‘Paul?’ Sister Joan paused to look at her.
‘He’s changed more than any of us!’ Fiona said vehemently. ‘He used to like girls as much as anyone and, believe me, I’m in a position to know!’
Ten
Lunch had passed smoothly and, as if by common consent, the guests had wandered into the garden, taking advantage of the burst of sunshine that made the autumn day summer again. They lounged in the deck chairs that Sister Perpetua had unearthed – or perhaps lounged wasn’t quite the right word for them all, Sister Joan thought, as she paused by the low wall. Serena was certainly stretched out, her ample curves overflowing the sides of the chair, her eyes closed. Serena seemed unconscious of any undercurrents of suspicion. Fiona too appeared to have forgotten her anxieties of earlier in the day and lay supine, her eyes protected by sunglasses, her long legs still tanned golden under her short skirt. Paul and Derek were reading the newspapers she’d brought, Derek reading with a concentrated frown on his dark face and putting each paper down on the folded pile as he finished, Paul scattering newsprint like large pieces of confetti. Dodie had refused a deckchair in favour of a large cushion on which she sat, looking rather like Miss Muffet, her skirts pulled down, a cardigan over her shoulders. She wasn’t reading but sat motionless, one hand plucking constantly at the short grass. Near her Barbara, suitably and elegantly attired, in dark-red shirt and matching trousers, her hair coiled behind her head, was sketching on a notepad.
She glanced up, caught Sister Joan’s eye, and rose, strolling in an unhurried fashion to the wall.
‘Are we supposed to be doing something else?’ she enquired.
‘It’s a free afternoon,’ Sister Joan assured her. ‘On Sundays
we catch up on our spiritual diaries, write letters, read, have our own private devotions – either Father Malone or Father Stephens sometimes drops in for a chat or a visitor may come to the parlour.’
‘It sounds very restful,’ Barbara said, hooking a long leg over the wall, and joining Sister Joan at the near side. ‘I was thinking of taking a walk. Are you allowed to come with me?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Was this going to be the confidence she’d been hoping that Barbara would impart? Sister Joan walked on with outward composure and waited.
‘I owe you an apology,’ Barbara said abruptly when they were out of earshot of the group on the grass.
‘Oh?’ Sister Joan slowed her pace slightly.
‘We wanted to involve you but we didn’t know how to go about it,’ Barbara said. ‘I mean, under normal circumstances, we’d simply have told you what was going on and asked you what you thought we ought to do, but nuns don’t get involved in the real world so we had to go about it in a roundabout way.’
‘What on earth makes you think that nuns don’t live in the real world?’ Sister Joan enquired mildly. ‘We’re not locked up in some rose-coloured boudoir you know.’
‘We didn’t know,’ Barbara said curtly. ‘Anyway you dropped out of sight ten years ago. Someone said you’d taken the veil. Then we read an item in the paper about your having helped out in a murder case down here in Cornwall, and it was like fate.’
‘Who is “we”?’
‘Dodie and I,’ Barbara said. ‘We’ve been in touch during the past couple of years. I – met her when I returned from New Zealand and we kept up a casual friendship. Then after Sally was killed and then Bryan died in that hit-and-run incident, we both started thinking.’
‘What made you think the two deaths were connected?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘I had a letter from Sally,’ Barbara said, hesitating. ‘I’m not sure why she wrote to me. I hadn’t run into her more than a couple of times since I got back to England, but she wrote to me. I kept the letter.’
She drew it out of her trouser pocket and passed it over.
They were in the shrubbery that grew thickly above the tennis court. Sister Joan sat down on the top step and unfolded the single sheet of paper.
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