A Vow Of Chastity

by Veronica Black

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy. They took down all the details.’

  ‘We will pray that there is a happy result. Boys do sometimes wander off and think it a great adventure,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘But these days — the world sometimes seems to me to be regressing into barbarism. Is something else on your mind, Sister Joan?’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother,’ Sister Joan said simply.

  ‘Yet you hesitate to confide in me. No, don’t jerk your chin at me in that undutiful manner. It is a most eloquent chin but it cannot alter facts. I am well aware that since you came to us last year you have found it difficult to accept me as prioress instead of your former prioress in your mother house. Mother Agnes is a woman of subtle and godly gifts, Sister. If the rest of us find it difficult to live up to her high standards then you must bear with us.’

  ‘Mother Dorothy, I never meant to imply—’ Sister Joan began, horrified.

  ‘I was elected as prioress because, I suspect, the community felt that a practical person was required here. This entire convent was tipping over into hysterical nonsense. You helped to bring it to an end for which we owe you gratitude, but it must be sometimes a temptation to wish for more excitement, a cause, a white horse to ride. You do not talk over problems with your superior because you like her personally. You do so as a matter of obedience.’

  ‘I took action without asking first for permission,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘There is an American term, I believe,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘So tell me something new — that is how it goes. What is your latest misdemeanour, Sister Joan?’

  ‘When I’d made the report to the police I made a telephone call. I ought to have returned first to the convent and asked for permission, but I didn’t.’

  ‘Whom did you telephone?’

  ‘This number. I think it’s a lodging house — in London. The Olives’ au pair was staying there before she came into Cornwall. She left the Olives’ employment suddenly — their little girl, Samantha, told me she disappeared in the middle of the night. I wanted to be sure she was all right — in view of Petroc’s also being missing.’

  ‘Where did you obtain the telephone number?’

  ‘From the Agency in town, while Sister Hilaria was in the dentist’s. The woman in the office gave me Kiki Svenson’s home address in Sweden and her London lodging.’

  ‘You certainly didn’t sit idle while Sister Hilaria was being treated, did you?’ Mother Dorothy said dryly. ‘What was the result of your enquiry?’

  ‘The landlady said that Kiki Svenson left a couple of months ago, saying she’d be back if she didn’t like it in Cornwall. She paid an extra month’s rent and left a few of her things there. Since then she hasn’t heard a word.’

  ‘And the Olives’ child told you that the girl had left in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I suppose either Mr or Mrs Olive could have driven her to the station,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but there aren’t any trains in the middle of the night. Even if there’d been a quarrel of some kind she’d surely have waited until morning.’

  ‘To a child, nine in the evening can seem like the middle of the night.’

  ‘Samantha is eleven and very bright, Mother. She didn’t see the girl leave. She told me that she disappeared “just like Petroc Lee” she said.’

  ‘Because she makes a completely unsubstantial connection between the two events is no reason for us to fall into the same error,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘However, it does appear to me that the girl seems to have left rather abruptly and her not going to pick up her things is worrying. Did you say anything to the police?’

  ‘No, Mother Dorothy.’

  ‘Very wise of you. There is no point in starting rumours when there will probably be a perfectly simple explanation. I shall write express to Miss Svenson’s home address, asking her to contact me if she is at home. No, Sister, there is no use in glancing hopefully towards the telephone. Ringing up Sweden is not allowed for in the community budget. An express letter will serve the purpose. Did you leave a message at the lodging house?’

  ‘I asked that she ring the convent as soon as she returned, Mother.’

  ‘Then you seem to have done everything necessary, Sister. You behaved impetuously, but I would not like you to think that obedience completely precludes any independence of thought or action. You visited the Olives with Sister Margaret, did you not? What were your impressions?’

  ‘They’ve taken the old Druid place, Mother. Julia Olive is very elegant, about my age, rather languid in manner. Her husband, Clive Olive, came in briefly. He is older than her, has a built-up shoe — possibly a club foot. He is writing a book, he said. They were both very pleasant, obviously good parents. Samantha is always nicely dressed and punctual. The au pair brings her to school and picks her up.’

  ‘Who brings her now?’

  ‘The new au pair. It — he is a young man, part Dutch, part German. Very beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful, Sister Joan?’

  ‘Sister Hilaria saw him when we went by on our way to the dentist. She remarked that he looked like Lucifer.’

  ‘One trusts that dear Sister Hilaria was speaking metaphorically,’ Mother Dorothy observed, her eyebrows shooting up. ‘I would not like to think that any of our order had a first-hand knowledge of that gentleman. You didn’t mention the former au pair to anyone else?’

  ‘No, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘You obtained the — er trousers for riding?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mother. And there’s five pounds change,’ Sister Joan remembered, delving into her purse.

  ‘Thank you, Sister. Now I suggest that you try to put all of this out of your mind and go to your religious studies. What line are you pursuing at the moment?’

  ‘The history of the rosary devotion, Mother.’

  ‘Meditate upon the rule, child. Poverty, chastity, obedience and compassion — the four branches of our order. They must be held in balance. Think about them. Think about them positively — and Sister, at general confession you need not mention the telephone call. Your last confession was quite sufficiently startling. Our two postulants sat there with the most peculiar expressions on their faces.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ Kneeling for the brisk blessing, she was emboldened to add, ‘May I apologize for my lack of candour?’

  ‘Which was inadvertent, I’m sure. Thank you, Sister Joan.’

  Put Petroc Lee and Kiki Svenson out of your mind and concentrate on your religious duties, she instructed herself firmly as she made her way to her cell.

  Peace reigned over the convent. Seated cross-legged on the floor, Sister Joan dragged her mind back to the implications of the rule for the community as a whole, for each individual nun.

  The bell tinkled for Benediction. Filing into chapel with the others she clung to the illusion of tranquillity. After Benediction, supper, with the promised soup and an omelette. Sister Hilaria looked better after her rest. The reading was from a study of Saint Mary Magdalene. The sinner turned saint, according to tradition. Love wasn’t always sexual even between human beings. It could be transcended. Hagar and Petroc swimming in the pool. ‘A dirty house,’ Sister Margaret had said. It had been neat and tidy, if overheated. Evil crawling.

  She jerked from a momentary doze as Sister Perpetua closed the book with a little bang.

  They filed into the big recreation room, clutching their sewing and knitting. Mother Dorothy had joined them, keeping the conversation on a light note, not touching on the disappearance of the child. There was more to her prioress than she had yet appreciated, she decided, and found herself smiling.

  ‘Such an amusing little anecdote,’ Sister Martha was saying. ‘It was in the book about the child saints. I wish I could recall it properly.’

  ‘Shall I get the book for you from the library, Sister?’ Sister Joan offered.

  It was not entirely a charitable gesture. Sitting still with a half-finished scarf dangling from the needles was not her notion of a wildly amusing occupa
tion.

  ‘That would be kind, Sister. You know the book I mean.’ Sister Martha whose feet were hurting smiled her gratitude.

  ‘Reverend Mother, Sisters, please excuse me for one moment.’ Putting down the despised knitting she hurried out, down the stairs, across the hall into the chapel passage known officially as the cloister though it wasn’t one. The light had almost faded and the sanctuary lamp in the chapel glowed like a beacon.

  She turned to the altar, genuflected, was frozen into the kneeling pose as if she had been turned to stone.

  Petroc lay below the altar on the wide step, arms crossed and eyes closed, a slim young knight who had never ridden into battle. His jeans and sweater were dark in the glow of the sanctuary lamp. For an instant there flared the wild hope that he would jump up and shout, ‘Boo, Sister Joan! Did I give you a fright?’

  He didn’t move. Rising unsteadily, moving with slow, reluctant steps towards the altar, she knew even before she touched his hand that he would never move again.

  Eight

  ‘Reverend Mother, may I speak with you privately?’

  She had waited a moment or two to compose herself before returning to the recreation room.

  Mother Dorothy shot one keen glance at her face and rose at once, her voice brisk and ordinary.

  ‘Sister David, please go on with what you were saying. Excuse me, Sisters.’ Outside, the door closed, she asked in a lower voice, ‘What is it, Sister? You look exceedingly pale.’

  ‘Petroc Lee is lying below the altar, Mother. He’s — he’s dead.’

  The Prioress wasted no time on further questioning. She turned and went swiftly down the stairs, Sister Joan at her heels.

  The latter had the sudden thought that this incident might be like the brief disappearance of the crucifix again. Perhaps Petroc wouldn’t be there when they entered the chapel.

  Petroc was still there, lying in exactly the same position. Mother Dorothy bent over him and straightened, her own face whitening.

  ‘You haven’t touched anything?’

  ‘No, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Remain here. I will tell the others to stay in the recreation room, send Sister Margaret down to keep you company and then telephone the police. I fear the grand silence will have to be postponed tonight.’

  She sketched the sign of the cross over the boy and went out. Sister Joan knelt, automatically beginning to whisper the prayers for the dead while her mind wrestled with shock and outrage. Someone had carried the boy here, left him for the sisters to find when they came into chapel for evening prayers and the blessing. Who?

  ‘Sister Joan, Reverend Mother just told me — oh, the poor child! Is this—?’

  ‘Petroc Lee,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Someone laid him here.’ Sister Margaret’s round face was distressed. ‘I hope it was not done in mockery. Shall we pray, Sister?’

  For a quicksilver lad who had swum and splashed in a willow-fringed pool, for a child of twelve whom someone had killed and brought here.

  ‘Sister Margaret.’ The Prioress had returned. ‘The police are on their way. I have informed the other sisters that a great tragedy has occurred and instructed them to remain in the recreation room in case they are needed for questioning. The prayers and blessing and subsequently the grand silence will be accordingly delayed. Will you brew some very strong sweet tea? I feel it may be beneficial. Oh, I have sent Sister Hilaria over to the postulants’ house, to tell them to join the other sisters at recreation. I fear it is necessary to bend the rules a trifle at a time like this.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ Sister Margaret hurried out, with a last shocked and sorrowing glance towards the altar.

  ‘Is there anything you want me to do, Mother Dorothy?’ Sister Joan felt herself taut as an arrow, ready for flight.

  ‘I think that you had better remain here until the police arrive. Then come to the parlour. I shall place it at their disposal. As you made the report your presence will doubtless be required.’

  Sister Joan nodded and sank again to her knees, bowing her head, waiting for shock to be transmuted into anger and grief. Grief for a young life cut short, anger against whoever had done this deed.

  Outside, cars disturbed the quiet of the evening. She rose, turning to face the Prioress who entered with two policemen. They passed her and bent over the still figure.

  ‘We shall require photographs,’ the taller of the two said, lowering his voice slightly as if he paid tribute to the fact he was in a chapel. ‘I would like this section closed off until it has been thoroughly searched.’

  ‘The library and store rooms are above.’ Mother Dorothy indicated the spiral stairs by the Lady Altar. ‘The door that leads into the visitors’ parlour is kept unlocked. It communicates with the garden and with the chapel. That door there by the confessional.’

  ‘Is it always kept unlocked?’ There was a tinge of criticism in his tone.

  ‘It has always been the custom, officer. This convent is remote and we have nothing of material value here. If anyone should seek the consolation of private devotion it is not for me to bar the doors against them.’

  ‘Maybe so, Sister, but not locking the door in this day and age is asking for trouble,’ he retorted.

  ‘I am Mother Dorothy, not Sister. This is Sister Joan.’

  ‘You were down at the station earlier today. Making a report about the missing lad and having your fingerprints taken.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘And you found the body? Sis — Mother Dorothy, the quicker we start the quicker we can be finished. If you have a room you can make available—?’

  ‘The parlour will suit your purpose, officer.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mill, Mother Dorothy.’ He pointed the correction delicately, gave the body a long, considering look and went out.

  The two nuns followed, one small and upright in her grey habit, the other small and bent in the purple habit that denoted her position as prioress. She would remain as superior for another four years, possible nine years since it was permissible to serve two consecutive terms. After that she would be Sister Dorothy again, with only a purple ribbon to remind her of past authority. It was better to think of that rather than of the camera and fingerprinting equipment being carried through from the main hall as they went through to the parlour.

  ‘This will do very nicely, Mother Dorothy.’ Detective Sergeant Mill gave the large room a glance of approval.

  ‘I have asked our lay sister, Sister Margaret, to brew tea for everybody. The other sisters are in the recreation room with our two postulants in case you wish to call any of them.’

  ‘I’ll probably have a word with them en masse‚’ he said, settling at the Prioress’s desk.

  ‘About the chapel—?’ Mother Dorothy looked enquiring.

  ‘We’ll be finished there in about an hour. The body will be removed for examination. After that you can hold your prayers, whatever.’

  How quickly a living boy became a body. Sister Joan, catching a wincing look on the Prioress’s face, knew they shared the same thought.

  Sister Margaret came in with a tray of tea, put it on the desk, and withdrew. Her eyelids were reddened as if she had shed a few tears. Sister Joan wished she could burst into tears, but her eyes were dry, her throat tight.

  ‘I think it will be useful to begin at the beginning,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said, unscrewing a ballpoint pen and nodding to his fellow officer who did the same. Both men had taken out their notebooks. ‘I’d like the two of you to stay.’

  ‘Be so kind as to pour the tea, Sister Joan and then sit down.’ Mother Dorothy seated herself.

  Doing as she had been bade, she concentrated on keeping her hands steady.

  ‘This is the Order of the Daughters of Compassion?’

  ‘Founded in 1942 by a laywoman called Marie Van Lowen, a Dutchwoman who was martyred at Dachau — the concentration camp,’ Mother Dorothy added.

  ‘I’ve heard of it. Ho
w many convents are there?’

  ‘Of this order? Two in Holland and three in England and two in the mission field. We are not a large order.’

  ‘Well, let’s get a list of everybody in this convent. You’re the Prioress?’

  ‘I am Reverend Mother Dorothy. I have been prioress for a year and have four more years to serve.’

  The other officer moved from his place at the end of the desk to murmur a few words in his senior officer’s ear.

  ‘I wasn’t here then.’ Detective Sergeant Mill looked up again. ‘There was an — incident at this convent last year. My predecessor dealt with it. This isn’t connected?’

  ‘I am certain that it isn’t, but you will be able to check the notes your predecessor made.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’ His tone was as dry as her own. ‘I shall require ages and surnames.’

  ‘We relinquish our surnames when we enter the order,’ she said repressively. ‘We keep our baptised names unless they are wildly unsuitable. Age is surely a private matter.’

  ‘The boy was carried into the chapel.’ He tapped the end of his pen on the desk.

  ‘Not by one of my community, Sergeant!’

  ‘I hope not, Mother Dorothy.’

  ‘I am fifty-seven,’ she said. ‘As you may have noticed I have a bad back — disc trouble. I doubt if I could have carried him. The surnames you will have to wait to receive. It will be necessary for me to look them up.’

  ‘How many sisters are there here?’ he asked.

  ‘Apart from myself there are eight fully professed sisters, one who has not yet made her final profession, a lay sister and two postulants.’

  ‘Their names?’ The pen was poised again.

  ‘Sister David is our librarian. She is in her mid-thirties, small and short-sighted; she acts also as my secretary. She also translates manuscripts from the Latin as her contribution to the finances of the community. Each of our houses is self-supporting.’

  ‘And Sister Joan here?’ He nodded in her direction.

  ‘I joined this community last year,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’m thirty-six and I teach at the small school on the moors.’