A Vow Of Chastity

by Veronica Black

  There were numerous bedrooms, most of them unfurnished. The one she immediately identified as Samantha’s had had some trouble taken over it. Fresh pink and white paper covered the walls and there were pink curtains at the windows. The furniture was white.

  A pretty room for a cherished only child. With a feeling of shame at her own prying she opened the wardrobe door. Clothes hung on padded hangers, drawers at the side held neat piles of underwear. A long bookcase contained the familiar children’s classics.

  I am behaving abominably, she thought. Nothing justifies this prying.

  At the back of the wardrobe behind a row of shoes was a neat weekend case. Lifting it out she clicked up the latch and stared, with a feeling less of surprise than of inevitability at the candles and the bunch of browned and limp daffodils, and the two plastic bottles of water.

  Samantha had stolen these items from the church? Why? What possible value could these things have? They were consecrated by virtue of the blessing conferred on everything in the chapel, but the child could have asked for them openly if she’d wanted them. Sister Joan reached in and picked up a prayer card, decorated with a sentimental Madonna and Child. The sentence on the back was in Samantha’s round hand.

  Please, dear God, protect my chastity. Amen.

  A child of eleven praying that her chastity be protected? Why? The things taken from the chapel suddenly acquired a new and poignant significance. They were protective devices, shields against fear.

  The sound of a car in the drive below brought her to her feet. The Olives were back. She dropped the prayer card back, closed the suitcase and thrust it behind the shoes, sped along the corridor and down the stairs, whisking through the cellar door just as a key grated in the lock of the front door. Muffled voices sounded and footsteps.

  The gloom of the cellar was intense after the daylight of the upper storey. She forced herself to go slowly down the stairs, one hand out to trail along the wall. She was at the bottom when the wall yielded to her palm, moving inwards as if it were a living creature.

  A door, her common sense told her. She groped automatically for a light switch and jumped with relief as light flooded the chamber in which she stood. This part of the cellars had been whitewashed and the floor covered with rush matting. Shelves on the wall held video tapes and albums, and suitcases were piled against the wall opposite.

  A storeroom? She took out one of the albums and skirted the protruding edge of a suitcase.

  Photographs were neatly arranged in plastic covers within the album. Her eyes were riveted to the page at which she had opened it. A feeling of sick horror flooded her being as the subject matter penetrated her reluctant understanding. She had heard of pornography, but had never, even before entering the religious life, seen anything that could be construed as more than mildly erotic. These carefully posed photographs were so sick that her mind rebelled against the knowledge that human beings had posed for and taken them.

  Her hands felt dirty. She dropped the album and stumbled into the outer cellar, wanting only to get out into the fresh air and sunlight. The yard was deserted. She went through a side gate, stood retching for a moment, and then set off at a swerving run across the greenway to where she had left the car.

  Twelve

  The police station had its usual air of understated bustle. Sister Joan, hurrying in, was greeted by the same desk sergeant she had seen before.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sister. No more bad news, I hope? You’ve had your fair share of it up at the convent, I’d say.’

  ‘Is Detective Sergeant Mill here?’ she asked.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sister?’ He put his head in at the door.

  ‘May I speak to you for a few moments?’ she asked tensely.

  ‘Be my guest.’ He held open the door politely.

  This wasn’t the office where she’d had her fingerprints taken but a smaller room with filing cabinets stacked against one wall and a desk on which a photograph of two small boys held pride of place.

  ‘Your sons?’ She took the chair he indicated.

  ‘Brian and Kevin. My name’s Alan.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mill,’ she said, not availing herself of the implied invitation, ‘you must go at once to the Olives’ house and search it. The two of them — Clive and Julia Olive, are earning their living from child pornography. That’s against the law.’

  ‘I know that, Sister.’ He had seated himself opposite her. ‘How do you come to know about this? Did the Olives confide in you or show you their collection or something?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She flushed slightly. ‘I drove over to the Olives but they were out, so I — I went in. Into the house.’

  ‘The door was open and you waited for them in the sitting-room?’

  ‘I got in‚’ she said with dignity, ‘through the cellar.’

  ‘You broke in.’

  ‘I broke nothing,’ she said austerely. ‘There was a padlock on the cellar door that hadn’t been properly fastened. I went in that way.’

  ‘To — investigate?’ He lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘I thought it was an opportunity,’ she defended herself. ‘I only went into Samantha’s room. There was a suitcase at the back of her wardrobe with candles, dead flowers and two plastic bottles of water — I’d guess holy water — in it. And a prayer card asking God to protect her chastity.’

  ‘The items pinched from your chapel.’

  ‘Not the prayer card. She must have bought that somewhere. Anyway I heard the family returning so I nipped down into the cellar again and came out that way. The cellar’s been sectioned off. There are shelves full of video tapes and albums of the most sickening photographs you could imagine. Quite clearly he isn’t writing a book at all. He and his wife are in the pornography trade.’

  ‘You brought samples with you?’

  ‘Sam—? Well, no, I didn’t.’ Her flush deepened. ‘I was so shocked that I just — I think I dropped the album and came away as quickly as I could. I’d left the car some distance from the house so I drove straight here.’

  ‘Leaving the evidence behind?’

  ‘You can go and search the house now that I’ve told you. You can get a search warrant, acting on information received.’

  ‘Sister Joan, it is now mid-afternoon on Saturday,’ he said, heavily patient. ‘The local magistrates won’t be around until Monday and the Chief Constable through whom I must request a search warrant will need more cause than the unsupported word of someone who hasn’t any evidence and made her discovery when she was in the course of committing a felony herself.’

  ‘That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,’ she said.

  ‘Nevertheless it’s the way things work. You’d be the first one to scream about violation of human rights if we could obtain search warrants at a moment’s notice and barge in anywhere.’

  ‘I really did see what I told you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it‚ Sister — is that your real name — Joan? Or did they give you a new one?’

  ‘I was baptised Joan. What are you going to do about the Olives?’

  ‘I’ll go and see the Chief Constable and see if I can talk him round. It might help if you could explain why you drove over to the Olives in particular. Why not the Holts or the Penglows?’

  ‘It was the poem.’

  ‘What poem?’ he demanded.

  ‘Samantha Olive handed it in as part of her homework. The children had to write about their favourite flowers. Samantha wrote — They say daffodils are trumpets, I say daffodils are strumpets, and lads are bad and girls black pearls, and little roses full of worms.’

  ‘Not exactly a nursery rhyme,’ he said dryly. ‘Did she compose it herself?’

  ‘She says that she did. She is very bright for her age. I didn’t question her about it too closely. Perhaps I should have done.’

  ‘You think she’s been exposed to this pornographic racket?’

  ‘I think she’s aware of it. I think that’s why she stole the thing
s from the chapel — to protect herself. Am I going to be charged with — a felony?’

  ‘I will endeavour,’ he said wryly, ‘to keep your name out of it. However it will be Monday before any warrant’ll be forthcoming. In the meantime I’d be grateful if you’d keep your recent exploits under your veil. No sense in alerting anybody.’

  ‘There is general confession today,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I reckon that I can postpone saying anything.’

  ‘I’d be grateful. I’d also be grateful if you’d stay in the convent for a few days and stop dashing off on impulse.’

  ‘Did you get the candlestick?’

  ‘That wretched child — Tabitha? had washed and polished it‚’ he said. ‘However there’s no doubt in my mind that it was used to hit Sister Margaret. Whoever did it swung it by the base. The shape corresponds with the wound. There wouldn’t have been much bleeding.’

  A cold shiver rippled through her at the picture his words conjured up. Sister Margaret, halfway through the door into the visitors’ parlour, the assailant turning and striking. Had that been her last conscious thought? The person she had admitted turning to reveal the face of a devil?

  ‘She’ll be released to you this evening,’ he said more gently, watching her face.

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Sergeant Mill.’

  At the door she stopped suddenly, her expression changing as she exclaimed, ‘I wonder what happened to it!’

  ‘To what?’ He had moved to open the door.

  ‘The candle in the candlestick. There are always candles in the candlesticks. They are lit during evening prayers and then snuffed out — that’s Sister David’s task. Your men didn’t find it in the chapel?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Was there anything special about it?’

  ‘It was thinner and taller than the candles we light before the Lady Altar. It was exactly like the other candle. They were both well burned down. Usually they are replaced on Saturday after prayers ready for Sunday.’

  ‘The killer probably took the candle away with him.’

  ‘As a souvenir?’ she asked bitterly. ‘How could anyone have hurt someone like Sister Margaret? She was a good woman — a truly good woman.’

  ‘The angle of the wound shows it was inflicted from above and in front. Sister Margaret was five feet four inches, so he has to be taller than that. Thank you for the information you gave me, Sister. I can trust you not to go breaking in anywhere else, I hope?’

  ‘I promise you,’ she said, and went out. She had not promised not to visit anywhere else. Getting into the car she drove away in the direction of the camp.

  The visit of the police had left its mark. The usual bustle was missing with women huddled in small knots about the steps of their wagons and the men watching her as she alighted from the car. Tabitha with Edith tagging behind her emerged from the Lee wagon, and came trotting over.

  ‘Good morning, Sister Joan. Have you come to see Dad? He had to go and get some medicine for Mum. She’s feeling poorly.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Oh, she never feels very good when she’s been on the bottle,’ Tabitha informed her cheerfully. ‘They’re going to let Petroc’s daddy out of clink—’

  ‘Gaol, dear.’

  ‘Yes, the gaol,’ Tabitha said, unabashed. ‘That policeman came and took away the silver candlestick I found. I don’t like him.’

  ‘He’s just doing his job.’

  ‘I polished it ever so nice.’ The small face was wistful. ‘I’d have got good marks for that. Maybe I’d have won the prize. Like Petroc did, only he got dead.’

  ‘What prize?’ Sister Joan spoke sharply, too sharply. The child wriggled and shuffled her feet.

  ‘Samantha’s mum and dad give prizes to the best children,’ Edith piped up. ‘It’s a secret. If we tell anyone something awful will happen, so we have to be good all the time.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ She tried to sound no more than casually interested.

  ‘It’s a secret,’ Tabitha said, giving her sister a dig in the ribs. ‘We mustn’t tell.’

  ‘Surely you can tell me?’

  ‘If we tell we might end up dead,’ Tabitha said.

  ‘Petroc ended up dead,’ Edith said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think he told. We thought he’d won the prize because he’s been very, very good.’

  ‘What is the prize?’ Sister Joan asked. The palms of her hands were wet.

  ‘We get to drink real champagne‚’ Tabitha said, lowering her voice, ‘and we get our photos took.’

  ‘Have you already—?’ Her heart felt ready to burst.

  ‘Petroc won the prize first,’ Edith said. ‘He was going to tell us all about it, but he never came back.’

  ‘He went to heaven,’ Tabitha announced.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he did,’ Sister Joan said, and hugged the little girl almost fiercely.

  Study hour had already begun. She rose, wondering if she ought to warn the children to stay close to the wagon, but Conrad came past with a bucket of water, calling as he came, ‘‘Afternoon, Sister Joan. Now you two stay where I can keep an eye on you until your dad gets back.’

  She drove back to the convent with speculations buzzing in her brain.

  ‘You were a long time, Sister.’ The Prioress had emerged from the kitchen as she went in the back way.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother Dorothy, but there was quite a lot to do. Shall I tell you about—?’

  ‘Not just now, Sister.’ The voice was firm. ‘You had better hurry to your studies. I am expecting some interesting conclusions from you on the subject of the four branches of the rule.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Dorothy. Mother Dorothy—?’

  ‘What is it, Sister?’

  ‘I believe that it’s time to inform the detective sergeant about Kiki Svenson. It may help him obtain a search warrant. To the Olives’ house.’

  ‘I will telephone immediately. Your studies, Sister.’

  Poverty, chastity, obedience, compassion. She went slowly to her cell, the words revolving in her mind. For a religious chastity included celibacy, but chastity itself was not always celibate just as celibacy was not always sterile. It was the damming up and diverting of the sexual instinct in order to bear spiritual fruit. Chastity was innocence and not ignorance; it was powerful and not weakly. And of all the rule it was the branch most vulnerable to temptation when one was young and spirited.

  The bell for Benediction sounded before she had composed her ideas into the outline of an essay. Going downstairs, filing into the chapel, she felt the shock of loss as she saw the open coffin before the altar. The wound on Sister Margaret’s temple was hidden by her coif and there was a faint dreaming look upon her face.

  ‘Sisters’ Mother Dorothy was on her feet. ‘As you can see our beloved Sister Margaret has been brought home to lie among us until her burial on Monday. I say she is here but of course she is even now giving an account of herself before the Divine Throne—’

  No, she is not! Sister Joan thought on a surge of rebellion. She is probably having a little chat with her Dear Lord, face to face, making Him laugh with her anecdotes about cooking and getting fish from Padraic Lee. She bowed her head and began to intone the prayers for the dead with her sisters.

  ‘There will be no recreation tonight,’ Mother Dorothy was saying. ‘We shall eat our supper which the postulants have kindly prepared under the supervision of Sister Teresa. Then we will have Benediction and then take our turns at watching with Sister Margaret. Sister Katherine and Sister David from eight to ten, Sister Martha and myself from ten to midnight, Sister Perpetua and Sister Teresa from midnight until two, — what is it, Sister Gabrielle?’

  ‘I wonder if Sister Mary Concepta and I could take the earlier vigil, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘I had not expected—’ Mother Dorothy began, then nodded. ‘Of course you too will wish to keep vigil. Very well. You and Sister Mary Concepta immediately after Benediction from eight to ten
, Sisters Katherine and David from ten to midnight, Sister Martha and myself from midnight until two, Sister Perpetua and Sister Teresa from two until four, and Sister Hilaria and Sister Joan from four until six. After that our two postulants will watch until Father Malone comes to offer mass. Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth, I think it would be wiser if you and Sister Hilaria were to sleep in the main house tonight. Sister Katherine will put blankets on the beds in the two empty cells and Sister Hilaria may occupy my cell since I will not be sleeping at all. Thank you, Sisters.’

  They filed out and up into the refectory. This had once been a drawing-room in the days when the Tarquin family had owned the estate and it retained its noble proportions, its gilded cornices and picture rail. Double doors that could be fastened back to make a huge ballroom separated it from the recreation room. The arrangements of flowers, the gilt-edged mirrors and spindly-legged chairs that must once have graced it were replaced by two long tables and benches with a chair for the Prioress. When she had first joined the community the novices had eaten with the professed sisters. Under Mother Dorothy’s more stringent interpretation of the rules the novices now took their meals in their own quarters, but this evening they sat at the side table, blue-bonneted heads bowed.

  The Prioress stepped to the lectern and began to read a synopsis of the lives of various saints named Margaret — a happy touch, Sister Joan thought, and one that Sister Margaret would have approved. She ate the dish of lentils that the postulants had cooked and listened to the legend of Margaret of Cortona who had been swallowed and vomited up by a dragon, St Margaret of Hungary whose apron had been filled with roses and St Margaret of Scotland who had been a faithful wife and mother as well as a saint.

  Sister Margaret would have enjoyed tonight’s reading.

  Supper ended. The grace was intoned and the last glass of water drained.

  ‘Sister Joan’ Mother Dorothy beckoned her. ‘I telephoned Detective Sergeant Mill and was fortunate enough to get straight through to him just before Sister Margaret was brought home. He thanked me for the information about Kiki Svenson and said he would follow it up.’