Vow of Penance

by Veronica Black

  ‘I suppose.’ Sister Joan stirred more cheese and a large pat of butter into the sauce and looked rather doubtfully at the pasta. ‘Al dente is the way it’s supposed to be but I’m not sure how al dente that is.’

  ‘I’ll just wash my hands.’ Father Stephens, regaining his mantle of cool superiority, went on upstairs.

  ‘If you’ve everything you need, Father,’ Sister Joan said, carrying in the supper, ‘I’d better go to confession. Oh, nobody called about the post of housekeeper but I had to go out for a short while earlier so it’s possible that somebody rang and decided to call in later on the offchance you’d be here.’

  ‘No further news on these recent dreadful events?’ He looked up at her as he took his seat.

  ‘Nothing to speak of, Father. The police are still investigating. Oh, Detective Sergeant Mill will be calling here sometime. He didn’t say when.’

  ‘I doubt if I can help him further,’ Father Stephens said. ‘Mrs Fairly is to be buried tomorrow. I still wonder if I ought not to get in touch with Father Malone but there really is nothing he can do and it would be a great pity to spoil his pilgrimage.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Father. If you’ll excuse me I’ll leave you for now.’ Going out, she took her cloak from the hallstand and slipped it over her shoulders.

  The church was dimly illumined by the perpetual lamp which glowed redly by the altar and by candles lit earlier by those parishioners who had the habit of popping in for a few minutes while out shopping. It would be a pity if the church had to be locked save for services, she thought, because of any fear of vandalism. But, of course, it wasn’t mindless vandalism that lay behind the destruction of trees and flowers. It had been something more, something more subtle, more dangerous.

  She had entered via the sacristy and closed the door softly behind her as she stood near the altar. Two women were saying their penances nearby and a third left the confessional as Sister Joan genuflected and walked down the aisle to the back of the church.

  Usually she spent at least an hour thinking about her faults before she went to confess them, but today if she was to get the rest of the pasta cooked, the sauce warmed over again, fresh coffee brewed, the dishes washed and the parlour ready for any prospective housekeepers who might turn up, there simply wasn’t time. The calm and regular routine of the enclosure which made ample time for both the spiritual and the practical really did have a great deal to recommend it.

  She stepped into the penitent’s half of the confessional, closed the door, and knelt on the hassock by the close-meshed grille. She could discern the austere profile of Father Timothy by the faint light from the other partition.

  ‘Father, forgive me because I have sinned. It is ten days since my last confession.’ Whispering the customary opening she wondered just how anonymous she now was. Few lay people confessed more than once a month and many saved everything up for the obligatory Easter confession.

  ‘Pray God you make a good confession,’ came the whispered reply.

  ‘I have harboured uncharitable thoughts,’ she began, wondering if the day would ever dawn when she didn’t have that to confess. ‘I have spoken too sharply on occasion. I have hurried through my prayers instead of taking time to compose myself. I have sometimes spoken when I ought to have kept silent and kept silent when it was my duty to speak. I have sometimes followed my own will out of obstinacy and pride.’

  ‘Your sins are very grave,’ the voice whispered. ‘They shock me very much.’

  But they ought not to shock you, she thought irritably. Priests weren’t there in the confessional to make personal judgements. They were no more than a bridge between penitent and Creator.

  ‘Is there anything else on your conscience?’ The voice came again.

  ‘I’ve finished my confession, Father,’ she whispered firmly.

  ‘Then, for your penance, say one hundred Hail Marys and keep all-night vigil before the altar. Make a good Act of Contrition. Te absolvo—’

  The words of the confiteor had flown right out of her head. She knelt, half hearing the words of absolution, the severity of the penance having almost taken her breath away.

  ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord and carefully avoid the occasions of sin.’ Rising, she backed out, opening the door with relief and feeling the rush of cool air. It was going to be rough luck on anyone who had adultery, falsehoods or theft to get off their consciences, she thought. They’d be on their knees until Christmas.

  There certainly wasn’t time to start her penance now. She’d have to return later and get the prayers said while she was undertaking her vigil.

  She genuflected and went back through the sacristy. The shabby case still protruded its corners from beneath the altar cloths on top of the cupboard.

  ‘You weren’t long, Sister.’ Father Stephens looked up from his coffee as she went into the dining-room.

  ‘I haven’t said my penance yet.’

  ‘Five Hail Marys ought not to take you too long,’ he said with faint surprise. For Father Stephens the recitation of five Hail Marys was his standard ration of penance. Sister Joan made no comment. To have informed him of her own penance would have felt like tale bearing.

  She had finished her own supper and cleared away when Father Timothy came through from the sacristy. He looked not tired but elated as if hearing the long lists of other people’s sins had engendered in him a curious satisfaction.

  ‘Just bread and a glass of milk for me, Sister.’ He put his sandy head in at the kitchen door. ‘I make a habit of fasting on Fridays. It is not, I understand, a great feature of the rule up at your convent.’

  ‘We eat less during Lent,’ Sister Joan told him. ‘And on Good Friday we have only bread and water, but our rule doesn’t encourage rigorous abstinence.’

  ‘A pity!’ he said coldly. ‘Your Order would be the better for it.’

  ‘If you think so, Father.’ She spoke equally coldly as he went on into the dining-room.

  One respected the office of a priest at all times, she reminded herself, but being a cleric didn’t automatically turn a man into a pleasant person. No doubt several of the saints had been rather difficult to live with.

  When the front doorbell rang she went to answer it just ahead of Father Stephens who was coming out of the study.

  ‘Good evening, Sister Joan.’ Detective Sergeant Mill had the collar of his raincoat turned up and looked as if he were auditioning for a role in a gangster movie. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Father Stephens, but I did want a few words.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sister, make some coffee, will you?’ Father Stephens turned towards the parlour.

  ‘No coffee, thank you, Sister. I’d like you to join us if you will. Is Father Timothy available?’

  ‘He’s just about to have his supper,’ Father Stephens said.

  ‘Food ought not to interfere with one’s duty.’ Father Timothy had appeared at the dining-room door. ‘If you wish to speak to me—?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Mill, Father Timothy. You’re here to stand in for Father Malone while he’s away?’

  ‘Yes. This is my first parish,’ Father Timothy said. ‘I am, of course, aware of some very unfortunate things having occurred here. It casts a cloud.’

  ‘Which we hope to dispel. The parlour would be fine, Sister.’ He ushered her ahead of him, the others following. ‘This is an informal meeting. A few odds and ends to clear up. As you know Mrs Fairly didn’t commit suicide.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Father Stephens said quietly. ‘I am not saying that murder is a nice business but self-slaughter is so infinitely sad, and had it been suicide I would always have felt, as would Father Malone, that we had failed her in some way.’

  ‘At least you need not have blamed yourself, Father Timothy, since you had only just met her,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  ‘She seemed a very worthy woman,’ Father Timothy said. ‘Not that I have much experience of housekeepers as yet, this being my first curacy.’
/>
  ‘She always made Father Malone and myself very comfortable,’ Father Stephens said.

  ‘And you, Sister? You knew her slightly too?’ The detective glanced at her.

  ‘I met her briefly on two or three occasions.’ Sister Joan wondered where all this was leading them.

  ‘You’ve no knowledge of any enemies she might have had, Father Stephens?’

  ‘I would have sworn that she had none,’ he said promptly. ‘She was a widow, no children, no close family beyond her niece, Sylvia Potter, who lives – lived I ought to say – some considerable distance away.’

  ‘Further north, yes.’ Detective Sergeant Mill nodded absently. ‘A schoolteacher, not yet thirty years old, shared a house with a fellow teacher, a Miss Stephanie Hugh. Both were well liked, respectable, had boyfriends but nothing serious – there hasn’t been an enemy of either of them crawl out of the woodwork so far.’

  ‘I still think it must have been a maniac,’ Father Stephens said.

  ‘These two young women seem to have been specifically followed and targeted,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said. ‘It really is beyond the bounds of coincidence that a maniac killing on impulse should light upon three people so closely connected. No, there was a specific motive for killing the three of them. We shall unravel it in due course I’ve no doubt. You’re a diabetic, Father Timothy?’

  ‘Yes I am.’ If Father Timothy felt any surprise at the abrupt change of subject he gave no sign.

  ‘I didn’t know that!’ Father Stephens exclaimed.

  ‘It isn’t something I choose to advertise,’ Father Timothy said. ‘The condition doesn’t interfere with the work I do. It’s under control at all times.’

  ‘You take insulin injections to stabilize your blood sugar levels?’

  ‘I used to but recent advances in treatment enable me to control it through diet alone. Most diabetics these days are extremely healthy.’

  ‘What did you do with your syringe when your style of treatment changed?’

  ‘I gave it to Father Superior to be returned to the doctor the next time he visited the seminary. The doctor left it with me together with a supply of insulin in case the diet didn’t work properly, and I required an injection in a hurry.’

  ‘And the doctor’s name?’

  ‘Er – Banning, I think. Yes, Banning. He came very seldom. I cannot see how – oh, yes I do see. You think that the syringe I once had might have been used to – but really, Detective Sergeant, I cannot for one moment believe that Father Superior – there are thousands of diabetics in the country.’

  ‘One of them ended up dead on the northern line,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said.

  There was an instant’s pause. Then Father Stephens said in a bewildered tone, ‘Are you referring to that most disturbing headline that was in the newspaper? The unidentified man beaten to death and left at the side of the track?’

  ‘There does seem to be some connection. I don’t suppose you saw anyone who was acting in a suspicious manner on your way to the station when you were setting out here?’

  Father Timothy shook his head.

  ‘I was with Father Philip,’ he said. ‘We were talking about various matters – my impending journey mainly. I doubt if either of us would have noticed anyone in particular.’

  ‘Surely it would have been dark anyway,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You came down on the overnight train, didn’t you?’

  ‘The late afternoon train. I broke my journey in London. The train got in there at just before midnight. I had a very light meal and took an underground train to the station, and caught the early train down into Cornwall. You saw me there, Sister.’

  ‘In the waiting-room, yes.’

  ‘I saw that Father Malone was receiving quite a send-off from his parishioners and I’d no wish to divert attention from him so I slipped into the waiting-room until the train had left. Sister Joan was kind enough to direct me here to the presbytery.’

  ‘That seems clear enough.’ Detective Sergeant Mill smiled and nodded. ‘Can I take it that since then you and Father Stephens can account for your time satisfactorily?’

  There was another silence. Then Father Stephens said, ‘Surely you don’t think that either of us could possibly have had anything to do with any of this? It’s ludicrous!’

  ‘We were both sleeping in the presbytery on the night Mrs Fairly died,’ Father Timothy said uneasily.

  ‘The sacristy door was open as was the church door,’ Father Stephens reminded him.

  ‘Meaning someone from outside could have gained access. That’s probably it then.’ Detective Sergeant Mill nodded again. ‘By the way, her handbag was stolen. Someone wrapped it up roughly in brown paper and sticky tape and put it in the refuse bin. One of the lads found it and had the bright idea of substituting an empty box for it. We’ve been watching the presbytery on and off for the last couple of days.’

  ‘Did you obtain any results?’ Father Stephens asked.

  ‘Unfortunately we didn’t. Someone was too quick for us and took the substitute parcel when we were engaged elsewhere. Shortage of manpower limits our effectiveness.’

  ‘Why would someone put her handbag in the bin?’ Father Timothy asked.

  ‘Probably afraid his fingerprints might be on it. He may have picked it up while he was in Mrs Fairly’s room, looked inside and then panicked. I take it that neither of you heard anything suspicious during the night?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’ Father Stephens shook his head. ‘Mrs Fairly brought our supper and afterwards we – that is Father Timothy and I – went for a short walk. It was a chilly evening.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Quite a storm threatening. It never actually broke though,’ Father Timothy said.

  ‘I insisted Father Timothy went back for his coat and muffler,’ Father Stephens supplied.

  ‘You didn’t see anyone hanging round the presbytery?’

  ‘No, I merely took down my coat and muffler from the hallstand, called to Mrs Fairly that it was only me – she was in the kitchen washing-up, I believe – and rejoined Father Stephens. We had our stroll, returned to the presbytery and I went straight up to my room. I said my prayers and went to sleep almost immediately.’

  ‘I came upstairs shortly afterwards too, called goodnight to Mrs Fairly and went into my room.’

  ‘And slept like a baby too, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Detective Sergeant.’

  ‘And Sister Joan hadn’t even arrived, since Mrs Fairly was still alive and housekeeper here. It’s a puzzle all right.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Father Stephens enquired as the detective rose.

  ‘Not for the moment. Pity we bungled the surveillance on the refuse bin. I’ll see myself out. Goodnight.’

  And why, thought Sister Joan, watching his retreating back, did he lie about the handbag? To protect me? To bait the trap further?

  Something had been said earlier, something that hovered at the back of her mind but refused to come into conscious memory. Something important, something that proved a lie. She wished she could recall what it was.

  Fifteen

  ‘One hopes this terrible business will soon be cleared up,’ Father Stephens said, sending a worried frown after the closed door. ‘It makes one lose faith in the goodness of human nature.’

  ‘You would call human nature good, Father?’ Father Timothy spoke with sudden and biting harshness. ‘I call it evil and depraved. Even apparent kindness is only self-interest and conceit. I learned that many years ago when I was a boy. Oh, if you think there is anything good in mankind then you are deluded. Deluded!’

  ‘Father Timothy, one must have a sense of proportion,’ Father Stephens began, but the other had turned, fumbling at the handle of the presbytery door, his eyes blazing coldly in his set face.

  ‘I shall take a short walk,’ he said, ‘and then pray in the church for an hour or two. I shall forego my supper in reparation for sin.’

  He was gone, the door closing with a sharp
click behind him. Father Stephens gave an embarrassed cough and looked helplessly at Sister Joan.

  ‘Highly strung,’ he said vaguely. ‘One’s time in the seminary can lead to a certain inward dwelling quality which makes early parish work difficult. You may clear away, Sister, and lock up but you’d better leave the sacristy door unlocked so that Father Timothy can get in. I’m not sure if he has his key. I gave him Father Malone’s for use while he’s here. Sister, you must forgive me for saying this if it sounds uncharitable but I wish they had provided us with somebody else from the seminary.’

  ‘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.