‘I know exactly what you mean, Father Stephens,’ she said feelingly and went into the dining-room to clear away.
Something had been said, something that didn’t tie in with something else that had been said — something so trivial that she couldn’t bring it to mind. She could only feel it waiting to come into the light of conscious memory.
Perhaps Detective Sergeant Mill was waiting about outside in the expectation of contriving to have a private word with her. The questions he had asked during his recent brief visit had struck her as fairly pointless, questions that Constable Petrie could equally well have asked while carrying out routine investigations. He had come, she decided, in order to plant the story of the police having found Mrs Fairly’s handbag, to divert attention from her own activities. Had he driven up to the convent and planted the same falsehood there? If she rang Sister Perpetua — she glanced at her watch and frowned. They would be in recreation now. Only Sister Teresa and Sister Jerome would be in the kitchen, and she could hardly start asking Sister Jerome since the lay sister might be the one Detective Sergeant Mill was trying to mislead.
She still had her penance to do. Or was that part of it all too? The vigil in the empty church could become a trap, she thought nervously. She went back into the kitchen, fished out the few notes she had made from the drawer and sat down with the pad on her knee. Father Timothy was a diabetic. Father Timothy had been escorted to the station by a Father Philip. Father Timothy had arrived with two suitcases. Father Philip had escorted him to the station, but not to catch the overnight train. Yet Father Timothy hadn’t arrived until just after Father Malone had left. Father Malone had mentioned something about that, something dropped into the brief farewell chat he had had with the community before he left on his sabbatical. Father Timothy had offered Mass at the convent and left without taking coffee with the sisters.
She thrust the pad back into the drawer. There was a thick exercise book beneath it with Household Accounts printed on a white label on the cover. Father Stephens had mentioned something about Mrs Fairly keeping regular accounts. Sister Joan drew it out and opened it, rifling through the conscientiously written lists of groceries with prices neatly marked and added at the sides. Mrs Fairly had taken pride in her efficiency. There was a newspaper cutting slipped into the most recent page, its edges jagged where it had been torn out. An old cutting, its print yellowish. For a moment she fancied it was the cutting she had seen and put with her pile ready for the scrap book but she had cut hers out neatly with scissors. This had been torn out and folded small as if it had been kept for a long time.
Local housewife gives Evidence, the headline read.
Underneath the accompanying photograph was the report:
Mrs Anne Fairly yesterday identified the teenager accused of vandalizing the woods near the Tarquin estate as John Moore, of Bodmin. Moore who has a history of mental illness was arrested and appeared in an identity parade. It is understood that he will be sent for trial at the Quarter Sessions. Moore, 19, has held only casual labouring jobs since being discharged from the Home for Disturbed Children three years ago. It is expected that if found guilty he will be referred for treatment.
And there was the photograph of a younger Mrs Fairly, standing outside the police station, and looking rather pleased at her sudden prominence.
Even twenty years before identity parades had been discreet affairs, but Anne Fairly had been pleased with her own public spirited action. She had allowed her name to be used, had posed smilingly for the local Press photographer. And twenty years later — Sister Joan put the cutting back into the Accounts book and returned everything to the drawer. From the bottom of the stairs Father Stephens called a goodnight. She heard her own voice answering him and the sound of his footsteps going up the stairs.
It was time, she thought, to begin her penance.
The church was dim and quiet. There was a comforting glow coming from the red sanctuary lamp and a scant half-dozen candles guttering on their spikes before the Lady Altar. At the back of the church the bulk of the confessional was black against the light stone of the baptismal font. She closed the sacristy door and stood in the deep shadow at the side of the High Altar, waiting.
The main door opened slowly and the greyish light of evening bisected the dark. The figure stood for a moment, then came in, letting the door swing back, one hand reaching into the holy water stoup for the ritual blessing. Rising from a genuflection, Father Timothy began to walk slowly down the main aisle.
‘Were you looking for me, Father?’ Sister Joan asked.
He had stopped short, his indrawn breath clearly audible in the silence. Then he said in his normally dry, stiff manner, ‘I came here to pray, Sister. You are here to do your penance, I assume?’
‘No, I’m not.’ She had clasped her hands tightly together but her voice was steady.
‘Oh?’ He sounded puzzled.
‘I’m not going to do that penance at all,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You had no right to hear my confession in the first place. You’re not an ordained priest.’
‘That’s a very foolish thing to say, Sister Joan.’ He sounded as if he were mildly disappointed in her.
‘Perhaps.’ She took a step forward. ‘Twenty years ago you were arrested for causing damage to the trees on the Tarquin estate and Mrs Fairly identified you. You were found guilty, weren’t you? Did they recommend psychiatric treatment?’
‘They didn’t understand,’ he said. ‘They didn’t appreciate that it was my duty to punish — they tried to make me believe that I was mentally unbalanced. I am not, of course, but they didn’t understand. Twenty years of in and out, in and out, one hospital after another, and nobody understood. There was no peace for me save in the cloister. It took years for me to reach that conclusion but when I did — oh, I became a model patient. I was released five years ago and I went north. I decided to train for the priesthood, you see. That would give me the authority I required to impose penance upon sinners. But it wasn’t any use. After only eighteen months they rejected me as unsuitable. Can you imagine that? They knew nothing of my background or my true history but they rejected me. Temperamentally unsuitable, Father Superior said. But he offered me a consolation prize. Oh, he very generously offered me a consolation prize. I could work at the seminary, do odd jobs, chop wood — that was very satisfying for me to see the splinters fly and the wood bleed sap.’
‘You knew Father Timothy?’
‘He had a late vocation as I did. Yes, I have a vocation whatever they might say! He was a nice person, rather shy and quiet, having to take insulin injections for his diabetes. He was a nice person. They let him become a priest, ordained him. Then he told me he was coming down here, to take over from Father Malone, coming to this very place where that bitch had identified me all those years ago! I had to come in his place, Sister. I came to pronounce sentence and to execute judgement. Oh, I had no thought of killing her. Not then.’
‘But you killed Father Timothy.’
‘It was an unfortunate necessity. I bore him no grudge. Father Philip escorted him to the station.’
‘But not on to the train?’
‘Father Philip wished to get back to the seminary so he parted from Father Timothy and went away. I was in the tunnel where the old siding runs. All I had to do was beckon Father Timothy just before he went on to the platform and he came across to me. I told him that I had a surprise for him. The first blow killed him. It wasn’t my intention to make him suffer at all. I was only wearing a raincoat and the instant he fell I stripped it off, stripped the body and then — it was very necessary that he shouldn’t be recognized, you see.’
‘And nobody saw anything at all?’
‘Why should they? The tunnel curves round along by the old disused bit of track. I washed my hands and the blade of the axe in the conduit — the water flows fast there, and it only took a few moments to change clothes with him, and then later to roll up the axe in the raincoat and put them into my suitcase. I
waited until it was darker before I got a luggage trolley and wheeled the body further down the track. There were no railway officials about. There seldom are these days, you know. When the next train came in I simply boarded it. Very simple indeed.’
‘Yes,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I nearly didn’t kill Mrs Fairly,’ he was continuing. ‘She had done her penance for betraying me, with her husband dying and no children to carry on his name. I really did intend to spare her. After all it was twenty years ago and I’ve changed very much during the intervening years. Yes, I intended to spare her, but it wasn’t any use. She kept looking at me, looking as if she were trying to remember. I knew it was only a matter of time. And there wasn’t any time. I had to act very swiftly. When Father Stephens invited me to accompany him on a late evening walk I went back for my coat. I’d been right to be cautious. Mrs Fairly was on the telephone in the study, making an appointment to meet with someone. I had the tablets — my own supply of Valium — already crushed up. I’d noticed that she took sugar in her tea and Father Stephens didn’t, so I merely emptied the tablets into the sugar bowl. One has to be prepared at all times for every eventuality. Not that I expected her to drink all the tea! Sufficient to make her a little dizzy would suit me very well. I rejoined Father Stephens and we took our walk but the weather threatened storm so we came in quite soon. Mrs Fairly was just going upstairs with her tea tray. Father Stephens made a jesting comment, enquiring if she had had her tipple. We went upstairs almost at once. I waited about fifteen minutes, then went into Mrs Fairly’s room. She had drunk some of the tea and clearly noticed the odd taste because she was sitting up in her bed, grimacing, looking into her cup. I had Father Timothy’s syringe with me and all I had to do was grab her wrist and inject. She went into convulsions almost immediately. Fortunately Father Stephens had switched on his radio and I could hear the strains of music coming from his room. He heard nothing.’
‘You took the handbag?’
‘I snatched it up because it occurred to me that Mrs Fairly had very likely kept any clippings relating to the case. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to her in her entire life! There wasn’t time to look carefully — I feared Father Stephens might leave his room to visit the toilet or something, so I took it to my room and had a cursory glance inside it, but I was feeling rather tired by then. Killing someone is rather exhausting, you know, so I wrapped it round in brown paper and popped it into the refuse bin. That was early the next morning before I went up to the convent to offer Mass. I would have put it back in Mrs Fairly’s room but Father Stephens was up and about and the opportunity didn’t arise.’
‘You damaged the tree at the convent,’ Sister Joan said.
It was important to keep him talking, to keep the words flowing out of him in a long stream of self-justification.
‘Very early on the morning that I arrived. I caught the overnight train and walked up to the convent. That was my first task, you see. To wreak vengeance on the wood. I left my luggage down at the station, then walked back to town and sat in the waiting-room. I didn’t want to interrupt Father Malone’s leave-taking.’
‘And after Mrs Fairly died?’
‘Oh, I hoped that would be the end of it,’ he said. ‘I had my parish duties to fulfil. But no action exists in isolation, does it? Mrs Fairly had been talking on the telephone to somebody. It might have been her niece. And her niece was coming here. She might enquire about the handbag. She might enquire about me!’ He sounded aggrieved at the possibility.
‘Mrs Fairly’s niece was killed on the train,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Oh, that was easy enough.’ In the uncertain light he seemed to be smiling. ‘I got a lift to the next station and when the train came I ran along looking for the young woman who resembled the schoolgirl in the photograph in Mrs Fairly’s room. I have a much better memory for faces than most people. She was on her own in a compartment and I opened the door and asked her if she was Mrs Fairly’s niece. She said she was and I simply boarded the train. She’d no suspicions of a priest at all. She even bent down to get a handkerchief out of her bag and I only needed to give her one blow. The train did the rest when I opened the door and thrust her out. That was quite dangerous. I almost fell out myself, but God protects His own. I alighted from the train when it reached Bodmin and resumed my waiting on the platform. I was extremely fortunate because she was on the earlier train. I might have had to look for her on the later ones, and then someone might have noticed me.’
‘And Stephanie Hugh?’ She spoke carefully, quietly.
‘They kept on coming, you see.’ He spoke peevishly. ‘First the niece and then her friend. I couldn’t be sure. The niece might have mentioned the aunt’s phone call to her friend and the friend would start asking questions. And I had no idea what she looked like, no idea at all! Then I hit upon rather a neat scheme. Father Stephens had jotted down her telephone number so I simply rang her up and asked her to come down on an earlier train. I was due to take the confirmation class in the afternoon so I was cutting it very fine, but I met her at the station and suggested the short cut through the walkway. It leads to the car park.’
‘Where you put her in the boot of the convent car.’
‘Another stroke of luck! The lay sister — Sister Jerome was just walking away from it as we emerged from the walkway. I had meant to deliver the blow there, but Miss Hugh was quite a hefty looking young woman. I said to her, “Ah! Sister promised to leave me some of her potted jam in the boot”, and we went over. The boot was unlocked. We bent over and — oh, it was very swift and clean. Not a soul to see me and God helping me every step of the way!’
‘And then you went off to the confirmation class?’ It was difficult to keep the horrified disbelief out of her voice.
‘I must carry out my parish duties,’ he said primly. ‘The deaths were an unhappy necessity. Even you must see that, Sister. And it hasn’t been easy for me — having to settle into the routine of parochial life and track down these women and then there was the syringe to be buried.’
‘You didn’t bury the axe,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I meant to do so, but then I saw Sister Jerome in her place when I was officiating at the early Mass. She was the nun I’d seen walking away from the car. I waited until the sisters had left the chapel and gone to breakfast and then I put the axe under her seat. I had wiped it very carefully first, of course, and brought it with me in my bag along with my vestments and stole. I was always very neat.’
‘But why do you damage trees and plants anyway?’ she asked, bewilderment almost overcoming her fear. ‘What harm did they ever do you?’
‘They don’t do penance,’ he said tightly. ‘Have you never noticed, Sister, that in the season of Lent when the world prepares to mourn the death of Our Lord the plants start to spring up in defiance. Flowers, bushes, trees, all springing into life, not caring that Good Friday is on the way? Everything must do penance, you know. We can’t make exceptions.’
He had neither axe nor syringe but he must have something else or he’d not have spoken so freely.
‘They do know about you,’ she said. ‘The police are making enquiries at the seminary. Father Timothy will be identified, you know. You may have killed him, taken his clothes, brought his suitcase along with your own, but he’ll be identified, probably has been already. And you’re not a diabetic, are you? The man who died was and that only applies to Father Timothy.’
‘Oh, the police are very clever,’ he agreed. ‘They found the handbag and put a box in its place. I really thought you were the one who’d done that, Sister. I suspected you of setting a trap for me of some kind. However it makes no difference. I must continue with my work until the last possible moment. The whole world must be brought to penance.’
Yes, he had something else. Against the dark cloth of his garments she caught a glimpse of a long, thin blade.
‘They will lock you up for the rest of your life,’ she said. ‘They won’t
accept the reasons you give. I don’t accept them! You destroy things because it gives you pleasure and that has nothing to do with being good. It has everything to do with being evil and cruel. So don’t try to force me to do what you’re pleased to call penance. You don’t know the first thing about it!’
She had raised her voice, partly because she was shivering with nervous excitement and needed to assert herself, partly because she had sensed rather than seen a slight movement at the back of the church, more a shifting of the darkness than anything.
‘You be quiet!’ he ordered thickly. ‘Do your penance. I ordered you to—’
‘Sorry, but you’ve no authority to order me to do anything.’ She tensed herself, preparing to fling herself sideways if he leapt forwards. ‘You’ve no authority over anyone or anything. You can’t damage all the trees in the world or kill all the people who might remember you. You’ve failed before you’ve even begun.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ His voice was low, thin and sharp as the blade of the knife he was holding. ‘Have you no respect for the priesthood?’
‘Every respect,’ she said scornfully, ‘but you’re no priest. Dressing up in another man’s clothes can’t turn you into another person. That makes you stupid, and I’ve no respect for that either. So you stay here and play your sick little games. I don’t have to take any notice of you.’
The darkness split into shadows and she flung herself aside as the sharp point of light that was the tip of the blade glittered downwards and at the same instant every light in the church was switched on, dazzling them in its radiance.
She had landed heavily at the side of the altar, wedged between steps and the door of the sacristy. John Moore was struggling in the grip of two policemen, his face contorted, unintelligible sounds hissing from his mouth. The knife arched towards the floor and stuck, quivering, in the thick pad of a kneeling hassock.
A VOW OF PENANCE an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 18