The track broke away at the left to curl around the base of a hill. Sister Joan branched off on to it, allowing herself a small lift of anticipation. This was a road she hadn’t had occasion to follow before and she felt a further glow at the knowledge that she was obeying Mother Dorothy’s instructions and not rushing off impulsively.
At the bottom of the long slope the road turned to left and right, with rows of headstones on the left and a row of elderly looking houses on the right. They had been handsome dwellings once but were run down now, lacking paint and unbroken tiles, the iron gates sunk into the weedy gravel of the drives. She resisted the temptation to dismount outside number twenty-two, and turned instead to the left, riding through a gateless gap into the cemetery itself.
It was the perfect example of a burial ground used for hundreds of years and now too full to hold any more bodies. The headstones were crammed together, ranging in style from the classical columns of eighteenth-century white stone through to the massive and convoluted memorials of Victorian England with one section of plain stone crosses where those who had fallen in the two great wars were buried. Here and there she spotted the wax flowers under glass domes that had always struck her as ugly, but most of the graves were weed-covered with the ubiquitous bramble spearing and hooking the high grass. At the far end guarded by yews was a stone building with a nail-studded oak door.
Probably the old chapel of rest, she decided, dismounting and tethering Lilith to a ring in the wall near a stone trough filled with rainwater. There was plenty of grass here for the pony to nibble while she herself walked up to the door and gave it an experimental push. The heavy door wheezed slightly as it swung open slowly and she stepped inside, the interior gloom relieved by the shaft of light through the opened door.
It had been a chapel once, was probably still consecrated even if it was no longer used. At the eastern end flanked by granite columns was a stone altar with a cracked and filthy stained-glass window high in the wall behind it. There was a stone plinth topped with wood that had probably served as a lectern and several benches piled up higgledy-piggledy against one wall. There were few things sadder than a place of worship where nobody worshipped any longer. Sister Joan walked up the aisle and turned in to a space at the side of the altar which looked as if it had been added on as an afterthought.
There were several stone tablets in the walls here and scarcely perceptible names carved on them in memoriam, two narrow tombs with reclining stone figures atop them, a brass of a knight with a helmet stuck jauntily on the side of his head. There was also dust, thicker here in this neglected corner than elsewhere. Sister Joan looked down at the double line of half footprints that circled the tombs and shivered with more than the cold.
Whoever had tiptoed through the storerooms had tiptoed here too. She stepped closer to look at the tombs, the hairs at the back of her neck crinkling as she transcribed the Latin inscription.
Sir Richard Tarquine, servant of the Lord, born in the Year of Grace, 1400, knighted by Milord Warwick and departed this life in the Year of Grace 1466.
The figure on the tomb had been carved from life she guessed, looking at the flaring nostrils, the eyes set beneath winged brows above high cheekbones, the wide, full-lipped mouth. Sir Richard had died in his bed to judge by the sheathed sword in his hand, the supine relaxation of the legs. Sir Richard Tarquine whose descendant Grant Tarquin was as like him as it was possible to be.
She was conscious of the silence, of the little spirals of dust arising under her own sensible shoes, of a waiting quality in the disused air. Devil worshippers walked on tiptoe. That was what Sister David had said. Jane Sinclair had spoken of the cemetery and of resurrection.
‘I’d better see if she’s at home,’ Sister Joan said aloud, and resisted the urge to whistle defiantly as she left the sad, neglected little chapel.
Lilith, raising her head from her snack of sweet grass, gave her a look of deep reproach.
‘Sorry, girl.’ Sister Joan loosed the reins and led her along the path. An elderly man had just come through the gap in the wall and gave her a disapproving look.
‘The Council doesn’t like the hunt coming through here,’ he said.
‘I’m not hunting,’ Sister Joan said, wondering if that was quite true. ‘Well, not foxes anyway. I haven’t damaged anything.’
‘You’re a nun, aren’t you?’ He blinked at her short-sightedly.
‘Yes. I’m Sister Joan from Cornwall House — up on the moor.’
‘The old Tarquin place?’ A gleam of interest came into his face.
‘Did you know the family?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Know them?’ he echoed. ‘I worked for them, didn’t I? Years ago when I was a lad. Just after the war it was. Sir Robert was there then, of course. A real gentleman he was! Always had a smile and a civil word for me. Very well liked in the district he was — and his lady wife. She wasn’t a well woman, not a well woman at all. It was a real surprise when young Grant was born. Sir Robert was that pleased that he bought champagne for everybody on the estate. He might as well have saved his money seeing young Grant turned out so wild.’
‘They didn’t get on?’ she prompted.
‘Sir Robert now was a real nice person,’ the elderly man said, clearly launched on a tide of sentimental reminiscence. ‘Always had a kind word. Young Grant acted like he owned the county — oh, very charming and polite if there was a lady in the case but for ever screwing money out of his dad and then spending it — horses, the dogs, drink — you name it! It was a big shock to him when the old man died — not that he was old, only in his fifties but the way his son acted had aged him before his time. And then he was lonely after his wife’s death too.’
‘You were saying it was a shock when he died.’ Sister Joan brought him back to the main point.
‘Young Grant expected to inherit everything,’ the other said. ‘He was the last of the family after all, but there wasn’t much left. He’d had most of it before his dad died, but there was still the big house and the land. Oh yes, he expected to get that!’
‘He left instructions for it to be sold cheaply,’ Sister Joan said.
‘That’s right, Miss — Sister!’ The other slapped his thigh suddenly and chortled. ‘And him not even a Catholic! Sold it cheap too so there wasn’t much for young Grant to get his hands on! I reckon it was justice done.’
‘And then Grant Tarquin died? I heard he had died.’
‘About a year ago — eighteen months. Died broke too.’ He chortled again. ‘Spent everything and his own house went to pay off his debts. So that was the end of the Tarquins. Seems a pity somehow, a grand old family coming to nothing. His was the last funeral in this cemetery as a matter of fact.’
‘Where?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘Over in the corner there. There are Tarquins all over the graveyard. There’s talk of putting a preservation order on the old chapel, but I don’t know if they will. If you ask me there are things more worth preserving.’
‘Did you work for Grant Tarquin at all?’ Sister Joan enquired.
‘No, I left in — let me see — 1969. I used to look after the cars and do odd jobs but then I was offered a good job with a proper pension here in town — Mundy’s Garage and Vehicle Repair Service. I was wed by then and I fancied a bit of independence. Sir Robert was all for it, told me that I ought to better myself, and gave me a very handsome leaving present — enough to put down a mortgage on a little house. But it was sad in a way to leave the old place. My dad and grandad worked there before me. I recall my dad telling me some tales of old Sir Grant Tarquin, that was Sir Robert’s father after whom young Grant was named. And my dad’s dad had worked for Sir Grant’s father — Devil Tarquin.’
‘What?’
Sister Joan who had been feeling slightly confused as she tried to get relationships straight in her head jerked up her chin, her usual response to a shock.
‘On account of he worshipped the Devil,’ the other said, lowering hi
s voice slightly.
‘Surely not!’
‘So the tale went. According to what my grandad told my dad who told me about it. Sir Richard Tarquin who was Sir Robert’s grandad was a real rake — wine, women, song, if you’ll excuse the expression, Sister. Oh, there were some wild doings up at Tarquin House in those days. Even talk of murder though I think my grandad must’ve misremembered that. It’s true though that he never went to church. His son got his own back though. He buried him in consecrated ground anyway.’
‘Here?’
‘In the chapel, Miss — Sister. Right next to the Sir Richard who fought in France during the Hundred Years’ War. We did that war in school.’
‘Yes, so did we,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I did see two tombs in the chapel, but I didn’t look closely at the other one.’
‘It looks old, doesn’t it?’ He chortled again. ‘It’s a fake though. Real stone and all that but carved in 1903 when Devil Tarquin died. His son was a God-fearing religious man and he was set on leaving his dad in holy ground.’
‘I daresay he wasn’t as bad as rumour had it,’ Sister Joan said.
‘My grandad told my dad he was worse,’ the other said. ‘Handsome though! Young Grant took after him — black eyes and hair and loads of charm. Charm isn’t a good thing to have, Sister. Makes a man careless of doing the right thing. That’s what my wife says anyway. “Don’t you go trying to charm me, Daniel Cobb”, she says, “for it never came natural to you, thank the Lord!”’
‘Well, I’ve found your company very pleasant, Mr Cobb,’ Sister Joan said, laughing despite herself. ‘You must have lots of interesting memories. Unfortunately I’d better be getting back.’
‘It was a real pleasure meeting you, Sister!’ He held out a gnarled hand and shook hers vigorously. ‘It’s a treat to chat with a nice young lady, and there’s no danger of my Minnie going on about it because you being a holy nun makes it all right, doesn’t it?’
‘Like Caesar’s wife,’ Sister Joan said solemnly, ‘we’re above suspicion.’
He grinned to show he appreciated the quip and trudged past her. There were still so many good, decent people in the world, she reminded herself. Ordinary people who had not been brainwashed into believing that evil was something imagined in the mind.
Leaving Lilith tethered again she hurried back along the path to the little chapel. She wanted to take a quick look at the second tomb though even to herself she couldn’t have given any logical reason.
Pushing open the door and entering the gloomy interior took an unexpected effort of will. Nothing had changed. The half prints were still circling the tomb of Sir Richard Tarquine. She stepped to the other tomb with its recumbent knight, marvelling at how authentically medieval it looked. The inscription on the side was, however, in English.
Here lie the remains of Sir Richard Tarquin, Born 1840. Died 1903. Rest in peace.
And of course he was resting in peace, she told herself. His nickname of Devil Tarquin must have been exaggerated. Mustn’t it?
The light was imperceptibly fading, her shadow growing taller and thinner as she left the chapel and retraced her steps, curving away from Lilith in order to reach the part of the cemetery where Daniel Cobb had pointed out the burial site of Grant Tarquin.
The plain marble headstone had clearly just been set and the long mound at its foot was covered with couch grass that strangled the wild flowers springing from the soil. In stark lettering the bare essentials were provided for the casual visitor.
Grant Tarquin
1945–1994
The knightly prefix had been omitted and there were no words of pious comfort. He had been a comparatively young man, she thought, and from what she knew of him a man eaten up with rage and driven by his own twisted desires. She must remember to pray for his soul.
Walking on a little further she found more Tarquins, their details faint now, their headstones mossy, half-sunken in the ground. Beyond them a column surrounded by rusted railings bore lists of Tarquins and their wives, many buried with small children. The Tarquin men seemed to have rotated the names of Richard, Robert and Grant, she noticed, peering through the railings, and feeling a twitch of amusement as she spotted a John. Obviously a misfit!
The outlines of the headstones were blurring into a still, moist twilight. She was going to be late and she hadn’t yet called at number twenty-two to find out if Jane Sinclair was at home. Straightening up she turned and went back to where Lilith was tethered. Had been tethered! With a sensation of annoyance mingled with alarm she stood looking at the dangling rein. How the — how on earth had the ageing pony tugged free? She was the most placid of animals and if she had escaped she’d certainly had help. Sister Joan picked up the end of the dangling rein and looked at the neatly cut edge of the leather.
Someone had sneaked up to cut through the rein and lead Lilith silently along the broad grass verge into the road. But who would do such a thing? Horse thieves were hardly likely to seek their profits in a cemetery!
It really was growing misty, white trails of vapour wreathing the crooked headstones and drifting over the long grasses. There was no sound here save the occasional far off hum of a car. She shivered, aware of — no, not of being alone with the dead. That wouldn’t have troubled her one whit. Graveyards were generally peaceful places that held no horrors for her. But something here was different. She had the distinct impression that someone — something? — watched her from somewhere just out of sight. There was nothing to be seen even when she swung round, but her hands, thrust deep into her pockets, were clenched fists, her jaw set.
‘Is anyone there?’ She raised her voice. ‘Who are you?’
There was no answer. What on earth had made her think that there might be? She was alone with the rising mist as it thickened and curled into shapes that clung to the edges of the headstones, dense as ectoplasm.
‘Lilith! Lilith! Here, Lilith!’ She raised her voice again but nothing answered. Only the mist shapes grew and hung silently in the air.
A footstep cracked the gravel by the gap in the wall. She opened her mouth to call again and found herself mute. Another footstep. Someone moving towards her through the mist. Suddenly and shamingly her nerve faltered and she turned, fleeing along the path towards the memorial column where she crouched, gripping the rusted railings, trying to control her breathing.
Behind her something moved, slid like a dark shadow just outside her line of vision. She sensed rather than saw it and sprang up, calling out again in a rediscovered voice that shook with strain.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
The footsteps on the gravel quickened and broke into a run. A torch shone in her eyes, and she flung up her arm to shield them.
‘Taken up grave-robbing, have we, Sister?’ Detective Sergeant Mill enquired genially.
‘Alan!’ She used his Christian name spontaneously. ‘Alan, someone cut Lilith free and then — there was someone here, behind me for an instant. A few seconds ago.’
‘There’s nobody around now.’ He shone his torch around.
‘Oh, how can you possibly tell?’ she exclaimed, irritated. ‘The mist’s getting so thick and there are so many headstones, so many monuments — what are you doing here anyway?’
‘We found Lilith a few minutes ago,’ he said, not answering the question. ‘Trotting up the road towards the moor. Constable Petrie is taking her back for you.’
‘And you heard me calling?’
‘I heard someone calling. This damned mist distorts sounds and shapes. It’s not like you to be scared of shadows.’
‘I’m not,’ she said with dignity. ‘Only of the things that make the shadows.’
‘You should watch fewer horror movies,’ he advised.
‘We’re not allowed to watch any movies as you well know.’
‘So you get your entertainment from headstones.’
‘The place is full of Tarquins. I knew they were an ancient family but I hadn’t realized how far bac
k they went, how many died young.’
‘Well, they’re all gone now,’ he said in a practical tone. ‘Come on, Sister. I’ll run you back to the convent. I’d like a few words with you anyway.’
‘About what?’
They had reached the road where the police car was reassuringly parked.
‘Let’s sit inside. It’s getting chilly.’
Lowering herself into the passenger seat she waited while he positioned himself behind the wheel.
‘I have to ask you a few questions.’ He frowned, tapping the wheel with his knuckles.
‘You sound very official.’
‘Sorry! It’s a bad habit. I merely wanted to clear up something, that’s all. Is this yours?’
He had taken a slip of paper out of his pocket, switching on the interior light so she could read it.
‘Yes, I wrote it.’ She handed it back. ‘I went to see Jane Sinclair but she wasn’t in her office so I scribbled this and pushed it under the door.’
‘You say in it that you’re sorry you missed her. Did you have an appointment?’
‘She rang up and asked me to meet her for coffee yesterday morning. I waited in the café but she didn’t turn up so I went to her office to see if she was there. It was locked so I wrote the note and put it under the door.’
‘How did you come to know Jane Sinclair?’ he asked.
‘I had a circular pushed through the letterbox advertising the services of a Mr Monam who buys scrap metal and stuff. We’re clearing out the two storerooms so — but you know this already. Constable Petrie checked on the telephone number for me. I went there.’
‘And?’
‘It’s just a branch office for a firm that relays messages and things. Jane Sinclair hadn’t been there for very long.’
‘Fair-haired, about twenty-two or three.’
‘Yes. Not very bright, I’m afraid, but very pleasant. She had an estimate of charges from Mr Monam.’
‘He’d given it to her?’
‘No. It was in the filing cabinet. She was a bit puzzled about that because he was a new client who’d registered with the agency over the telephone so she couldn’t work out how his estimate sheet had got into the files. She was a bit nervous in the office. There’s no way of locking the door properly from the inside and there’s no proper security in the building.’
A VOW OF POVERTY an utterly gripping crime mystery Page 6