Two compartments were separated by a zipped section. She drew out the contents carefully. A cheque book, a plastic folder holding a library card and a bank card, a book of stamps, a birthday book with butterflies on the cover, a paying-in book, some clean tissues. Mrs Fairly had been neat and tidy to the utmost degree. Even the contents of her handbag could have been displayed for inspection. The cheque book had the amounts neatly dated and tabulated. The paying-in book recorded her monthly salary. The housekeeper had lived well within her means. She had a balance of £2,000 in her current account, no sign of any savings accounts. There was a purse containing two £5 notes and in the birthday book the names of Father Malone, Father Stephens and Sylvie were written opposite the requisite dates. The other pages were blank.
She unzipped the centre compartment carefully. A rosary and a St Christopher medal were inside, nothing else.
Sister Joan replaced the contents, turning each one over as she did so. If there had ever been anything of interest inside then it had been removed. In that case why wrap the bag in brown paper and push it down into the refuse bin? She sat on the edge of the bed, holding the bag, trying to fathom the actions that had led to its being discarded. No! not discarded! If the bag had simply been thrown out with the rubbish then it could easily have been put into one of the black bin liners. Instead it had been wrapped in brown paper and placed in the bin, to be taken out later. That could only mean that someone wanted to examine the bag more closely. Someone had had limited time or opportunity in which to find whatever it was they were seeking, and had hastily wrapped and sellotaped the bag and thrust it into the outside bin, meaning to return and retrieve it. The refuse wasn’t due to be collected for another couple of days so there hadn’t been any pressing urgency.
She thought a moment longer, lifted her pillow and put the handbag beneath, pulled up the coverlet and went downstairs again. Lifting the telephone receiver in the study, dialling the local police station, she kept her ears pricked for the sound of returning footsteps.
‘I’m afraid Detective Sergeant Mill isn’t coming in today, Sister. May I take a message for him or is there something I can do to help?’
The voice at the other end was bright and female. Sister Joan said, ‘No, it can wait. Thank you.’
Sooner or later, she was certain, someone would go out to the refuse bin and reach down for the parcel. Someone would betray themselves. She stood a moment longer, then went swiftly back into the kitchen, fumbling in the cabinet drawer for brown paper and sticky tape, emptying a small cardboard box of its reels of cotton, hunting for a pen.
The police were hampered by regulations. Mother Dorothy had intimated that if, without breaking the rule, she could find a gentler verdict than suicide to pronounce over Mrs Fairly’s memory then she was free to use her own initiative. And nowhere in the rule was it written that one wasn’t permitted to set a trap for a murderer in order that justice might be served.
By the time Father Stephens walked into the presbytery the table had been laid and the salad prepared and Sister Joan was on her knees, removing the last few wilting heads of the destroyed flowers.
‘Have you time to make me a coffee, Sister?’ He paused at the front door.
‘Yes, of course, Father.’ Getting to her feet she hurried towards him. He looked tired, she thought. Recent events had shaken him more than he cared to admit. ‘Is Father Timothy with you?’
‘He went to the station to meet Miss Potter. I’ve been dealing with the first communicants.’
‘If you’re not sure what time she’s arriving—?’ Sister Joan looked at him.
‘There are three trains from the north this morning. Father Timothy offered to meet them all. As he reminded me one can pray and meditate anywhere.’
‘I’ll get your coffee, Father.’
Putting on the kettle she tried to imagine how she would feel to have lost a beloved aunt and to be met at the end of a tiring journey by the joyless countenance of a strange priest.
‘I need to go to the bakery, Father.’ She set the cup of coffee at his elbow. ‘I will need some money.’
‘Handbag not turned up yet? Here you are then.’ He took a couple of banknotes out of his wallet and gave them to her. ‘Father Malone deals with the financial side of things. If you require more let me know. Mrs Fairly kept an account book in the kitchen somewhere so you can enter your purchases later.’
‘I thought I’d buy some cake to go with the fruit for dessert,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to walk along to the station and see if there’s any sign of Miss Potter yet?’
‘That would be very good of you, Sister.’ He nodded absently, his fingers fluttering towards a sheaf of notes before him.
‘Your Easter sermon?’ she asked.
‘I’m hoping to make it rather special.’
She stood irresolute for a moment, longing to say, ‘But the people don’t want special sermons at such times, Father. Easter, like Christmas, is a link with childhood and innocence, a time to renew old traditions. People want simplicity, not clever argument and obscure references.’
‘I’m sure it will be splendid, Father,’ she said kindly and left him to his musings.
Outside the pale sun had strengthened. She walked to the bakery and went in.
‘I’ve a nice big treacle tart, Sister, or a plum pie.’ The girl behind the counter looked as if she sampled her own wares, her face dimpled and soft.
‘The plum tart, please.’
Sylvie Potter might have dentures and find treacle tart too sticky. She might also be allergic to plums, Sister Joan thought. Perhaps it would have been wiser to buy both. Sister Joan bit her lip, aware in some part of herself that it was much more comforting to worry about food than about the possibility of that other person who waited to retrieve the handbag from the refuse bin.
‘Terrible about what happened, isn’t it?’ the girl behind the counter said.
‘About Mrs Fairly, you mean? Yes, very sad.’
‘I was at benediction last evening. I saw you there.’
‘Oh, you’re a member of the parish! I’m sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate on any one thing for more than two minutes today,’ Sister Joan apologized.
‘It was quite a shock.’ The girl slid the tart expertly into a cardboard case.
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not really.’ The girl spun blue paper ribbon round the box and sliced it off neatly. ‘She was always very pleasant though. Very quiet and ladylike. Mind you, she didn’t come from round here, you know. She and her husband came from up north. He took early retirement because of a bad heart and she used to clean and cook on a daily basis for Father Malone. Then her husband died and she went to live at the presbytery. Less lonely for her. And then the sisters came to the old Tarquin house and — mind you I was still at school then. I did think of becoming a nun myself at one time but it was just a passing fancy. No real vocation. No, have the tart on me, Sister. My Eddie owns the bakery now and he’d want me to show our respects under the circumstances.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Sister Joan said gratefully.
‘I’ll tell you something for free, Sister.’ The other leaned her plump frame on the counter. ‘Mrs Fairly wouldn’t have killed herself, not in a thousand years. She just wouldn’t have done such a thing. Why, there was a man in here last year some time, trying to give out information on euthanasia and Mrs Fairly spoke up real sharp, told him life was a gift from God and He’d take it back when He was ready. She got quite angry about it. So she wouldn’t have done it to herself, now would she?’
‘I’m sure she didn’t,’ Sister Joan said warmly. ‘Thank you for the tart. Mrs Fairly’s niece is expected.’
‘And you won’t be eating any of that yourself it’s being Lent. That was one of the reasons I decided that the religious life wasn’t for me. Too much penance and fasting.’
‘But excellent as a slimming diet,’ Sister Joan said with a twinkle.
Her spirit
s had lifted as she left the bakery. There were still nice, decent people in the world who cared about other people and didn’t go round slashing at trees and innocent flowers and—
The body found by the side of the railway line had been mutilated, slashed, made less than human. The speeding train would inflict horrific injuries but would the victim have been flung to the side? She shivered, the brightness of her mood fading a little. There was almost certainly no connection between the events. All of them were symptoms of a darkness that needed to be fought.
The station was almost deserted save for the spare frame of Father Timothy who stood on the platform, peering anxiously up the track.
‘Is there any sign of Miss Potter, Father?’ Sister Joan joined him.
‘The third train came in twenty minutes ago.’ He turned a worried face towards her, ‘And there was no sign of anyone called Miss Potter. I asked several ladies. Or are you here to tell me there’s been another telephone call?’
‘Not as far as I know. Father Stephens suggested I might come and find out if she had arrived.’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘She may have rung up since I came out. The next train isn’t until three or thereabouts. You can’t wait here for ever.’
‘I shall come back this afternoon if there’s been no word. I do feel she ought to have given us more information.’
‘I daresay she couldn’t think very clearly,’ Sister Joan said. ‘She and her aunt were apparently very close.’
‘It is never wise to form close personal attachments, Sister.’ He spoke gravely as they left the station together. ‘God is jealous. He does not create us to form personal attachments. He creates us to serve Him only.’
‘But surely human affection can be a reflection of Divine Love,’ Sister Joan said.
‘You would choose the shadow instead of the substance? That is hardly what is expected of a religious,’ he reproved. ‘God alone fulfils our needs, Sister. Personal feelings must be rooted out with prayer and penitence. There is no other way.’
As well try to argue with a stone, Sister Joan thought, compressing her lips and quickening her step. She was relieved when the open door of the presbytery came into sight and Father Stephens looked out.
‘Miss Potter hasn’t arrived‚’ Sister Joan began.
‘I know.’ Father Stephens looked pale and agitated. ‘I’ve just had a telephone call from the police. Apparently a young woman was found dead at the side of the railway line about an hour ago. They identified her by a note in her pocket giving this address — she was mutilated, you see.’
Eight
‘I have been waiting at the station most of the morning,’ Father Timothy said. He sounded aggrieved.
‘I only just received the telephone call’‚ Father Stephens excused himself. ‘The police here were contacted by the railway police further up the line and, as my address was on the body, they naturally rang me. She had other means of identification on her.
‘So she won’t be eating the plum tart,’ Sister Joan said blankly. Both men looked at her.
‘Surely food ought to be the last thing on our minds at this moment,’ Father Stephens said stiffly.
‘I’m sorry, Father.’ She went past them, through to the kitchen and put the box carefully on the table.
Father Malone would have understood, she thought, how in moments of great drama the mind takes refuge in little things. The letter unwritten, the word unspoken, the plum tart uneaten — these had their own poignancy.
‘I spoke somewhat sharply just now, Sister.’ Father Stephens hovered in the doorway. ‘When one is shocked one often says inappropriate things. Perhaps you would be kind enough to prepare some lunch? Afterwards I have to try to contact Miss Potter’s home. She shared a house with another schoolteacher so I assume her friend will be asked to identify her. A most unpleasant task.’
‘Did the police say how it could have happened?’
‘They assume she fell from the train. Some of these carriage doors fly open very easily.’
‘But the mutilations?’ To keep her hands steady she held them tightly together within the comfort of her wide sleeves.
‘She might have been caught by her clothing on the edge of the door and dragged. Naturally they’ll be making extensive enquiries.’
Nodding, he withdrew. She heard the slow, sombre tones of his voice speaking to Father Timothy as they went into the study.
It hadn’t been an accident. She was as sure of that as she was sure of anything in her life. Sylvia Potter had been killed. She had either been pushed from the train or attacked while she was travelling and thrown out on to the line. Someone had an interest in making sure that Mrs Fairly’s niece didn’t reach her destination.
She served the lunch, noticing that Father Timothy, apparently in response to a quelling glance from his fellow priest, ate the cheese salad and a slice of the plum tart without argument. Sister Joan stood in the kitchen, drinking the remains of the warmed-over tomato soup and munching on a tired looking pear, her eyes on the back window through which she could see the square of concrete paving on which the wheeled refuse bin stood. Had she done the right thing or should she have waited for the return of Detective Sergeant Mill and told him? Strictly speaking, yes, but she guessed that the police officer would have vetoed her plan, adding a few pertinent remarks about bumbling amateurs for good measure.
‘Sister, when you’ve washed up I’d like you to return to the convent.’ Father Stephens was in the doorway again.
‘I’m sorry if my work doesn’t satisfy you, Father.’ Her face had flushed.
‘It isn’t that at all, Sister. I have a number of books I promised to take up to Sister David for the purposes of her research. I shall be too busy this afternoon to take them and Father Timothy is taking the confirmation class for me, so if you don’t mind driving up there—?’
‘Of course not, Father. Sorry I was so prickly.’
‘Recent events have rendered us all a little on edge,’ he allowed. ‘Perhaps you would acquaint Mother Dorothy with the latest developments. They are not of direct concern to the community but she likes to be kept up to date on parish affairs.’
‘Yes, Father.’ She rolled up her sleeves and plunged her hands into the hot water, feeling a curious, contradictory tugging. It would be a relief to her own nerves to spend a few quiet hours back in the enclosure but since she couldn’t be in two places at once then the refuse bin would remain unwatched. Since there seemed no way round the quandary she decided to put it to the back of her mind. There was no point in fretting about something that couldn’t be altered, and in any case, she fancied that whoever would go to the bin acted under the cloak of darkness whenever possible.
The dishes washed and left to drain she put on her cloak and went out to the garage. Under the cloak she held Mrs Fairly’s handbag closely against her. Up at the convent she would have the opportunity to examine it more thoroughly without risk of being interrupted.
The presbytery car was nearly as dilapidated as the convent car. She drove with care up the street and turned on to the moorland track, feeling a sense of homecoming as she neared the schoolhouse, its windows now boarded up. Perhaps it would be wiser to examine the handbag here and then leave it somewhere for the police to pick up.
Suiting deed to thought she slowed, stopped, switched off the engine, and got out of the car. Around her the moor rose and dipped, the grass still winter short, the bracken brown and crackling. It was still cold but there was definitely spring on the way.
She sat down on a large tussock and opened the handbag again, taking out everything, turning it upside down and feeling round the lining for some tear that might conceal something. There was absolutely nothing beyond what she had already found. Certainly there was no reason why anybody should hide it in a refuse bin with the intention of retrieving it at a later date.
Nonplussed, she put back the contents, snapped it shut and got back into the car.
�
�Morning, Sister!’ Padraic Lee appeared suddenly from behind the schoolhouse.
‘Padraic, were you spying on me?’ She opened the door, tilting her head up at him.
‘Picking some wild garlic, Sister, over yonder. I told Sister Perpetua that I’d seen a patch and would get some for the messes she brews up. Garlic’s good for the heart and for winter colds. Bit of excitement down at the presbytery I hear.’
‘A very sad event,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Did you know Mrs Fairly?’
‘Not to speak to.’ He shook his head, the gold rings in his ears glinting. ‘She’s not like you nuns — too respectable to have truck with the Romanies.’
Sister Joan’s lips twitched at the backhanded compliment but she answered gravely, ‘It was a great shock to Father Stephens. Father Malone had already left on his pilgrimage. Unless it becomes absolutely necessary he won’t be informed yet.’
‘Luther’s in a bit of a taking.’ Padraic looked thoughtfully at his bundle of stalks and leaves. ‘Says he had no hand in the cutting of the trees.’
‘I’m quite sure that he didn’t,’ Sister Joan said decidedly.
‘But someone did.’ He cocked a black eyebrow at her.
‘Yes. Someone did.’ She frowned down at the shabby handbag.
‘And a respectable woman like Mrs Fairly doesn’t kill herself,’ Padraic said.
‘No. No, she doesn’t.’
‘Are the sisters carrying handbags these days?’ he asked.
‘One day your curiosity will get you into hot water,’ she said. ‘This is Mrs Fairly’s bag. I found it hidden in the refuse bin. There’s nothing unusual in it.’
‘Hidden? Not thrown away?’
‘I’m sure hidden. There’s nothing in it that’s suspicious or — I can’t work it out.’
‘Would you like me to keep the bag for you, Sister?’ he offered. ‘I can keep it in a safe place until the time comes for your wanting it again.’
‘Thank you, yes. That would be best, I think.’ She gave it to him with a feeling of relief. ‘Padraic, if anything happens—’
‘Like what?’
A VOW OF PENANCE an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 9