A Vow Of Chastity
Page 15
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘Sister Margaret cannot remember where she lost her rosary which is a pity but one cannot force these things. She had noticed the links in the chain were weak but, mindful of our vow of holy poverty, had delayed reporting the matter.’
The words ‘false economy’ hovered in the air but were not spoken.
‘I rang up the police station and spoke to Detective Sergeant Mill. He undertook to return the rosary to Sister Margaret, and said that your help had been invaluable to him.’
‘I doubt if it was,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He was merely being polite.’
‘I told him that if he required your assistance again you had my permission to co-operate in any way he deemed necessary.’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’ Sister Joan wondered if it would do any good at all to ask that she be excused from any such co-operation. Probably not.
‘Not a very respectful or religious man,’ Mother Dorothy was continuing, ‘but it is always a mistake to judge a book by its cover. Possibly contact with our community will be of benefit to him. The study period is almost upon us. Are you meditating on the four branches of the rule? An essay at some future period might be of help to Sister Hilaria for her postulants. She is often short of new material.’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘I suspect,’ said Mother Dorothy unexpectedly, ‘that you find it strange I should have retained so unworldly a person as novice mistress.’
‘She isn’t very practical,’ Sister Joan said, startled into candour.
‘Sister Hilaria lives already half in the next world,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘It is of inestimable benefit to the postulants to be exposed to such holiness early in their religious lives. It is also of benefit to Sister Hilaria to have the company of lively young girls whose problems and personalities tie her more closely to earth. She has the gift of reading souls, Sister Joan, a rare and valuable accomplishment in the religious life. Stand a postulant — stand anyone in front of Sister Hilaria and she will tell you the innermost heart of that person. And she is completely modest about it, believing that any of us could do the same with a little effort. So an essay from you will help her in her duties. Now you had better get to your studies. Tomorrow is Saturday so you will have the weekend in which to concentrate on your spiritual duties.’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother. I was wondering—’ Sister Joan hesitated. ‘Is Petroc to be buried on Monday? If so then it would be a mark of respect to close the school.’
‘I have already asked Detective Sergeant Mill to inform the parents there will be no school on Monday, the day of the funeral. You and I will attend the requiem — also Sister David who has connections with the school since she was the teacher there before you joined us. Father Stephen is very kindly giving us a lift as Father Malone will be conducting the service. Oh, the child’s father will be there. Detective Sergeant Mill informed me that he had, as he termed it, pulled a few strings and the man’s sentence is to be commuted immediately on compassionate grounds.’
‘That was very nice of him!’
‘As I said we ought not to judge a book by its cover. Thank you, Sister.’
Sister Joan collected some paper from the library and went to her cell. Writing an essay for the benefit of the postulants was a daunting task. How could she honestly explore her own thoughts and feelings when whatever she wrote would end up as instruction for the postulants? Her fingers ached for brush and palette, for the means to express her thoughts in vivid, living colours and shapes that leapt from the canvas.
‘If I can’t be the best then I won’t settle for mediocrity,’ she had told Jacob.
‘I’d say that made more sense than burying your talents completely in a convent‚’ he’d answered.
‘They won’t be buried. Our skills will be used in the service of the community.’
‘If the Mother Superior so decrees. So give up any idea of marrying me but don’t stifle everything else in yourself.’
‘I would marry you, Jacob, but you want your children to be Jewish and I’d want them to be baptised.’
‘I want you to be happy,’ he’d said with the disarming gentleness that shook her resolve.
But her resolve had held, right through her lonely and doubt-ridden postulancy to the moment when, clad in white, she had lain spread-eagled before the flower-filled altar, making her vows, and not known until hours later that in the joy of that bonding she had not even paused to wonder if Jacob were present.
Chastity she wrote swiftly, is not confined to the celibate though the vow of chastity we take when we enter the religious life includes celibacy. But that celibacy need not be a barren denial of life. It can be the raising of our instincts into a freer, wider, more universal loving. Other women vow to love one man. We vow to love all mankind through the merits of —
Mankind was Petroc, playing in the water, of the innocence of an adolescence that had been cruelly cut short. Mankind was someone who had arranged to meet that little boy and coldly, callously, given him his death potion. Her written words seemed glib and facile when she read them over.
Filing into chapel with the rest of the community at the end of the study period she noticed that Sister David was back. Evidently nothing untoward had happened in school. Indeed the day’s activities and the long walk across the moor had brought a pink glow to the other’s cheeks. It would be a courtesy to ask if Sister David might help out more often in the future. A way too of distancing herself from the children in preparation for the time when the school would finally be closed down and the pupils be allotted to schools in Bodmin.
Father Stephen had come to give Benediction. He was a tall, thin young man with, according to Father Malone, ambitions to end up as a bishop.
‘Or a cardinal, God save us all!’ Father Malone had said in his dry manner. ‘And the boy only just ordained. Optimism is a wonderful thing.’
Father Stephen was reputed to be clever. Sister Joan reflected that it was more fitting that little Father Malone would be offering the requiem mass. Father Malone hadn’t learned any new theology since his training in the seminary as a young man, but his inarticulate sympathy with the bereaved and troubled savoured of more true godliness. Hastily she reminded herself that it wasn’t her place to criticize the local curate and bowed her head again.
Father Stephen departed, looking faintly relieved as he always did. She suspected that the overwhelmingly female aura of the convent discomposed him, unlike Father Malone who liked a bit of a gossip when the service was over.
When this is all over, she decided, I will ask permission to spend the summer holidays in retreat.
Supper was spaghetti, a dish she had never much liked unless it were consumed in a trattoria with a bottle of good red wine. She wound the slippery strands around her fork and imagined lashings of pesto sauce while Sister Katherine finished the book about the Magdalene, her pretty face tense with nerves for of all things she dreaded her turn at reading aloud.
At recreation, the slow-growing knitting in her hand, she listened to Sister David rattling on about her day at the school —
‘—really I had forgotten how tiring the profession is. But the children were very good. Quite apart from the present sad circumstances I am sure that Sister Joan has established discipline among them in a way that I never could.’
Sister Joan hastened to disclaim the compliment. ‘They’ve been good ever since term began. If I knew the recipe for it I’d bottle it.’
‘Speaking of which—’ Sister Perpetua leaned forward, reddish eyebrows working. ‘There is a rumour that after this evening’s culinary demonstration the postulants are going to be let loose in the kitchen to cook the evening meal. I hope Reverend Mother can dispel the rumour else I shall have to lay in extra stocks of bicarbonate of soda.’
Her little joke made she uttered a sharp bark of laughter and was silent.
‘The postulants may turn out to be very good cooks,’ Mother Dorothy said, smiling sl
ightly. ‘However you need not fret, Sister. They will help Sister Margaret only when their spiritual duties permit. Sister Katherine, your reading tonight was most eloquent. I find myself always so deeply moved by the recognition in the garden. Grief transmuted into the promise of resurrection.’
‘I wonder if that poor child thought of that when he was dying,’ Sister Martha murmured, sounding unwontedly cross.
‘The child’s funeral is to take place on Monday,’ Mother Dorothy said, picking up the subject but ignoring the comment. ‘Sister Joan and Sister David will accompany me to the requiem mass and to the funeral service. I think that on that morning private prayers for all the faithful departed should be the burden of our devotions.’
Conversation languished. It was difficult to make pleasant little jokes and sprightly conversation when the murder of a child hung on the air.
‘It is time for chapel.’ Mother Dorothy folded up her own work and put it into the canvas bag. ‘The grand silence has already been delayed on one evening this week. I’d not wish to repeat the fault.’
Hardly a fault, Sister Joan thought, putting away her own knitting with relief, since reporting the finding of Petroc’s body couldn’t be left until the following morning. At least Mother Dorothy hadn’t mentioned that the grand silence had also been broken earlier on in the week.
‘The battery’s running out in my hearing aid,’ Sister Gabrielle was grumbling.
‘I’ll get it for you, Sister. Sister Teresa is helping Sister Mary Concepta,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I can see that perfectly well,’ Sister Gabrielle enjoined her irritably. ‘That’s why I mentioned it to you.’
Sister Joan turned in the direction of the infirmary where the spare battery would be in Sister Gabrielle’s locker.
Coming out with it in her hand she almost bumped into Sister Hilaria who was escorting her charges out of the kitchen. With their dark blue smocks and white bonnets they both looked like a pair of wooden dolls clad in peasant costume. From the kitchen the scent of baking wafted.
‘We have been Marthas,’ said Sister Hilaria. ‘I fear that my cake didn’t turn out very successfully — I beat the mixture for too long.’
The postulants, cheeks scarlet from the heat of the oven and eyes lowered, had primmed up their young mouths, in an effort, Sister Joan suspected, not to giggle. She wanted to reassure them that giggling was not a mortal sin, but the rule forbade her to speak to them save under the most extreme necessity.
‘Is it prayers already?’ Sister Margaret emerged, pulling off her apron and looking flustered. ‘I am all upside down and back to front today. Sister Hilaria said something that suddenly caused me to remember — but it must wait until tomorrow.’
‘Sister Margaret!’
The lay sister had hurried past her, composing her face, anxious not to break any more rules.
‘Remembered what, Sister?’ Sister Joan persisted, catching her up in the corridor.
‘The dirt and my broken beads,’ Sister Margaret hissed. ‘So clear now, and yet I still cannot believe—’
‘When you are quite ready, Sister Margaret — Sister Joan, we will begin evening prayers,’ Mother Dorothy said icily from the door.
And after the prayers the blessing and the grand silence folding them round. She had expected to dream but her sleep was empty of images, a peaceful blackness out of which she rose into the consciousness of morning.
Dawn or the middle of the night? Her senses told her the former but the sound of a rhythmic snoring from the cell next to her own hinted at the latter. She sat up and groped for her slippers and dressing-gown, padded to the door and opened it. The dim light from the corridor illumined the tiny hands of her fob watch. 5.15? No bell for rising had sounded which could only mean that Sister Margaret had spent rather too long chatting to her Dear Lord.
Another door opened further along the passage and Sister Perpetua stuck out her night-capped-head, hissing, ‘It’s terribly late. Grand silence should have been over fifteen minutes ago. Run down and find out what on earth Sister Margaret thinks she is doing, if you please, Sister.’
Sister Joan tied the cord of her dressing-gown, adjusted her own nightcap, and went swiftly across the landing and down the staircase. Outside she could hear the first twittering of the birds.
‘Sister Margaret?’ She risked a low call as she went along the chapel corridor. Not much of a risk, since from above she caught the sounds of other doors opening, of muffled whispers.
The chapel was empty. Having expected to see Sister Margaret there she paused, biting her lip. Above the altar the crucifix glowed softly in the light from the sanctuary lamp. Flanked by — only one candlestick? What had happened to the other one?
A draught of air blew with sudden strength and the door leading to the visitors’ parlour banged.
She crossed the chapel in two strides, wrenching open the door that should have been closed, almost tripping over Sister Margaret who lay, head at an unnatural angle, coif and veil half torn from her head, not moving. Never moving again.
Eleven
‘This seems to be getting to be a habit with you, Sister Joan.’ Detective Sergeant Mill spoke in a quizzical tone that didn’t blend with the sombre atmosphere of the parlour where he sat at Mother Dorothy’s desk with his partner at a side table. Raising indignant blue eyes she met his considering gaze and repressed the reply on the tip of her tongue.
‘Sister Joan went down to find out why Sister Margaret had not rung the rising bell,’ the Prioress said coldly.
‘At a quarter past five?’ He consulted his notes.
Sister Joan nodded.
‘You went immediately to the chapel?’
‘Sister Margaret rose at about 4.30 and went into the chapel to pray before waking the community. I went in and noticed at once that a candlestick was missing from the altar. Then the door leading to the visitors’ parlour banged. I opened it and—’
‘The outside door was open?’
‘Yes, but it was locked last evening. After evening prayers Sister Margaret went to lock it and then rejoined the rest of us as we filed out.’
‘The candlestick was on the altar during the evening prayers?’
‘Definitely. We would have noticed immediately had it not been,’ Mother Dorothy said.
‘The outer door showed no sign of having been forced,’ the detective sergeant said.
‘There are two keys. I keep one myself and Sister Margaret had the other. As you know we have only just begun to lock the outer door at night. It doesn’t appear,’ said Mother Dorothy with a note of gloomy satisfaction in her voice, ‘to have done any good.’
‘The only prints on the handle are those of Sister Margaret herself‚’ he told them. ‘The key wasn’t in the lock but apparently still on her key ring.’
‘Which is attached to her belt by a fairly long chain‚’ Mother Dorothy pointed out. ‘The keys were then slipped into her pocket. It wasn’t necessary for her to detach any from the chain in order to open a door.’
‘And she would have opened the door if anyone had knocked for admittance?’
‘I suppose so, but who would come knocking at the door before five in the morning?’
‘The killer‚’ he said bluntly.
‘Coming to kill Sister Margaret — one of the other sisters? Why? What possible motive could there be?’
‘Mother Dorothy, last night before we went into chapel for prayers Sister Margaret said that she had remembered — I took it to mean that she recalled where she had lost her rosary‚’ Sister Joan said. ‘There was no time for her to say more. We were almost late for chapel. Oh, and she said something about having to think about it until the morning. But the — person who killed her couldn’t have done so for that reason because I was the only one she said it to—’
She broke off abruptly, looking at him in dismay.
‘At this stage‚’ he said dryly, ‘I am not putting you very high on the list of suspects, Sister.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you report it to me?’ Mother Dorothy demanded.
‘I came into the main building to do so, Reverend Mother, but you had just taken the postulants into the parlour for their instruction, so I came back into the chapel to wait and the crucifix was back on the altar. I told myself that I’d imagined it.’
‘I instruct the postulants on Monday afternoons‚’ Mother Dorothy said.
‘When did you notice the other things were missing?’ he asked Sister Joan.
‘I noticed there were no flowers in the vase early last Saturday morning. Sister Margaret was in the chapel at the same time and commented on the fact that there had been daffodils there the previous evening. I think it was then she mentioned that we seemed to be using candles at a tremendous rate. It was Sister Margaret’s job to buy fresh supplies.’
‘And the holy water?’
‘Sister David found the stoup empty on — Wednesday — yes, for she said there was sufficient for the blessing and Sister Margaret took the water cans over to the presbytery on Thursday morning.’
He was making notes, his face absorbed.
‘So someone was in the chapel on Friday night — between the grand silence which begins at — 9.30? and 4.30 when you and Sister Margaret were in the chapel; the same person, presumably, was there on Monday afternoon — at what time?’
‘At 4.30. I rode Lilith home from school, had a brief word with Mother Dorothy, unsaddled Lilith and rubbed her down and went into the chapel to pray. It was just past 4.30.’
‘Sister Hilaria had brought the postulants over from their quarters,’ Mother Dorothy confirmed.